Mr. Brown poked his head out of the back room. Now Frankie watch-watched. Considering Mr. Brown’s high blood pressure, Aunt Jenny’s appearance could be a life-threatening situation. Mr. Brown was hiking his belt up so high he looked like Black Santa. Then he lowered it until it slipped under the shade of a significant overhang of fat. Then, like an eager teenage boy, he beelined straight to Frankie’s aunt.
“Lawd God, you batty well round, Jenny.” He craned his neck to check her out.
Aunt Jenny let a slow smile cross her face, and Frankie knew she was computing fast.
“You think so?” Aunt Jenny brushed back her shoulder-length dreads.
“Every man knows it, I swear.”
“I’m just happy you do.” Aunt Jenny shifted the grocery-packed handbag to rest on the curve of her hip. Mr. Brown pressed up against her for a hug, overlong. Nauseating hip grinds. This was his aunt’s front, the deception she used to give her an edge over the men who saw women as hip grinds, which by Frankie’s count, was just about all of them. He’d seen it again and again—she let them think they were in charge, that she sought their attention. But she was in charge the whole while.
Mr. Brown finally released Jenny, only then noticing Winston, who was back to ogling Aunt Jenny. His face went blood-pressure red. “What you doing here, boy? You steal anything from me? Get out my store!”
“Don’t talk to me like that!” Winston fronted, all outraged.
At that, Mr. Brown lifted his shirt a mere inch—enough, however, to display a gun handle.
Frankie had witnessed this transformation before in Mr. Brown. Time to leave. He laid a hand on Winston’s shoulder. “Mr. Brown, is this a good time for me to take my break?”
Mr. Brown, giving Winston the stink-eye, said, “Sure, go ahead.”
Over his boss’s shoulder, Frankie could see Aunt Jenny take the opportunity to lift a box of water crackers and slide it into her bag. She winked at him. The wink felt less conspiratorial, more like she was bragging. He waved goodbye.
* * *
Through the woods, Frankie and Winston reached a concave clearing in the mountain slope—their private meeting spot. Just past a Jamaican doctorbird sticking its long beak deep into a hibiscus plant’s business, they sat. Frankie dug into his brown lunch bag, unwrapped the tinfoil around his sandwich—a thick spread of bully beef between two hunks of buttered hard-dough bread—and chomped. A mongoose and a skinny field rat trashed through the dried leaves.
Frankie held out the sandwich. “You want half?”
Winston shook his head, patted his belly. “Watching my figure.” He laughed.
Frankie laughed too but got straight to the point. “You think gang business is right for you, Winston?”
“How you mean?” There was an instant defensive edge in his friend’s voice.
Frankie stared at his sandwich. Winston’s skin was as thin as kite paper, and he had used the wrong words, sounded like a parent.
Winston thrust his chin out. “You’re not smarter than me. You’re book smart, and you talk better than me, but me know the street. And me know gang runnings better than you too.” With that, he oh so casually pulled out a pocket Beretta and oh so casually aimed it at a tree.
Frankie tried to hide his surprise. And did Winston know the street? Really? Frankie remembered a blazing-hot day, back when they were twelve or something, and Winston had talked him into playing hooky, going down to Kingston. On a dare from Winston, they’d checked out a bad neighborhood in West Kingston. On this one street, a man grabbed a woman in a black leather skirt and knee-high boots, probably his prostitute, and shook her hard. Winston had yelled, “Hey!” The pimp immediately let go of the woman and came stalking, digging in his pocket for something. Frankie had quick-scanned the area. There weren’t many people on the street, at least no accomplices. He broke into a run. After a few strides he looked back. Winston was still standing there on the corner, the pimp, a switchblade now in his hand, closing in. “Winston!” Frankie had yelled. Winston turned, eyes so wide. Frankie shouted, “Run, mon!” And only then had Winston finally taken off. The pimp, thank God, turned like an airplane doubling back on its direction. When Winston caught up to Frankie, he’d said, disappointment in his voice, “Me think me was going to see you use your fast hands, and punch him up.” Winston was thinking that Frankie had been a coward, but actually, Winston hadn’t understood what to do in moments like that one. Big difference.
A click brought Frankie back to the moment. Winston had removed the clip from his gun. Shit. The only other people in Troy who owned guns were Aunt Jenny and Mr. Brown. His uncle’s crew had plenty, sure, but they lived at the encampment at the top of the mountain. Joe. Wait—was Winston in Joe’s gang? No way. Noooo—
“How much is Joe paying you?” Frankie asked, and pretended to wipe his brow just to cover his shock. Joe had to have given Winston the gun. This wasn’t good. What the hell was Joe thinking? No telling what kind of trouble Winston could get into with a gun.
Winston refused to look Frankie’s way. “Don’t know yet, but Joe says it’s going to be good money.”
“So you’re going to sell ganja?” Frankie took a bite of his sandwich, like the question was no biggie. Just conversation. He could have shoved it all in his mouth and chewed forever.
Winston shook his gun like a pointer. “No, mon. He wants us to do some jobs for the PNP. If we do okay, we will get better pay, even get to go live up at his camp.”
Winston suddenly raised his gun, braced his shooting hand with the other, and fired a shot. It didn’t look like he hit what he was aiming at. Still, he nodded, clearly pleased with himself. “We been getting some practice with Buck-Buck.”
Frankie’s ears were ringing. “Well, practice a little farther away from me next time.” He pointed at the gun. “You have that thing on you the other day when you were fighting Garnett?”
“No, mon. Him lucky, too.” Winston offered it to Frankie. “Want to try?”
Frankie shook his head. He’d fired a gun before; Joe had taken him for target practice once. Frankie had emptied half the magazine, but only hit the tree he’d been aiming at a couple of times. Joe had joked that he must be a tree lover. Irritated, Frankie aimed again. As Joe leaned close and whispered that he missed because he was aiming at the target instead of using the sights, Frankie adjusted, used the sights, and blasted chunks of bark off the tree. Then he felt stupid. What was he doing out there anyway? He’d let himself be pranked into feeling he had to be Joe’s kind of tough guy—out there shooting when he didn’t want to.
Winston was admiring his gun like it was a new girlfriend. “Who else joined?” Frankie asked now, even more casually.
Winston looked through the sight. “Marshal, Baxter, Greg, Big Pelton, and some others.”
Whoa. Frankie had been hitting the books crazy hard the last few weeks, but how had he not known all this? “Why didn’t anybody tell me?”
Winston shrugged. “Joe said we shouldn’t talk about it.”
“I get that, but I’m not exactly a stranger, Winston.”
Winston looked away again. “We in a posse now, mon. You’re not.”