Drama City

had been cruising the neighborhood, hoping to spot Green and Butler, and had stopped here, at one of the city's many fake 7-Elevens, to get a Sierra Mist. Miller put the car in drive.

Up at Kennedy Street, outside the Wings n Things, Green parked the Caddy near a row of brightly colored racing bikes, Ducatis and such, that always seemed to be out front in the warmer months. Butler listened to music while Green went inside and returned with a large bag. He wasn't in there long; he had called in the order from his cell.

'Dag, DeEric,' said Butler, wide-eyeing the bag. 'You got a whole rack of wings.'

'All drums.'

'You get the extra hot sauce?'

'What you think?' said Green. 'Let's find us a quiet place to eat 'em. Smoke up the rest of this funk before we do.'

A short way down Kennedy, Green turned southeast onto Illinois Avenue. He reached Sherman Circle and a quarter way around it veered off on Crittenden Street. Behind a side street off Crittenden, down near Bernard Elementary, he parked the Cadillac in an alley. He had fucked a girl in this alley not long ago and knew it to be quiet. Lot of folks in the city kept dogs in their backyards at night, would bark at damn near everything. But this alley here, for some reason, was dog free.

They left the windows down, kept the music low, and smoked the rest of the blunt. Their appetites sufficiently whetted, they started in on the drums.

DeEric Green, tripping hard on the highly potent hydroponic weed, was focused on the food before him. His thoughts were happy and not complex.

Michael Butler was also at the peak of his high. But his thoughts went deeper than Green's. The percussion and call-and-response of the go-go mix were hypnotic and almost too much for his head. He didn't mind feeling this way. He could never get too high.

When he was up like this, Butler didn't think on his mother sucking some stranger's dick. When he was up like this, he didn't wonder who his father was or why he'd left. Instead, he dreamed of traveling to places he'd never been before and seeing things he'd only read about in books. Like the Eiffel Tower, and that big arch they had over there in the same city. He guessed he could see that tower and that arch if he wanted to. Why couldn't he? He knew where they were. He could point to that country on a map. Alls he needed to do was get one of them passports, buy a plane ticket, and go. But how did you get a passport? How did you buy a plane ticket? He could find out somehow, he guessed.

When these thoughts got too complicated, he'd just stare up at the night sky. He'd look at the stars and imagine what it would be like to fly in one of them spaceships. To look out the window when you were right there in the middle of space, with all them big rocks, them asteroids, going by. He wondered what you had to do to become one of those astronauts. Did you have to go to an astronaut school or something special like that? How did you get picked? He would like to be an astronaut someday.

He dreamed about these things. But he never did anything but dream about them, because most of the time he was high.

'These drums is tight,' said DeEric Green. He stared at the chicken he held in both hands. The hot sauce was shiny on his lips and stained his face.

Butler had many questions, but he didn't know where to go to find the answers. He used to be able to ask his teachers, but that was before he'd dropped out of school. He had no family, except for his mother. Nigel and DeEric and them, they were his family now. But they weren't the kind of people you could ask.

One time, he'd told his mother that he'd like to go up in space.

'So now you gonna be an astro-not,' she said. 'You can't even spell it, boy.'

'Yes, I can,' said Butler, and to show her that he could, he did.

'Smart little motherfucker,' she said, 'actin' all superior. You ain't goin' no goddamn where but where you at now. The last place you be goin' is space.'

Michael Butler stared out the windshield. From the depths of the alley, out of the darkness, he saw a tall figure walking toward them with a strange dip in his gait. He was wearing gloves. Looked like he was wearing a long raincoat or something too. But it wasn't raining.

'Someone comin' toward us,' said Butler.

Green glanced out the windshield. 'Yeah?' He closed his eyes and bit into a piece of chicken, tearing the meat away from the bone.

The figure came closer.

'I'm just savin',' said Butler, a catch in his voice.

'Nigga takin' a walk, is all,' said Green. 'Ain't no law against it.'

'Too hot to be wearin' gloves,' said Butler.

'Fuck you talkin' about?' said Green.

The man walking toward them triggered a motion detector hung from the eave of a freestanding garage. As the light hit him, Butler saw that it was Melvin Lee's partner, the boy with the frightening smile. He was breaking into that smile now. Smiling wide as he pulled a sawed-off shot-gun out from under the coat.

'Hey, D,' said Butler.

Green looked through the glass. He dropped the chicken into his lap and reached for the butt of his Colt, protruding from under the driver's seat. His hand, slick with the grease of the chicken, slipped off the grip. He saw the boy rack the shotgun and heard it, and with his right hand, Green reached across the buckets and pushed down on Michael Butler's head. As he did this, he saw, for a brief moment, a shower of glass rush toward him. He was blinded by the glass and a ripping pain, and felt slickness on his neck and chest. The air was cool on his face, and then the air felt like fire. He wanted to scream. He tried to open his mouth, and then he tried to close it, but he could do neither.