“Huh?”
“Look at me, William.” Ali stared into his eyes. “You’re good with this job, right?”
“Yeah,” said William. “But I’m not wearin no clown shirt. That ain’t me.”
Ali watched William slip out of his office. He didn’t reflect on William or strategize on what to do with him next. At seventeen, William was at a point in his life where he had to choose a path for himself. Ali would be there for him if need be, but he wouldn’t spend an inordinate amount of time on him if he continued to display his current level of resistance. Ali had many boys, and though they rarely expressed it verbally, some of them recognized the value in the hand that was being offered to them. It was unproductive for Ali to focus on one who was not willing to meet him halfway.
For the next hour, Ali made some phone calls. One was to a midlevel manager at the new baseball stadium, where Ali had been trying to get a couple of his boys put on. He knew that there were plenty of workers needed at the concession stands as well as less-desirable positions of the janitorial variety. Thus far the stadium officials had been unresponsive. The manager had said something about the need to present a more polished face to the public. Ali actually understood this from a business standpoint, but he vowed to be persistent. He’d call Ken Young. Young had direct dealings with stadium officials and the ear of the mayor, who had hired him from out of town.
There was a cursory knock on the glass storefront door, and a man pushed through it. Almond-shaped eyes, skin that in some lights looked yellow. He now wore his hair in braids. He was twenty-six but looked ten years older. Ali could see that he was high.
“ ’Sup, Holly? ” he said.
“Lawrence.”
“Can’t your boy visit a minute?”
Ali nodded warily as Lawrence Newhouse crossed the room.
TWELVE
Damn, boy,” said Lawrence Newhouse, looking around the office. “You oughta fix this joint up some.”
“We got no money to speak of,” said Ali. “None extra, anyway.”
“Still,” said Lawrence.
The space consisted of two desks, one for Ali, one for Coleman Wallace; a computer with slow dial-up service that they shared; and file cabinets. Also in the room were a foosball table with a cracked leg, a television set with no remote, a roll-in blackboard, several chairs, and a ripped-fabric couch. Ali did his best to make it a place where the boys would feel comfortable hanging out. Everything had been donated. It wasn’t nice, but it was good enough.
“What can I do for you, Lawrence?”
“Wonderin why I stopped in, huh.”
“Been a while.”
“Bet you think I’m lookin for work, somethin.”
“No, I didn’t think that.”
“I got work, man. Got this thing where I detail cars.”
“That’s good.”
“What you doin here, it’s for young men at risk. You know I’m not at risk.”
“And you’re not that young,” said Ali.
Lawrence chuckled and pointed a finger at Ali. “That’s right.”
“So what can I do for you?”
“It’s about my nephew. Marquis Gilman?”
Ali knew him, a nonviolent boy of average intelligence, funny, with lively eyes. Marquis was sixteen, up on drug charges, a recent dropout of Anacostia High School. He had been picked up several times for loitering and possession. His heart wasn’t in his work. He was a low-level runner who didn’t care to run.
“Marquis is one of my clients,” said Ali. “I’m tryin to help him out.”
“He told me. Want you to know, I appreciate it. He stays over there at Parkchester, with my sister and me. She’s havin a little trouble containing him. You know how that is. Boys that age just don’t think right. They wired up stupid in their heads.”
Ali nodded. He wouldn’t have put it that way, but Lawrence had the general idea. No one knew more about teenage brain scramble and bad decisions than Lawrence Newhouse.
“I’m lookin out for him, though,” said Lawrence. “I got no kids myself, so he as close to one as there is.”
For a moment, Ali thought of his own uncle and shook his head.
“What’s wrong?” said Lawrence.
“Nothin,” said Ali.
“So let me tell you why I’m here. Marquis said you tryin to hook him up with a job.”
“I’m trying. So far we haven’t had much luck.”
“What, you tryin to put him in a Wendy’s, sumshit like that?”
“At this point, we need to find him a job anywhere. Then, if he doesn’t want to return to school, I’ll get him started on earning his GED. Get him used to work and study. Change his habits. Marquis has all the necessary tools.”
“That’s what I’m sayin. He’s better than some fast-food job. I mean, he could do better right now. I been talkin to Ben Braswell. You know I still stay in contact with my man.”
“And?”
“Ben workin with White Boy, laying carpet. Both of them make good money at it. That’s the kind of thing I’d like to see Marquis get into. Learn a trade, and I’m not talkin about operatin no deep fryer.”
“I don’t think Marquis is ready for that right now. It’s a man’s job, for one. Heavy lifting and hard work. And it’s a trade that requires experience. You have to know what you’re doing.”
“White Boy’s father got the business, right?”
“Chris’s father owns it,” said Ali. “That’s right.”
“Then he could put Marquis on. I mean, shit, he put Ben on, and you know Ben ain’t no genius.”
“Chris’s father already hired some guys from our old unit. Remember Lonnie and Luther? Plus Milton Dickerson and that boy we used to ball with, Lamar Brooks. Lamar’s the only one who worked out, and he left to start his own thing. It was me who asked Mr. Flynn to give them a try, so I can’t go back to that well right now.”
“Marquis ain’t never been incarcerated. He was in that pretrial jail at Mount Olivet, but no hard lockup.”
“Marquis isn’t ready,” said Ali, holding Lawrence’s gaze.
Lawrence smiled. “All right. Maybe I’ll just talk to Ben. See what he got to say.”
Ali rose from his chair, telling Lawrence it was time to go. Lawrence stood, and the two of them walked toward the door.
“Damn, you all swole,” said Lawrence, looking Ali over. “I remember when you was one step off a midget. You always did have a chest on you, though.”
“I got one of those late growth spurts,” said Ali. He was now a man of average height with a fireplug build.
Above the door, where boys who were exiting the office could read them, were framed, hand-lettered lyrics: We people who are darker than blue Don’t let us hang around this town And let what others say come true.
“What’s that mean?” said Lawrence, pointing at the lyrics.
“Means, don’t become what society expects you to become. Be better than that.”
“Damn, boy, you like Crusader Rabbit and shit.”
“Not really.”
“What you gonna do after you save all these young niggas down here? Run for president?”
“I think I’ll just stay here and work.”
Ali held the door open for Lawrence, who walked down the sidewalk toward his vehicle, an old Chevy, parked on Alabama Avenue. Two young men stood outside the storefront, talking loudly, laughing.
