Young Junius, page 30
part #4 of Jack Palms Series
Junius eased toward the next flight up keeping along the railing in the middle of the stairs. He had seen Pickup with the revolver in the hall; he knew Pickup could get the drop on Rock.
Junius stepped up a stair and kept the gun trained above. He thought about trying a blind shot at the next flight.
Then Rock jumped onto the landing and fired more shots down the stairs at Roughneck, just missing Junius wide. He didn’t know how he hadn’t been hit.
Then more shots came from a second automatic, a silenced Tec—Seven Heaven?—punching into Rock from close range. Junius could see them tear through his back. Rock fell back against the wall. He closed his eyes and said something. When he opened them, he faced Junius.
Their eyes locked for a brief moment, but in it Junius saw all the anger and hate he would ever need to see in the world.
He had the shotgun raised to fire, and he squeezed the trigger as fast as he could. The gun kicked more than he expected, and his shoulder flew back away from the rail. He lost his footing and slipped in Hammer’s blood, hit his head on the rail, and went down on his knees. The barrel of the shotgun bounced up and hit him in the face.
But he’d shot Rock, had lined him up, taken a good shot and hit him in his side or his chest. Maybe his hip. He hit him; that much was certain. He’d seen the blood.
Junius got the gun back in his hands. It had blood on it now where he touched it: Hammer’s blood from the stairs and maybe Rough’s, too.
He looked up: Rock was gone.
Junius saw where his shot hit the wall. Part of the blast marked off the space where Rock had stood. On the wall there was also blood, scattered like it had flown off someone.
His forehead hurt.
The sound of laughing came down from the stairs above. Rock was on the move.
86
Sometimes the war had to be more tactical than brute force. Rock knew this.
Sometimes you played the hand you held and sometimes you had to think, even go back to the deck and draw your aces in the hole.
He’d been shot a few times in the shoulder and the damned punk that had caused all of this, Junius, had shot him in the side with Hammer’s shotgun—a lucky shot.
They had both been lucky, Pickup and Junius. The shotgun had given him an emergency appendectomy is all. Just a fucking organ he could do without. He could still run, too, even if he had to hold the rail up the stairs.
He’d caught worse shots in Nicaragua, gotten through those and brought his ass home. This too would pass. In those days, he mainlined coke to get by and survived far worse. Those jungles weren’t something you could just step out of; they did not have a back exit, only a body bag as an alternative to fighting.
He tripped up the stairs, watching behind him for Pickup and his Tec, the Uzi raised and ready.
He laughed at Junius, the way he’d fallen. Kid got lucky and shot straight but was badly unprepared for the shotgun’s kick. It knocked him back like a mule, and just like any other dumb kid, he wasn’t aware of the blood at his feet. Stupid.
Rock laughed, but that turned into a cough. He spit blood—a big, thick gob of it that trailed down the wall.
“Fuck me.”
Maybe he’d been stateside too long. Could he be losing his edge? Too much pussy would soften a man—that and delegating shit out to his soldiers instead of keeping a hand on the streets. It was enough to tender you up, make you fall.
He hoisted himself onto the next stair and, with a quick look back, fired off a string of shots. Fuck it, if he could get lucky and hit Pickup that was fine. If not, he’d keep that fuck back at least.
Rock dropped the clip from his Uzi and pulled another from his back, jammed it in. He almost reached for a grenade on instinct, this shit taking him back to the jungles again. There was no grenade at his shoulder, just his tracksuit, fabric wet with blood.
He slapped himself across the face, first once and then again harder. The second slap brought him back to the moment: he was in his tower, had a few cuts from some shooting. He would get through this.
As he stepped into his hall, Bonnie barked from the apartment.
“Ho, Bonnie,” he called. “I’m coming for you, girl.”
In a flash it occurred to him that if Marlene’s soldiers were up in his tower trying to get his ass, then maybe she’d be without protection. If he could slide up in there and kill her now, he’d take control.
This thought made him smile.
