Hell To Pay

“Thanks, but I was gonna ride with Coach Derek.”

“You like ice cream, don’t ya?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, c’mon, then. We’ll grab a cone or a cup or somethin’, and then I’ll run you home.”

“I like ithe cream,” said Prince.

“Sorry, youngun,” said Lorenze. “Only got enough to spring for me and my man here. Next time, okay?”

Joe Wilder looked back at Coach Strange, who was still on the field, talking with Coach Blue. His uncle seemed pretty nice. He wouldn’t let anything happen to him or nothin’ like that. And an ice cream sounded good.

“Tell Coach Derek I got a ride home with my uncle,” said Joe to Prince. “All right?”

“I’ll tell him,” said Prince.

Prince had a seat on the lowest aluminum bench in the stands and waited for Strange to finish what he was doing. Joe and his uncle climbed the concrete steps to the parking lot. The shadows of dusk faded as full dark fell upon the school grounds.

“THERE we go,” said Potter, looking through the windshield of the Plymouth from the passenger side. “There goes Wilder right there.”

Lorenze Wilder was letting a uniformed boy into the passenger side of his car. As he went around to the driver’s side, he looked around the parking lot, studying the cars.

Potter chuckled under his breath, then took a deep swig from a forty-ounce bottle of malt liquor. He slid the bottle back down between his legs.

“He got some kid with him,” said White. “That’s his nephew, right?”

“Whateva,” said Potter.

“Yo, turn that shit up, D,” said Little from the backseat. He was busy rolling a fat number, his hands deep in a Baggie of herb.

Potter turned up the volume on the radio.

“That’s my boy DJ Flexx right there,” said Little. “They moved him into Tigger’s spot.”

“Put this shits in gear, Coon,” said Potter. “They’re pullin’ out.”

“We gonna do this thing with that kid in the car?” said White.

“Just stay on Wilder. He probably gonna be droppin’ that boy off at his mother’s, sumshit like that.”

“We don’t need to be messin’ with no kids, Gar.”

“Go on, man,” said Potter, chinning in the direction of the royal blue Oldsmobile leaving the parking lot. “Try not to lose him, neither.”

LORENZE Wilder’s car was a 1984 Olds Regency, a V8 with blue velour interior, white vinyl roof, and wire wheel covers. The windows were tinted dark all the way around. It reminded Wilder of one of those Miami cars, the kind those big-time drug dealers had down there, or a limousine. You could see out, but no one could see inside, and for him it was the one feature of the car that had closed the deal. He had bought it off a lot in Northwest for eighteen hundred dollars and financed it at an interest rate of 24 percent. He had missed the last three payments and had recently changed his phone number again to duck the creditors who had begun to call.

Lorenze saw Joe running his hand along the fabric of the seat as they drove south on Georgia Avenue.

“You can get your own car like this someday, you work hard like your uncle.” In fact, Lorenze Wilder hadn’t had a job in years.

“It’s nice,” said Joe.

“That’s like, velvet right there. Bet your father got a nice car, too.”

Joe Wilder shrugged and looked over at his uncle. “I ain’t never met my father, so I don’t know what he drives.”

“For real?”

“Mama says that my father’s just . . . She say he’s gone.”

Of course, Lorenze knew all about the family history. It was this very thing Lorenze and his sister had argued about, that had set her shit off. She didn’t want the boy to know about his father, that was her business. But here it was now, affecting him, Lorenze. Standing in his way. All he wanted was a little somethin’, a way in. Lorenze tried not to think on it too hard, ’cause it only made him angry.

He glanced over at his nephew. Joe Wilder’s helmet was next to him on the bench seat. He held an action figure in his hand, some guy in tights. Sunglasses had been painted on the man’s rubber face.

Lorenze let his breath out slow. He hadn’t been around kids too much himself. But as kids went, his nephew seemed all right. Lorenze made himself smile and tried to put a tone of interest in his voice.

“Who’s that, Joe?”

“The Rock.”

“That’s that Puerto Rican boy, right?”

“I don’t know what he is, but he’s bad. I got a whole rack of wrestlers like this at home.”

“Bet you ain’t got no good ice cream at your mama’s place.”

“Sometimes we do.”

“What kind of ice cream you like?”