After he took another small sip of the drink, resisting the impulse to chug it, he wondered if it all had to do with sex. Maybe Christina thought that she and Ryan would never do it for longer than thirty seconds and that she’d never be able to come with him. Maybe last night Jake seduced her and lasted a long time. Maybe she made her decision right then - To hell with Ryan, I’m staying with Jake. Sex and money. That was what it always came down to, wasn’t it?

  Ryan lifted the drink angrily, ready to swallow it in one tip of the glass, and then he looked over at Mike, watching him at the other end of the bar. Ryan took a big sip, leaving the glass half-full; then he swished the alcohol around like mouthwash before swallowing.

  Fuck Christina, that little whore. All that crap, promising how great the sex would be when Jake was out of the picture and laying on all that bullshit about what a relief it would be not to have to sneak around anymore. And how about all those times they talked about what their kids would look like - whose eyes, nose, and hair they would have? They’d even named their kids - Justin and Amber - and decided that they’d have a golden retriever named Max.

  Fucking whore. Fucking lying little tramp.

  The alcohol wasn’t working, or at least he hadn’t had enough yet. Ryan was afraid that if he left the bar right now, he’d drive right to Christina’s office and kill that lying, cheating little bitch.

  He had to take a leak. When he stood up he realized he was drunker than he’d thought. He was wobbling, bumping into bar stools. In the bathroom, standing over the toilet bowl, he decided it was all his dick’s fault. His dick had let him down big-time. If his dick just worked the way it supposed to, maybe Christina would still be with him right now. He hated his dick. He couldn’t stand looking at it anymore.

  Then he started staring at his left elbow, at the surgery scars. He hated his elbow as much as he hated his dick. If his elbow worked the way it was supposed to, his whole life would’ve been different. Instead of getting drunk in a Brooklyn bar, trying not to want to go kill his girlfriend, he’d have been in his ten-million-dollar mansion somewhere outside Cleveland. He’d have a wife and kids and would’ve forgotten about Christina a long time ago.

  He finished peeing, then flexed his left arm. He didn’t have any pain in his elbow. He remembered what his father had told him about trying out for the Brooklyn Cyclones. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea. He hadn’t even tried to throw a baseball in over three years - how did he know he couldn’t pitch? There’d been stories before about miracle recoveries, guys defying the odds. Maybe his elbow had healed. Maybe he could do it.

  After he finished peeing he stood in front of the mirror and went into a windup. He was so drunk it was hard to keep his balance on his right leg, and then, as he cocked his left arm as if about to throw, he felt the familiar sharp twinge. Maybe it was nothing, just some stiffness, but he knew he was kidding himself. His arm even hurt sometimes while he was painting, using the roller, so how would it feel when he tried to throw a ninety-mile-per-hour heater? Miracle comebacks were for movies. In real life, when things got fucked-up they stayed that way.

  Ryan walked unsteadily back toward the bar. As he settled on the stool, he realized he hadn’t had a smoke all day. He took out a cigarette from the pack in his jacket pocket, lit up, and took a drag.

  Mike came right over and said, ‘Sorry, can’t smoke in here.’

  Ryan inhaled again, exhaling the smoke through his nostrils, then looked around and said, ‘But nobody’s here.’

  ‘Sorry, you still gotta put it out,’ Mike said.

  Ryan brought the cigarette to his lips again and took another drag.

  Mike took out an ashtray from behind the bar, placed it in front of Ryan, and said, ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘What’s the big deal?’ Ryan said.

  ‘The big deal is you can’t smoke in here,’ Mike said.

  ‘I don’t think you understand,’ Ryan said. ‘I need to smoke this cigarette, and I’m gonna smoke this cigarette.’

  ‘Not in here you’re not,’ Mike said.

  Ryan continued smoking.

  Mike watched him, shaking his head slowly, then went to the register, charged Ryan’s drinks to the credit card, and put the card and receipts in front of Ryan.

  ‘I’m cutting you off,’ Mike said, ‘so you can just take it outside right now.’

  Ryan blew smoke at Mike’s face, then said, ‘Fuck off’

  ‘Big shot,’ Mike said. ‘Got a few drinks in you - think you’re Superman now, huh?’

  Ryan didn’t know what the fuck Mike was talking about.

  ‘Yeah, that’s me, fucking Superman,’ Ryan said, feeling very drunk.

