Read Online The Old Neighborhood by Bill Hillmann - Free Book Online Page B

that poured out of the stereo. They were drunk and high, as usual, and on the down-turn from a bright night at the Metro.
    The basement door opened. Blake rumbled down the stairs and past the TV console. In one fluid motion, he leaned down, clicked the stereo off, and continued to his room.
    â€œWhat the fuck?” Rich shouted.
    Blake clicked the light on in his bedroom, then popped his head back through the door.
    â€œGet out. I’m going to sleep.”
    â€œFuck you.”
    Blake ran across the room, leapt onto Rich’s lap, and straddled him. Rich raised his arms feebly, and Blake slammed his fist savagely into Rich’s nose. The length of Rich’s nose mushed sideways. Blood erupted onto his black Pantera t-shirt. Sy jumped up and attempted to pull Blake off.
    â€œAye, he’s your brother God damnit!” Sy shouted, disgusted.
    Blake planted his feet on the couch, stood, twisted, and shoved Sy hard, sending him reeling backward.
    â€œNow get de fuck outta here, ya big pussy!” Blake yelled as he leapt off the couch and stomped toward his room.
    â€œYou didn’t even give me a chance!” Rich yelped as he leapt after Blake. Blake spun sharply and raised his fists. Rich halted mid-step. Then, he sneered and spit a mouthful of blood at Blake that spattered on his neck and his plaid Gap shirt. Blake reeled back, grossed-out.
    Rich stomped out of the basement with Sy behind him.
    â€¢
    I REMEMBER RIDING down to Maxwell Street with Rich in his brown Bronco. He was telling about all the things you could get down at the Maxwell Street Market.
    â€œWhat kinda things,” I asked.
    â€œAll kindsa things,” Rich said as he opened the flip-up lid of the wooden box he’d built into the space between the seats. A small, chalk-white pistol lay at the bottom of the large box.
    â€œIs it real?”
    â€œYeah, it’s real,” he replied as he lifted the pistol out, released the clip, and slid it free. “Dem look like BBs to you?” Rich handed me the metal clip.
    I slipped the top bullet out of the structure.
    â€œDamn!” I rubbed my fingers over the smooth brass casing and the heavy, metal tip. “What is it, a .22?”
    â€œNaw, it’s a .25 semi-automatic,” he answered as we drove down Hollywood.
    â€œAw, man, that’s bad as hell! So you don’t got to cock it every time?”
    â€œJust once,” he said, glancing at me. I gawked at the small-caliber bullet as I rolled it in my fingertips. “Give me dat fuckin’ thing,” he said, snatching the clip out of my hand.
    I handed him the bullet, and he slipped it back in the clip while steering with his knees. We drove south on Ashland. He picked up the gun from between his legs and popped the clip back in the grip. Then, he placed the pistol back in the box and shut it.
    Rich had a way of turning things into these folkloric adventures. As we moved through the city, he gave me a history lesson on the South Loop Skid Row. Then, he eased a slow left onto Halsted through the mob of passing people. We rolled slowly forward as the long line of traffic eked ahead of us. People cut between the cars and trucks as they crossed the street. There was a beat-up, white box-truck near the first intersection, and a green street sign hovered above it that read “Maxwell Street” in white letters.
    A series of bums rushed up to my window. Their haggard faces leered inside as they waved gold chains and watches in my face. One thin, black bum in a blue t-shirt blared out, “I got socks!” as he passed. He held up a large bag of tube socks. His crusty fingers and yellow nails squeezed the bag tightly. The socks bulged against the plastic like a balloon ready to burst.
    â€œWhat?” Rich said, glancing at me. “What’s wrong? You look like you’re gonna piss your fucking pants.”
    â€œWhat if they ran at the door? What would we do? There’s no way