that did rarely returned. From time to time the last straining rays of sunlight would be broken by large gliding bodies that were known to patrol the depths—creatures that also ventured to the surface.
You’ll never catch me diving down there,
Tal thought, looking out at the expanse of ocean beyond the marina.
He began strumming his guitar again, determined to earn a score’s worth of pity from passersby. The sun was sinking to the horizon. The lampposts along the boardwalk buzzed, gathering enough charge to flicker weak light. He broke into his third tall can and looked up and down the walk to see if any cops were around. Hardly anyone about at all, so he decided on another Marley number, a down-tempo version of “I Shot the Sheriff.” Tal closed his eyes and played.
“Every time I plant a seed, he said kill it before it grow. . . .”
Tal strummed and sang with everything he had. When the last chord rang out he opened his eyes. There hadn’t been one single clink in the hat during the song, but some generous soul had recognized his talent and dropped a silent ten-dollar bill. Tal looked around for who that might have been. There was nobody about, save a couple of joggers. Only a sliver of sun showed above the horizon. A thirst inside Tal made itself known, right on cue. Beer wouldn’t suffice anymore. There was a habit to feed and tar to score. Tal considered calling it early and heading back to his hood. He looked down at the hat. Almost enough cash inside for one decent fix.
“Maybe I can swing a discount.”
Tal looked at his fingers, blistered and raw from all the playing he’d done over the previous days. Enough was enough. He packed up his guitar and pocketed the change. On the way home he’d visit his new dealer, a pusher in the neighborhood known only as Al Catraz. What he’d scored from Catraz the other day was powdered perfection. He needed more of it.
People came and went from the marina all the time and at all hours. Tal thought nothing of the approaching footsteps behind him just before capable arms grabbed and restrained him. The pinch of a needle in his neck swirled and slowed Tal’s world. Everything went black by the time he buckled and dropped.
Eleven
NOW.
T al fell to the sand, hands clutching his upset stomach. The others nearby knew how he felt, for their own guts roiled and burned in their bellies. Felix picked sand out of his belly button and got Nash’s attention with a grunt.
“We’re civilians to them,” he said.
Nash stopped biting his fingernails long enough to ask, “Pardon?”
“They referred to us as civilians in the note,” Felix said. “Not citizens, not prisoners, not hostages.”
“So?”
“So, why point us out like that? Who calls people civilians?”
Nash thought it over. “Government, I guess.”
Felix shook his head. “Military.”
“Military?”
“Yeah, or something like it. You’re looking at people with power and capability and reach who see people like us as something less, something weaker.”
“What are you getting at?” asked Ginger.
Felix looked to the yacht. “I’m not sure yet.”
“Then do us all a favor and stop talking,” Tal grumbled.
Felix didn’t think he’d heard right. He looked at the half-caste sweating on the sand, knees drawn to his chest, facial muscles flexed in a portrait of pain.
“Huh?”
Tal didn’t look at him. The agony burning at his core scrunched him up like a paper ball. With eyes squeezed shut and a locked jaw he spoke even quieter than before.
“Quit talking already.”
Felix’s chuckle was frigid. “What you say to me, boy?”
Tal’s scream sent them all reeling.
“I said shut the fuck up, nigger!”
It took Felix a second to recover from Tal’s outburst. Then he was on his feet, fists up, ready to throw down.
“Okay, asshole, round one, let’s go.”
“Felix!” Nash yelled. “It’s not him, it’s the dope.”
Felix didn’t care. Tal didn’t rise to the
You’ll never catch me diving down there,
Tal thought, looking out at the expanse of ocean beyond the marina.
He began strumming his guitar again, determined to earn a score’s worth of pity from passersby. The sun was sinking to the horizon. The lampposts along the boardwalk buzzed, gathering enough charge to flicker weak light. He broke into his third tall can and looked up and down the walk to see if any cops were around. Hardly anyone about at all, so he decided on another Marley number, a down-tempo version of “I Shot the Sheriff.” Tal closed his eyes and played.
“Every time I plant a seed, he said kill it before it grow. . . .”
Tal strummed and sang with everything he had. When the last chord rang out he opened his eyes. There hadn’t been one single clink in the hat during the song, but some generous soul had recognized his talent and dropped a silent ten-dollar bill. Tal looked around for who that might have been. There was nobody about, save a couple of joggers. Only a sliver of sun showed above the horizon. A thirst inside Tal made itself known, right on cue. Beer wouldn’t suffice anymore. There was a habit to feed and tar to score. Tal considered calling it early and heading back to his hood. He looked down at the hat. Almost enough cash inside for one decent fix.
“Maybe I can swing a discount.”
Tal looked at his fingers, blistered and raw from all the playing he’d done over the previous days. Enough was enough. He packed up his guitar and pocketed the change. On the way home he’d visit his new dealer, a pusher in the neighborhood known only as Al Catraz. What he’d scored from Catraz the other day was powdered perfection. He needed more of it.
People came and went from the marina all the time and at all hours. Tal thought nothing of the approaching footsteps behind him just before capable arms grabbed and restrained him. The pinch of a needle in his neck swirled and slowed Tal’s world. Everything went black by the time he buckled and dropped.
Eleven
NOW.
T al fell to the sand, hands clutching his upset stomach. The others nearby knew how he felt, for their own guts roiled and burned in their bellies. Felix picked sand out of his belly button and got Nash’s attention with a grunt.
“We’re civilians to them,” he said.
Nash stopped biting his fingernails long enough to ask, “Pardon?”
“They referred to us as civilians in the note,” Felix said. “Not citizens, not prisoners, not hostages.”
“So?”
“So, why point us out like that? Who calls people civilians?”
Nash thought it over. “Government, I guess.”
Felix shook his head. “Military.”
“Military?”
“Yeah, or something like it. You’re looking at people with power and capability and reach who see people like us as something less, something weaker.”
“What are you getting at?” asked Ginger.
Felix looked to the yacht. “I’m not sure yet.”
“Then do us all a favor and stop talking,” Tal grumbled.
Felix didn’t think he’d heard right. He looked at the half-caste sweating on the sand, knees drawn to his chest, facial muscles flexed in a portrait of pain.
“Huh?”
Tal didn’t look at him. The agony burning at his core scrunched him up like a paper ball. With eyes squeezed shut and a locked jaw he spoke even quieter than before.
“Quit talking already.”
Felix’s chuckle was frigid. “What you say to me, boy?”
Tal’s scream sent them all reeling.
“I said shut the fuck up, nigger!”
It took Felix a second to recover from Tal’s outburst. Then he was on his feet, fists up, ready to throw down.
“Okay, asshole, round one, let’s go.”
“Felix!” Nash yelled. “It’s not him, it’s the dope.”
Felix didn’t care. Tal didn’t rise to the
Similar Books