  ‘Guess it don’t fall far from the tree,’ Mike said. ‘Your old man used to get the same way. Nice guy till the drinks set in. Then he’d turn into a fucking asshole. Used to start fights; had to call the cops on him. Remember one time he started grabbing this girl’s tits. Girl’s boyfriend dragged him out to the street, beat the fuckin’ crap out of him.’

  Puffing on the cigarette, Ryan remembered the times his father would come home bloodied after a night of drinking, telling Rose-Marie stories of how he’d been mugged again.

  ‘Looks like you’re heading in the same direction,’ Mike went on. ‘Things don’t go right in your life you start hitting the bottle, acting like a prick, taking it out on the world.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Ryan said.

  Mike shook his head, then walked toward the other end of the bar. Without looking back at Ryan he said, ‘Just get the hell outta here.’

  Ryan muttered to himself for a while, then realized Mike was right - he was acting like his father, sitting at a bar and getting drunk in the middle of the day, thinking about going to beat up his ex-girlfriend.

  Ryan put out the cigarette in the ashtray and said, ‘Hey, lemme get a ginger ale, will ya?’

  Mike, looking at a newspaper, didn’t answer.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ Ryan said. ‘You’re right, I’ve been acting like an asshole. I just wanna sober up, then I’ll go home. I swear.’

  Mike hesitated, then went and filled a glass with ginger ale and brought it to Ryan.

  ‘It’s on the house,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks,’ Ryan said, ‘and I’m really sorry.’

  Ryan sipped the ginger ale, proud of himself for being stronger than his father. He figured he’d stay at the bar for about an hour, then drive home and sleep it off. Maybe, after some time went by, he’d start to realize that losing Christina wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Maybe he’d find someone else, someone he had more in common with, maybe someone who loved hip-hop and who didn’t mind being married to a housepainter. He and this new girl could raise a family in Brooklyn, and his son would play Little League. Maybe Ryan would coach the team and make sure his kid didn’t throw curveballs until he finished growing. His son would listen and get drafted in the first round. He’d play for the Mets, become their number one starter, and he’d pitch a shutout in game seven of the World Series.

  For a while Ryan felt better, but then, as he finished the ginger ale, he started thinking about Jake.

  He remembered how Jake had talked down to him and tried to set him up with one of his groupies, like he was a loser who couldn’t get a date. Ryan had wanted to tell Jake to go fuck himself or, better yet, belt him in the mouth, break those fake choppers, but he’d held back, not wanting to make a big scene in front of Chrissy and all those people. Then, when Jake started making those disgusting comments about Christina, obviously not giving a shit about her, Ryan really wanted to beat the hell out of him, but he didn’t because he figured Christina was going to dump Jake anyway, so why do something that might piss her off?

  Sitting at the bar, squeezing the empty glass, Ryan decided it was all Jake’s fault. Jake had done this - not because he wanted Christina or cared about her - no, those were the last things on that prick’s mind. He wanted Christina for only one reason - to keep Ryan from having her. Jake had always been that way -trying his hardest to beat Ryan at everything. When they were kids it didn’t matter if they were playing stickball, pickup basketball, or Monopoly; when Jake won, he would taunt Ryan, loving it, but when Ryan won Jake would sulk for days. After Ryan blew out his elbow and had to quit baseball, he had a feeling that Jake got off on it. Jake loved being the big winner, especially when Ryan was the big loser, and to him Christina was just another prize.

  The more Ryan thought about it, the more convinced he became that Christina hadn’t left him - Jake had stolen her away. Last night, when Jake and Christina left the party, Christina had probably told him about her and Ryan, which made Jake want her more than he ever had before. He probably poured on that fake charm and told her how much money he’d give her. Jake knew she was vulnerable, stuck in a run-down house with her loser father, and that he could sway her if he tried hard enough. He’d probably made her promises, told her about all the things he’d buy her, places they’d go, and after a while Christina started to cave. It made a lot of sense - when Jake wanted something bad enough nothing stopped him from getting it, and getting something that Ryan wanted only made the victory sweeter.

  Mike came over and said, ‘Another ginger ale?’

  Ryan ignored him, signed for the drinks, and stormed out of the bar.

  Moments later he was in his car, speeding, swerving toward Canarsie, his hands squeezing the steering wheel as hard as they would soon be squeezing Jake’s neck.

