Hell To Pay

and Little retreated and stopped when their backs touched the cinderblock wall of the garage. One of the men reached out and tore Potter’s skully off his head. He threw it to the side.

“What is this?” said Potter, hoping his voice did not sound weak. But he knew that it did. Little’s hand touched his for a moment, and it felt electric.

Oliver said nothing.

“Look, you and me ain’t got no kinda beef,” said Potter. “I been careful to stay out the way of people like you.”

The fluorescent lights buzzed steadily.

Potter spread his hands. “Have I been steppin’ on your turf down there off Georgia? I mean, you tryin’ to build somethin’ up there I don’t know about? ’Cause we will pack up our shit and move on, that’s what you want us to do.”

Oliver didn’t reply.

Potter smiled. “We can work for you, you want us to.” He felt his mouth twitching uncontrollably as he tried to keep the smile.

Oliver’s eyes stayed on his. “You want to work for me?”

“Sure,” said Potter. “Can you put us on?”

“Gimme my gun,” said Oliver, and the young boy beside him reached under the tail of his shirt and withdrew an automatic. Oliver took the gun from the boy and jacked a round into the chamber. He raised the automatic and pointed it at Potter’s face. Potter saw Oliver’s finger slide inside the trigger guard of the gun.

Potter closed his eyes. He heard his friend beside him, sobbing, stuttering, begging. He heard Carlton drop to his knees. He wasn’t gonna go out like Dirty. Like some bitch, pleadin’ for his life.

Potter peed himself. It felt warm on his thighs. He heard the ones who was about to kill him laughing. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyes were frozen. He thought of his mother. He tried to think of what she looked like. He couldn’t bring her up in his mind. He wondered, did it hurt to die.

STRANGE walked through the kitchen toward the stairway hall. He slowed his step and leaned up against an island holding an indoor grill.

Even from here, even with that door to the garage closed, he could hear one of those young men crying. Sounded like he was begging, too. The one with the cornrows, if he had to guess. Strange didn’t even know that young man’s name.

It wasn’t that one, though, or Potter, who had given him pause. It was the young boy standing next to Oliver. The one he’d seen raking leaves the previous day, the one he’d never seen smile. Like he was already dead inside at eleven, twelve years old. Quinn would say that you should never give up on these kids, that it was never too late to try. Well, Strange wasn’t sure about Potter and his kind. But he knew it wasn’t too late for that boy who’d lost his smile.

Strange walked back the way he’d come. He opened the door leading to the garage without a knock. He stepped down onto the plastic tarp and entered the cold room. All heads turned his way.

Granville Oliver was holding an automatic to the face of Garfield Potter. Saliva threads hung from Potter’s open mouth, and his jeans were dark with urine. The smell of his release was strong in the garage. The one with the cornrows was on his knees, tears veining his face. His eyes were red rimmed and blown out wide.

“You ain’t got no business back in here,” said Oliver.

“Can’t let you do this.”

Oliver kept his gun on Potter. “You delivered our boys here. Now you’re done.”

“I thought I was, too,” said Strange. “Can I get a minute?”

“You got to be playin’.”

Strange shook his head. “Look at me, man. Do I look like I’m playin’ to you? Gimme one minute. Hear me out.”

Oliver stared hard at Strange, and Strange stared back.

“Please,” said Strange.

Oliver’s shoulders loosened and he lowered the gun. He turned to the man in the suit, Phillip Wood, standing beside him.

“Hold these two right here,” said Oliver. To Strange he said, “In my office.”

Strange said, “Right.”

A phone chirped as Strange sat in the chair before Granville Oliver’s desk. Oliver reached into his jacket for his cell.

“That’s me,” said Strange, slipping his cell from its holster. “Yeah.”

“Derek, it’s Lydell. We got his statement.”

“Whose?”

“Ray Boyer, the craps player. Said the boy who broke his nose did it with a three fifty-seven snub-nose.”

“He remember the boy’s name?”

“Garfield Potter. They’re runnin’ the name right now, should have a last-known on him any minute.”

“Potter’s the one.”

“What?”

“I can give you his address,” said Strange, looking over Oliver’s shoulder through the office window to the street, where Potter had parked. Potter’s car was gone. “But he ain’t there just yet.”