Rock looked back for a sign of Junius or Pickup and didn’t see either, which meant they might be trying to creep up from the opposite stairs. He fired a few rounds down the hall.
Shit, he’d cut down anybody on either of these staircases if they got in his way.
Rock spit blood again and pushed himself forward off the wall. He noticed the marks of blood left behind: a handprint and a splotch from his shoulder.
He pressed forward, steadying himself against the wall. As he reached his doorway, the door shook from Bonnie leaping against it and scratching to get out. She was a good dog, wanted to come out here and fight to save her man from the heat.
“Good girl,” he said. “Good girl, Bonnie. Sit!”
She calmed for a moment, and Rock tried to listen for Berry.
“Berry,” he called. “Yo, Berry!”
She didn’t answer. Rock felt for the keys in his pocket. He thought about opening the door and going in for her, but knew Bonnie would run out. She’d be on Junius and Pickup too fast for them to do anything, but then she might be in trouble. He’d be damned if he would let Bonnie get shot.
“Good girl,” Rock said, touching the door, leaving fingerprints in blood.
“Berry! Berry, baby. Stay in the bedroom.”
He thought he heard her answer, but Bonnie was barking too much for him to be sure. “Be a good girl, Bonnie. Don’t hurt my Berry if she to come out, you hear?”
Bonnie threw herself against the door again, and the impact pushed Rock upright.
He touched the door a last time, smearing his blood on the white paint, and shoved himself toward the elevator, glad he’d left it as an escape.
He was not abandoning, just retreating for tactical reasons, seizing an opportunity to get the drop on Marlene.
Junius collected himself and called up the stairs, “Yo!”
No one answered.
“Who there? Pickup?”
“Yeah.”
He heard a grunt and then he stood up, slowly, watching above him for movement. Rock was not someone to count out.
The blood was all over his hands, the gun, and his sweatshirt.
It could be worse; at least the blood wasn’t his. He wiped it off on his jeans, made sure his hands were dry, and then used his sweatshirt to wipe blood off the shotgun. He thought about trading it out for the Tec that now rested in Roughneck’s hand, but there was something about pulling a gun away from a dead man he didn’t like. He’d stay with the shotgun.
He started up the stairs, saw Big Pickup step out of the hallway to stand above him.
“Yo,” Pickup said.
Junius nodded, stepped around Hammer and made his way up to twenty-one.
“Shit,” Pickup said when Junius reached him. “Fucking bloodbath in this piece.”
Junius didn’t need to look back to know the body count. And Pickup probably couldn’t see Black Jesus or Mike Only from where he was either. Junius nodded.
Up the hall, he saw Dee’s body shot up on the ground, and then, just beyond that some clothes shook and turned into a person who sat up: motherfucking Elf.
“Yo, Elf!” Junius called out. “The fuck happened to you, niggah? How you get up here?”
Elf smiled. “Yo, you all right?”
Junius started up the hall. “My man!”
“Ness fucked-up,” Elf said, his face going soft. Junius could tell he’d been crying. “And Dee dead! Seven, too.”
“Seven?”
“We gonna put Rock on that list in a minute,” Pickup said. He still watched the stairs.
Elf said something else that Junius didn’t hear but for one word: Pickup. He cut his finger across his neck. “Pickup killed Seven,” Elf said.
“What?”
Pickup came back from the stairs, his Tec-9 still trained up the hall.
“He upset I had to dead Seven. What he don’t know is Seven cross over, came up in here helping Rock.”
Junius stepped back, pressed himself against the wall. “Seven Heaven? With Rock?”
Elf shook his head. Pickup said, “True enough, niggah. For real.”
Junius couldn’t believe it. Seven had been the first to reach this floor. He’d heard Seven’s voice; they were on the same side.
“He killed Hammer.” Junius pointed down the stairs at Hammer’s body. “Why would he do that?”
Pickup looked at Junius hard, tilted his head like he wanted to see things from a new angle. “You saying I lie?”
Junius inched along the hallway toward Elf. “No, I—”
Pickup stood still, waiting. “Come on. You want kill Rock, or what?”