  Ten

  Marcus Fitts lived in a one-bedroom apartment in the Bay View Houses on Seaview Avenue. His crib was small, maybe even tighter than Saiquan and Desiree’s, but it had all the shit that Saiquan had always dreamed of getting but could never afford -black leather furniture, a big-ass rectangle-shaped plasma HDTV on the wall, and everything that went with it - DVD, surround sound, PlayStation, motherfucking TiVo. And his bedroom -damn, it had a king-size bed with one of those flat stereo-speaker combo shits, and his bathroom had one of those showerheads where the water came at you from every side, like you were standing in the middle of a waterfall.

  Whenever Saiquan went over to Marcus’s, he thought, Why don’t I got all this shit? Like Saiquan, Marcus had started dealing in junior high and hooked up with the Crips in the joint, but Marcus spent more time away than Saiquan, finishing up a stretch upstate just last year. On top of that, the man used to be a sick-ass crackhead, almost killing himself a couple times on that shit. But now, while Saiquan was spending his time trying to fit into society, Marcus went on dealing and stealing, and he’d filled up his crib with all this cool shit.

  It made Saiquan wonder. It made him wonder a lot.

  In the hallway outside Marcus’s, Saiquan heard some movie or video game playing - shit exploding. He rang the doorbell a few times, waited, then rang it a few more times. He smelled crack, and he hoped it wasn’t coming from Marcus’s - maybe somebody was just basing in the stairwell or some other crib.

  After ringing the bell a couple more times, Saiquan had to start banging on the door with his fists because he didn’t think Marcus could hear him over all of that noise. Finally Marcus opened the door, looking whacked - his eyes open so wide Saiquan could see white all around the brown.

  ‘Yo, yo, yo, what up?’ Marcus said, talking crackhead fast, like he’d been sitting home basing all motherfucking day.

  Marcus was wearing baggy jeans with patches all over them, and a triple-X T-shirt hanging down to his knees, prison-style. He used to have tight cornrows like Saiquan, but he’d let his hair grow out when he was away and now he had long, Sprewell-style braids. He wore beige Timbs, a solid-gold chain with a big gold peace sign hanging over his shirt, and a big gold earring that spelled CASH.

  ‘Shit,’ Saiquan said. ‘How long you been gettin’ fucked up?’

  ‘I ain’t fucked up, man,’ Marcus said. ‘You comin’ in or what?’ Saiquan noticed the braces on Marcus’s teeth - thick, shiny silver on the tops and bottoms.

  ‘Yo, I don’t need this shit right now, man,’ Saiquan said. ‘Basin’ all day, then goin’ out to the street, gettin’ wild and shit. Just gimme a clean piece and I be on my way.’

  ‘You comin’?’ Marcus said.

  Saiquan stood there for a few seconds, deciding what to do. He remembered how crazy Marcus used to get when he was high on crack, shooting and cutting brothers just for looking at him the wrong way or stepping on his Jordans. There was no way Saiquan was gonna bring Marcus along with him to smoke Jermaine. He just had to get a piece off him and that was it.

  Saiquan went into the apartment, and Marcus said, ‘Rest your ass down, take a seat. Watch some Jackie Chan.’

  Saiquan glanced at the TV on the wall, at the paused scene of Jackie Chan in midair, doing a karate move.

  Then Saiquan looked over at the glass coffee table with the two Baggies of rock - one full, one half-empty - and the crack pipe, the joint paper, and a Baggie of what looked like H. There were also a few empty bottles of Bud Light.

  ‘That Chinese nigga Jackie Chan knows some moves, man,’ Marcus said. ‘Before, yo, he did this fuckin’ split in the air and shit, kicked both these niggas’ teeth out. He comes up to these niggas, right, smiles in that Chinese-man way, all polite and shit; then he goes whack, takes the nigga’s piece, and nigga’s just got this dumb-ass look on his face, like, What the fuck just happened? Then you see my man Jackie leave his feet, go in midair, and kick both motherfiickin’ niggas in the mouth at the same time. I slowmo’d that shit, man.’

  ‘Talkin’ ‘bout teeth,’ Saiquan said. ‘What up with all that shit?’

  ‘They cool, right?’ Marcus said, smiling, showing the braces off.

  Saiquan did think they looked cool.

  ‘They a’ight,’ Saiquan said. ‘Why’d you get ‘em, man?’

  ‘To fix my teeth - why the fuck you think? I wish I could keep ‘em on forever, man. Bitches love ‘em. Serious. I be walkin’ down the street, they be lookin’ me up and down, smilin’ and shit. They never did that ‘fore I got my braces.’

  ‘Don’t that shit cost money?’

