LITMIR.BIZ

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he’d done. I couldn’t lie about it to myself, and the horror of that followed me, always. I loved him—he was a very good big brother to me. Hell, I adored him. It all had me wondering strange things, like if it was OK to kill people. If they shoot at you, then maybe it is. But if they’re running away, then maybe not. But what if they came back again next time and didn’t miss and killed you? And what was Lil Pat supposed to do, hold the guy there at the pharmacy until the cops showed up? Citizen’s arrest, like in that movie Police Academy? It didn’t work there, neither. I knew the right answer was there, hovering in front of me, and I’d grapple for it in my dreams and sometimes in the days I’d talk with Ryan.

      “I’ve been dreaming about that Assyrian guy again,” I said.

      “That sucks,” he answered.

      “Ever think about him?”

      “Sometimes. Pretty gross seeing him like that, huh?”

      “Yeah it was. I never thought I’d see a dead body up close like that.”

      “I guess it was gonna happen sooner or later.”

      “Yeah. I guess so… You think he deserved it?”

      “Man… I don’t know. I guess he did. He coulda killed somebody shooting like that. Coulda killed Mickey or Pat.”

      “I can’t believe they chased him right off. Those two are crazy as fuck.”

      “Yep. Hahaha… Down for their crown.”

      “Ha, yeah I guess. Ever think you’re gonna have to kill somebody one day?”

      “I don’t know. Mickey says my dad killed some people. A Royal and somebody else…”

      “They say my old man was pretty bad, too…”

      “I tell you what, if anybody ever tried to hurt my family, or hurt you, I’d kill ’em over that.”

      “Me, too…” I said and exhaled a long breath. “Me, too.”

      •

      ONE DAY, LIL PAT PICKED ME UP alone after collecting. Ryan wasn’t there that day; he’d gone to visit his dad in prison. Lil Pat pulled in front of the house and sent me in to grab a Ministry tape. He said it was in his closet, so I ran down there and dug around the disheveled shelves. I dipped my hand into a shelf in his closet and pricked my index finger on something. I recoiled and gripped my hand. A small bead of blood bubbled up along the grains of my fingerprint. I sucked the blood from it, then squeezed my fist together until it stopped. I lifted a dirty t-shirt, and a needle, like the ones Ma used for her insulin shots, sat inside. There was a little ball of brown powder in a plastic bag with a foot-long piece of rubber tubing lying next to it. I’d heard about hard drugs from Officer Friendly when he came to St. Greg’s, and it scared me that Lil Pat was using them. I couldn’t differentiate between heroin and crack, but I knew that needles were really bad.

      I found the tape, ran upstairs, and got in the car. He pulled away as I gripped at the pain in my fingertip.

      “What happened?” he asked.

      “I pricked myself on something.”

      “What?” He glanced at me. “What was it?”

      “A needle.”

      “Aw, Jesus, let me see.” He grabbed at my hand and looked at the pink fingertip. The blood persistently rose in a small red dab.

      “Are you OK? How do you feel?”

      “I’m OK. It’s OK.”

      “Jesus. You got to be careful, kid.” He sipped his Miller tall boy.

      We drove to the beach and parked in a space facing out to the lake. The sun began to set behind us as we listened to Ministry’s hard, industrial beats. Finally, he clicked it off.

      The lake was choppy. White froth appeared as the dark waves crested.

      “Pat, was that drugs in the bag? The brown stuff?”

      Lil Pat reclined in his seat and killed his beer.

      “Kid, I done seen a lot of things in my life. I done things….” He sighed heavily. “You don’t know what I done, kid…. You’ll never know.”

      He snapped the tab on another beer. We sat there for a while, quiet. He gazed way out across the lake like he was floating somewhere. Some place safe. Some place where things were simple. Fishing, or just walking in a forest in the U.P. hunting grouse. I almost said it—told him what I’d seen—but it got all welled up inside. I wanted to tell him he was a good person. He was a good brother. But, where he was, I don’t think he could have heard me.

      •

      I FINALLY GOT UP THE NERVE to head over by Ryan’s house. He hadn’t come by that day, and I was lonely. I’d completely avoided the Dead-End-Docks since the fight with Leroy. Ryan’d said he’d smoothed it all over and that no one was mad at me, but my brother should never come back around again. Ever. I knocked on Ryan’s front door. No one home except the three dogs that barked and snarled at the square of glass in the oak door. Their puffing snouts pressed against it and fogged their faces.

      I walked around back a little nervous. Maybe they were just telling Ryan that they weren’t mad so they could get me to come back. When I rounded his garage, I saw a huge shack way over at the far-end of the alley. It was made out of scrap wood, and kids swarmed around it like ants. BB stood atop the 12-foot dumpster near the Ace Hardware loading dock throwing down scraps of 2X4 and plywood to T-Money and a few others. Ryan’s prickly, copper scalp emerged out of a square hunk of gray rug at the entrance of the shack. He crawled out. The shack stood waist-high, but it was all slanted and disjointed. Part of the roof was made out of an old refrigerator door, and there was a tan tarp that flapped in the breeze in back. As I walked up, Angel crawled out after Ryan. I hadn’t counted on that, and my head swirled uncomfortably as Ryan walked up. He greeted me with a hand shake, and Angel stepped up beside him and smiled awkwardly. His thin lips trembled a little at the creases, and his dark hair was all sprinkled with white dust.

      “I was hoping you all would shake on it to squash it,” Ryan said as he squinted in the afternoon sunlight. “I still don’t know whatchya’ll were fightin’ about.”

      I reached out my hand towards Angel and said, “I squash it.”

      He shook my hand weakly and said, “Squashed.”

      “Come on and check this thing out, man,” Ryan said. “It’s almost done!”

      We turned and started for the shack. BB spotted me from up high on the filled dumpster.

      “Where yo brotha at, mothafucka?” BB shouted down at me, then grabbed a long hunk of 2X4. He hefted it up over his head. “I’a crack dat mothafucka’s skull!!!” he seethed through his little teeth. Then, he brought the 2X4 down on the rim of the big, rusty dumpster. The hollow walls bellowed.

      “Quit it, Mafucka. It’s coo,” T-Money shouted up to BB as he stepped to me. “Joe, you cool wit’ me. You got heart, boy.” T-Money extended his boney, closed fist towards me slowly, and I met it softly with my own—knuckles to knuckles.

      “What the fuck is this?” I asked.

      “It’s de fort,” T-Money replied, grinning proudly.

      “Yeah? How long you guys been working on it?”

      “Since yesterday mornin’. We ain’t done yet, boy.” He waved us towards it. “Come on, I’ll gives youse de tour.” He motioned to Ryan and said, “Help dese fools for a minute.”

      Ryan nodded and went to help catch the falling boards.

      Angel and I followed. We crawled on our hands and knees through the gray rug flap. Inside it was dark and musty. Thin rays of sunlight pierced through the roof like golden lasers, and microscopic flecks of dust sauntered inside them. There were long, sixteen penny nails sticking out

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