MINUS 061 AND COUNTING

Bradley had not dared drill any holes in the floor of the trunk, so Richards curled in a miserable ball with his mouth and nose pressed toward the tiny notch of light which was the trunk’s keyhole. Bradley had also pulled out some of the inner trunk insulation around the lid, and that let in a small draft.

The car lifted with a jerk, and he knocked his head against the upper deck. Brad­ley had told him the ride would be at least an hour and a half, with two stops for roadblocks, perhaps more. Before he closed the trunk, he gave Richards a large revolver.

“Every tenth or twelfth car, they give it a heavy looking over,” he said. “They open the trunk to poke around. Those are good odds, eleven to one. If it don’t come up, plug you some pork.”

The car lurched and heaved over the potholed, cracked‑crazed streets of the in­ner city. Once a kid jeered and there was the thump of a thrown piece of paving. Then the sounds of increasing traffic all around them and more frequent stops for lights.

Richards lay passively, holding the pistol lightly in his right hand, thinking how different Bradley had looked in the gang suit. It was a sober Dillon Street double-­breasted, as gray as bank walls. It was rounded off with a maroon tie and a small gold NAACP pin. Bradley had made the leap from scruffy gang‑member (pregnant ladies stay away; some of us’ns eat fetuses) to a sober black business fellow who would know exactly who to Tom.

“You look good,” Richards said admiringly. “In fact, it’s damn incredible.”

“Praise Gawd,” Ma said.

“I thought you’d enjoy the transformation, my good man,” Bradley said with quiet dignity. “I’m the district manager for Raygon Chemicals, you know. We do a thriving business in this area. Fine city, Boston. Immensely convivial.”

Stacey burst into giggles.

“You best shut up, nigger,” Bradley said. “Else I make you shit in yo boot an eat it.”

“You Tom so good, Bradley,” Stacey giggled, not intimidated in the least. “You really fuckin funky.”

Now the car swung right, onto a smoother surface, and descended in a spiraling arc. They were on an entrance ramp. Going onto 495 or a feeder expressway. Cop­per wires of tension were stuffed into his legs.

One in eleven. That’s not bad odds.

The car picked up speed and height, kicked into drive, then slowed abruptly and kicked out. A voice, terrifyingly close, yelling with monotonous regularity: “Pull over . . . have your license and registration ready . . . pull over . . . have your—”

Already. Starting already.

You so hot, man.

Hot enough to check the trunk on one car in eight? Or six? Or maybe every one?

The car came to a full stop. Richards’s eyes moved like trapped rabbits in their sockets. He gripped the revolver.

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 495