“Yeah,” Junius said. “I’m with that.”
Instead of moving toward the stairs, Pickup stepped into the hall, coming closer. Elf was slow getting up.
“You all right, yo?” Junius asked.
Elf nodded. “You all right?”
“Come to save my ass?”
Elf smiled, but it was thin, fragile. “Dee dead.” The boy’s body lay at Elf’s feet. “Seven, too.”
“Lots of people dead now.”
Elf shook his head. “Ness shot up bad. He could die too.”
Junius looked back at Pickup. “What now?” he asked.
“Yo, fuck that niggah.” Pickup started toward the stairs. “We move on Rock, now—with the quick.”
Elf looked nervous, like he wasn’t sure what he should do. He had a gun in his hand, but dropped it. He shook his head, but Junius didn’t know what that meant.
Elf said, “That’s Miss Emma’s gun.”
“Miss Emma gave you a gun?” It sounded weird to say, but holding the bloody shotgun of a dead man, Junius could see that anything had become possible.
“Is this our fault?” Elf asked.
87
Aldo Posey put both hands on the counter and looked across at Emma Lawrence. The woman rocked back and forth in her glider, doing her crocheting and paying him no mind.
He was drunk. He pushed his lips out in some imitation of a duck’s bill, found his eyes swimming from one side to the other. He finally felt good: the anxiety, worry, and feeling bad about everything he did had all left. Now it was just him, back in his old skin.
“Yep,” he said. “This me here.”
“About done with that bottle?” Miss Emma asked without looking up.
Aldo checked the bottle of whiskey beside his mug: sure enough, it was empty. “Yes, ma’am.” He tipped it up over the mug, waited for the last few drops to trickle out. “Guess so.”
He studied her now, this older lady who had let him into her apartment, trying to decide if anything about her looked good. Sure, she had extended her hospitality out of concern for his boy, but maybe her hospitality was meant to go further. Sure, she was old, but he was getting up there himself. Weren’t people like the two of them meant to keep each other company?
He held the counter with both hands as a chill ran through him. The last bit of it made his head shake. No, he wasn’t supposed to be keeping time with some Bible-loving rug maker. That wasn’t him. Another bottle somewhere, that’d keep him company.
“You got the courage up to go see about your boy?” She paused her hook to look up.
“Hmmm? What you say?”
“Your Junius. Who you came here for. You ready to go up and see if he ok?”
Aldo remembered the sound of gunfire in the hallways, the man in the elevator who looked ready to eat a child, and the beat-up police officer. Those two were riding to where the shots were. His son’s friend, too.
“No. Uh uh. I won’t get myself shot at.”
Emma nodded, her lips pursed. The crocheting hook started moving again. “Just checking,” she said.
“Yeah. I mean I go up there if I had a gun. Do you have a gun?”
He watched as she shook her head.
“No. See I don’t think I should go up there. A son get himself into just so much a father can help him out of. Come a time where we have to raise our hands.” As if to illustrate this point, Aldo raised his hands. It took him a second to get used to standing on just his two feet, but then he was all right, even felt more clearheaded than before.
“Right.” He knocked off what little was left in his mug and told her it had gotten to the time he had to leave. He thought of the supermarket and liquor store next to the towers, tried to recall how much money he held. For the briefest moment, he thought of asking this woman for a loan, but then decided against it.
A man had to draw the line for his dignity, especially in a situation like this. He’d make do with what he had, even satisfy himself with his old standby—a bottle of Scope mouthwash—if it came down to it.
“I thank you for your hospitality.” He came around the counter and stood by the door. “Sorry I couldn’t be more help to you, Miss Lawrence.”
“Help me?” She looked puzzled. “Do you remember what I told you about your son Temple?”
Aldo nodded, not quite sure what she meant, but ready to do his best to make her happy. “I do. And I appreciate your condolences.”
“That’s good.” She turned back to her crocheting. “I am very sorry for your losses.”
Aldo turned toward the door. Reaching for the handle, he stopped. “Loss,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “My mistake. Your loss.”
