stretched his body, prison muscles and bruised
knuckles, and in his chest that old cold feeling, the song of twisting metal.
Pharaoh snored louder, and Washington went to bump his cellie, tell him to roll his ass over. Only as he got closer, he realized
Pharaoh wasn’t alone. He had his arm around a thin figure, a slender black boy with a cauliflower ear spooned up against him.
The boy was eight, and the thick wet gurgling was coming from the bloody ruin where his throat used to be.
Washington tried to run. His limbs were bound with sticky ropes.
Then he woke to find himself bound with sticky ropes.
It took a moment to realize that it was his sheets that tied him, sweat-soaked from the heat. August.
The dog days of summer. He’d read somewhere that the phrase came from Sirius, the Dog Star, whose conjunction with the sun
used to mark the hottest months of the year. In modern times the conjunction is slowly coming earlier each year, something
to do with the Earth wobbling. He struggled free of the bedding, wobbly himself. His hand hit something heavy and smooth,
and in the sharp sunlight he just had time to recognize the highball glass before it dropped to the hardwood floor.
‘Shit.’ He stopped thrashing, gently worked his arms loose, and patted around until he found the Beefeater. Empty. He set
the bottle on the nightstand, then extricated his legs. Sallust Crispus’s
The Conspiracy of Catiline
lay open on the bed, the pages wet. The book was ruined, but at least he hadn’t finished the whole bottle this time.
Washington swung his feet over the edge of the bed. The dream muscles were gone, replaced with droopyman-breasts and a forty-three-year-old
paunch. His temples were sore and his eyes spiked. A vision of the boy with the cauliflower ear was painted on the inside
of his mind.
In the shower he danced as the water flickered hot-cold-hot. Trimmed his mustache in the mirror, thinking how his days of
looking like Richard Round-tree were over. Now it was more like James Earl Jones, and that on a good day, which today wasn’t.
There was a racket through the floor. Something metal gonged. A pause, and then the sound of yelling
in two languages. Washington grimaced, yanked his pants on and ran for the door, struggling with his shirt as he went. Took
the stairs in a rumbling plunge.
In the kitchen, Oscar and the new boy – Diego? – were screaming at each other and bucking against the arms holding them back.
Silverware gleamed on the counter, and a bag of groceries had been knocked over, spilling oranges across the hardwood floor.
Two boys had a solid grip on Diego, while Ronald’s monstrous arms wrapped around Oscar from behind, nearly lifting him off
the ground.
‘Let me go,
putas
!’ Diego’s face burned scarlet as he tried to shake free.
Washington stepped into the kitchen. ‘Gentlemen.’ He didn’t yell, but everyone’s head cut sideways. A guilty look crept into
Oscar’s eyes. ‘This dude,’ he started, ‘came at me outta nowhere.’
‘That’s a fucking lie, you piece of –’ Diego bucked and struggled.
Washington sighed. His head hurt too much for this right now. He took a saucepan from the drying rack and stepped in front
of Diego. The boy saw the heavy pan and threw himself harder against the arms holding him, fear flashing in his eyes. Washington
drew his arm back and grit his teeth, feeling that old cold song of twisting metal.
Then, hard as he could, he slammed it down on the counter.
The impact was shockingly loud, and everyone froze. ‘Gentlemen,’ Washington said again, looking
back and forth, decided to start with Oscar. He should have known better; he’d been coming here for months. Washington stared,
taking in the rage in Oscar’s eyes, the pits in his cheeks, mementoes of a driveby. The boy was alive only because the shooter
hadn’t known the difference between birdshot and buckshot, and yet here he was, falling back to the old
knuckles, and in his chest that old cold feeling, the song of twisting metal.
Pharaoh snored louder, and Washington went to bump his cellie, tell him to roll his ass over. Only as he got closer, he realized
Pharaoh wasn’t alone. He had his arm around a thin figure, a slender black boy with a cauliflower ear spooned up against him.
The boy was eight, and the thick wet gurgling was coming from the bloody ruin where his throat used to be.
Washington tried to run. His limbs were bound with sticky ropes.
Then he woke to find himself bound with sticky ropes.
It took a moment to realize that it was his sheets that tied him, sweat-soaked from the heat. August.
The dog days of summer. He’d read somewhere that the phrase came from Sirius, the Dog Star, whose conjunction with the sun
used to mark the hottest months of the year. In modern times the conjunction is slowly coming earlier each year, something
to do with the Earth wobbling. He struggled free of the bedding, wobbly himself. His hand hit something heavy and smooth,
and in the sharp sunlight he just had time to recognize the highball glass before it dropped to the hardwood floor.
‘Shit.’ He stopped thrashing, gently worked his arms loose, and patted around until he found the Beefeater. Empty. He set
the bottle on the nightstand, then extricated his legs. Sallust Crispus’s
The Conspiracy of Catiline
lay open on the bed, the pages wet. The book was ruined, but at least he hadn’t finished the whole bottle this time.
Washington swung his feet over the edge of the bed. The dream muscles were gone, replaced with droopyman-breasts and a forty-three-year-old
paunch. His temples were sore and his eyes spiked. A vision of the boy with the cauliflower ear was painted on the inside
of his mind.
In the shower he danced as the water flickered hot-cold-hot. Trimmed his mustache in the mirror, thinking how his days of
looking like Richard Round-tree were over. Now it was more like James Earl Jones, and that on a good day, which today wasn’t.
There was a racket through the floor. Something metal gonged. A pause, and then the sound of yelling
in two languages. Washington grimaced, yanked his pants on and ran for the door, struggling with his shirt as he went. Took
the stairs in a rumbling plunge.
In the kitchen, Oscar and the new boy – Diego? – were screaming at each other and bucking against the arms holding them back.
Silverware gleamed on the counter, and a bag of groceries had been knocked over, spilling oranges across the hardwood floor.
Two boys had a solid grip on Diego, while Ronald’s monstrous arms wrapped around Oscar from behind, nearly lifting him off
the ground.
‘Let me go,
putas
!’ Diego’s face burned scarlet as he tried to shake free.
Washington stepped into the kitchen. ‘Gentlemen.’ He didn’t yell, but everyone’s head cut sideways. A guilty look crept into
Oscar’s eyes. ‘This dude,’ he started, ‘came at me outta nowhere.’
‘That’s a fucking lie, you piece of –’ Diego bucked and struggled.
Washington sighed. His head hurt too much for this right now. He took a saucepan from the drying rack and stepped in front
of Diego. The boy saw the heavy pan and threw himself harder against the arms holding him, fear flashing in his eyes. Washington
drew his arm back and grit his teeth, feeling that old cold song of twisting metal.
Then, hard as he could, he slammed it down on the counter.
The impact was shockingly loud, and everyone froze. ‘Gentlemen,’ Washington said again, looking
back and forth, decided to start with Oscar. He should have known better; he’d been coming here for months. Washington stared,
taking in the rage in Oscar’s eyes, the pits in his cheeks, mementoes of a driveby. The boy was alive only because the shooter
hadn’t known the difference between birdshot and buckshot, and yet here he was, falling back to the old
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