  ‘Hell, yeah. Had to pay one of ‘em ortho-dentists two grand, and that’s just the first payment. Muthafuckas make you pay four times. Shit hurts too. They use this wrench and shit, start twisting and pulling, but shit’s worth it. I was sick of lookin’ all bucktooth, teeth overlappin’ all the time. Wanna smoke, man?’

  Wondering where Marcus got two fucking grand to get his teeth fixed, Saiquan said, ‘Naw, just gimme a fuckin’ piece, man, and I be on my way.’

  Marcus stared at Saiquan with his big glassy eyes, then said, ‘The fuck you talkin’ about, man? I’m comin’ with you.’

  ‘You think I’m takin’ yo’ fucked-up ass with me, you crazy,’ Saiquan said. ‘I don’t need this shit, yo - my parole getting all fucked-up ‘cause you sittin’, doin’ rock all day, then gettin’ wild. Nuh-uh, man. Nuh-uh.’

  ‘I told you, I ain’t on no motherfiickin’ rock, yo.’

  ‘Man, you think I ain’t on to yo’ bullshit? You got all this shit out on the fuckin’ coffee table, probably been basin’ all mother-fiickin’ day. You think I’m stupid?’

  ‘I just had to test my product, man, know what I’m sayin’? Had to make sure I ain’t holdin’ no bad shit.’

  ‘Who you lyin’ to, man?’

  ‘I smoked one pipe, yo - just one pipe, that’s it. Why don’t you shut up and do one too? Help relax yo’ pussy ass.’

  ‘Naw, man,’ Saiquan said. ‘You can keep on basin’, watchin’ Jackie Chan on your stolen motherfiickin’ TV set. Just gimme my fuckin’ piece and I be on my way.’

  ‘Yo, yo, hold up.’ Marcus was smiling. ‘Lemme get this shit straight, yo. So what you gonna do, just go up to J on the street, cap the man, and walk away? And what you think his boys is gonna do? Just say, “There goes the man capped our cuz,” and let you cruise?’

  ‘I’ll do a drive-by,’ Saiquan said.

  ‘Drive-by?’ Marcus laughed. ‘Shit, yo’ bitch ride can’t even get twenty mile an hour. You mi’se well be ridin’ a motherfiickin’ Big Wheel.’ He laughed again.

  Saiquan wondered how hard he’d laugh if he knew Saiquan’s car was probably being towed to the junkyard right now.

  ‘But now if you take my ride, yo, you’ll be all hooked up,’ Marcus said. ‘My seven hundred goes zero to sixty in four-point-three. That’s what you need when you got bullets comin’ at your back, know what I’m sayin’?’

  ‘Where’d you get a BMW?’ Saiquan asked.

  ‘Bought the shit last week,’ Marcus said with a straight face.

  Saiquan looked at Marcus, then said, ‘Man, you must think I’m stupid. Go with you, get pulled over for grand theft auto and shit. Get five to ten for just sittin’ there, doin’ nothin’.’

  ‘I don’t go with you, you’ll wish yo’ ass was doing five to ten,’ Marcus said. ‘Shit, they’ll give yo’ ass life when you start shootin’ wild into them crowds, hittin’ people you ain’t suppose to. Maybe you’ll get a lady with a baby carriage and shit. When’s the last time you shot a gun? You was away, what, three years, and I bet you ain’t held a piece since you got out. You think that shit’s like ridin’ a bike?’ Marcus held out his hand, his thumb and forefinger like a gun. ‘You’ll be like, “Fuh, fuh, fuh, fuh. Where them bullets at? I don’t know, you see ‘em?” ‘ Marcus laughed, then said, ‘Yo, but if you got me, you got aim, know what I’m sayin’? Last week, two weeks ago, whatever, I shot this high school nigga in the Bloods. Shit made the paper - you can go read about it. Motherfucka was tryin’ to play my customer, know what I’m sayin’, so I capped his ass. Punk was standing in front of Mickey D’s on Flatlands eatin’ a Big Mac, and I came by, got five off with my nine. First shot went into the Big Mac. Nigga looked at his hand like, “What the fuck just happened to my burger?” Next two shots went right into his chest. Didn’t hit nobody else neither. That’s ‘cause I know how to aim.’

  Saiquan knew Marcus was full of shit - he didn’t hear anything on the news last week about no bullet hitting no Big Mac. Besides, if Marcus really popped somebody he would’ve called Saiquan to brag about it right after it happened.