Ninth and Nowhere

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Two of them were outside the apartment because there were always two of them outside.

Jamal Davis couldn’t remember their names. One skinny, one less skinny, but both mean-eyed, like they’d practiced it. He’d heard the skinny one’s dad’d been a famous OG, who’d made it to all of thirty-seven before he didn’t make it anymore.

The block was brownstones, fronted by fire escapes, all rusting except for 414 West. Fresh paint on ironwork, fresh paint on the door, fresh paint on the window frames. Garbage and recycling clean and lined up perfect. The crew’s apartment on the second floor was rent free because Lester told the landlord they’d watch out and make sure nothing happened to the building. But the funny thing was that, because the building was the crib of the DS-12s, nobody moved in to the other units. Lester took the rest of them over.

Jamal spotted Skinny and Less Skinny eyeing him from a distance. Nothing about him could give them much to worry about: a bulky olive-drab combat jacket that kept out most of the March chill. Jeans with cuffs, orange Reeboks — nice ones, more than he could afford. But sometimes you just had to. His hair was short and his body was round. Which he didn’t like, the round part. But his grandmother had always given him food and he kept eating food. When he was in high school, sometimes somebody made a comment. Jamal was only five seven, a regret, but God gave him muscle and after he broke a jaw or tore an ear or sent somebody on their fours, puking, the comments stopped.

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