“Thank you.” He turned to the door, opened it, and went out into the hallway. His eyes took a few moments to adjust to the flickering lights.
He wobbled up the hall to the elevator and pushed the button.
When it hadn’t come in what felt like ten minutes, he decided to take the stairs.
Gary Johnson felt like a fly that had hit the windshield of a car doing seventy-five: as if everything inside him had been broken and smashed, his bones and especially his skull. The only difference that he could tell was in his case the momentum hadn’t carried his asshole through his face. He had that to feel good about.
When he started to open his eyes, his head hurt so bad he had to rest it on the floor. Wherever he was, the floor was his pillow and resting his head there made his body hurt less. Keeping his eyes closed from the bright light around him—Was he in heaven? Could heaven actually feel like this?—he ran his fingers across the floor and felt a thin, ridged rug, like it had lines built across it. His face pressed against a cold metal wall with a bumpy texture. Maybe someone had taken pity on him and just planted him in a box.
But a box wasn’t heaven, so he knew he had to be alive. Of course he was; a dead man couldn’t hurt this bad.
He forced his eyes open, rubbed his temple to ease the pain. When his eyes adjusted, he could see he was in an elevator.
Then the rest of it came roaring back: he was in the terrible tower, the last one in the Rindge Apartments. He remembered his encounters and fights with a drug dealer named Clarence, punching out a boy called Pooh, and an elevator ride with a big guy who hit him in the head with a gun.
His head rang.
He tried stabilizing himself by putting both hands on the rug. Something ran through him, made him retch. He heaved and spit out a yellow gob of bile, coughed, rested his head against the cold wall. Cold felt good against his cheek.
Someone tripped into the elevator, rocking the floor. He stumbled, stepped, and fell against the back wall. The whole car shuddered. The other person said, “Fuck,” and pounded on the wall.
Johnson kept his head down, trying to appear dead or out cold. Either of these was his best choice for how to play this. He felt his gun on the floor under his ribs. It couldn’t be anything else but his Smith & Wesson. He heard a rattling of keys and then the elevator shook, actually started to hum. The doors creaked closed, and then the car began to move.
They were headed down.
88
“Rock!” Pickup yelled. “We coming.”
Junius pointed at Elf. “Stay there.”
“I’m cool,” Elf said. He held his hand up.
A dog barked in the distance. Pickup took off and hit the stairs before Junius moved. As he rounded the turn on the landing and headed up the last flight to twenty-two, Junius started up the hall. He’d expected Pickup to creep up on Rock stealth-like, but instead he charged up. Junius was halfway to the landing when Pickup called back, “He in the elevator. Call that shit on twenty-one, niggah. Hit the button!”
Junius called to Elf, “Hit the button!”
Elf stared at him.
“Go!” Junius said. He pointed at the elevator, and Elf stepped to the doors and jabbed the button.
Behind him, Junius heard Pickup. “He coming down. Stop the elevator.”
Junius didn’t know what Elf would be able to do against Rock, but then Pickup knocked Junius out of the entrance to the hall and he charged at Elf with his gun ready. Junius caught himself against the wall.
Elf turned toward them with his hands up. “It’s not stopping!”
“Motherfuck.” Pickup ran down the hall and pushed Elf aside. He stabbed at the button, then gave up and slammed his fist against the elevator. “Fuck me. Twenty floors, motherfucker?”
At that, Pickup came back up the hall at a run, lumbering toward Junius with his frame filling the hallway. Of the three big men—Pickup, Seven Heaven, and Roughneck—Junius could see now that Pickup was the biggest. Not that it mattered anymore, if he was the only one still alive.
Junius stepped back out of Pickup’s way. That was when he noticed Mike Only pulling himself steadily up the stairs, one hand on the railing and the other holding his gun, a trickle of blood still sticking to his forehead.
Pickup burst out of the hallway and onto the stairs. He jumped halfway down the first flight and booted Mike Only in the face, knocking him back. Mike fell, hardly looking up to see who’d kicked him.
