Frankie threw the rest of his sandwich into a bush. Folded the tinfoil into smaller and smaller triangles.
“Joe probably didn’t want to distract you from your studies, you know?” Winston said at last.
Winston’s words were genuine enough, but there was a layer of condescension there. The idea that Frankie couldn’t handle the news, that he couldn’t rise above it. “He asks me to join the posse all the time,” Frankie felt compelled to say.
Winston leaned forward, his shoulder almost touching Frankie’s. “Hey, you want me to talk to Joe about it? Maybe get you inna the posse?”
“What did I just tell you? If I wanted to be in the posse, I would be. He’s my uncle, Winston.” What the hell. It was like Winston was saying he was closer to Frankie’s family than Frankie was.
Winston threw his hands up. “Okay, you go talk to him, then.”
“I don’t want to talk to him—it’s not the right thing for me,” Frankie said, thinking, How can Winston not get that? And then he realized: he had the perfect segue to say what he most wanted to say. “It’s not right for you, either.”
Winston sucked his teeth. “Me all right.”
Frankie rolled up his bag, stuck it in his back pocket to use again tomorrow. “I don’t mean it in a bad way, Winston. It’s just—”
Winston waved him off. “Listen, Frankie. You join, and you get a gun. You going to need one if Garnett is looking for you.”
And who the hell’s fault was that, Winston? It was useless talking to him. Frankie got up. “Later, mon.” Slapping leaves away from his face, he descended the slope toward the street. Not thirty seconds later, he heard a twig crack, then something like leaves rustling. He turned to see Garnett atop the slope, a long kitchen knife in his hand. Shit.
“Me tell you me no done with you,” Garnett called out.
Frankie’s stomach fell and kept falling. Part of him knew that to run would be smart, but the other part wanted to get this over with now. Maybe there was a soul somewhere inside Garnett.
“Winston didn’t mean what he said to you the other day.”
Garnett swayed back and forth like a tree in pre-storm wind. “Bullshit.” He took a few steps closer.
Frankie reached behind his back, pretending he was going for a gun. “You want this smoke?”
Garnett paused, uncertain, but he didn’t look scared. He probably wanted to make a name for himself in his new posse.
A gun slide clicked. “Me know you don’t want this.” Garnett whipped around. Winston appeared on the slope above Garnett, Beretta aimed directly at him.
Smirking, Garnett turned back to Frankie. “Me with Taqwan. You hear me? And me going to tell him ’bout this.” And with that, Garnett slipped back into the bush.
Frankie stared after him, his hand still on his back pocket, maintaining his bluff. But his mind was spinning: Had he just provoked a gang war?
Winston skid-stepped down the decline to Frankie’s side. “Still think you don’t need a gun?”
Four
the full moon sliced through charcoal-dark clouds, and Frankie was glad for the beaming light—he could actually see where he was going as he hiked up the deserted mountain road to Joe’s camp. Passing two of Joe’s men—lookouts—he continued another ten minutes up to the top, to where the road emptied into a wide circular driveway. Fifteen one-bedroom wooden houses and a handful of shacks lined up in a curving row along the edge of the mountain, thick brush and trees everywhere. The silhouetted peaks of the rest of the Blue Mountains behind them seemed to go on forever. A fast synth rhythm, matched up with Sizzla’s voice, and coursed out of a portable system, haunting the night with raspy meditations. There was no electricity this high up the mountain, so kerosene lamps dangled all over, providing the only light the camp had.
Like always, Frankie got a warm welcome from Joe’s posse members, their wives and girlfriends, too. In an odd way, the camp always felt enchanted to Frankie; it was as if he’d stepped back into a simpler time, where rebels lived off the land, free from all rules but their own.
They were just sitting down for dinner, and beckoned Frankie to join them. Large singed pots sitting on the rock fire pit were simmering with a Rastafarian stew of okra, pumpkin, and coconut milk, much better than his half a sandwich. Frankie filled a huge bowlful.
After he ate, he leaned into the flickering light to watch the Ludi game his uncle, Ice Box, and Buck-Buck were playing at the far end of the table. Though practically everybody had a Ludi board, Frankie had never seen one like this—painted in the red, black, and green Rasta colors. His uncle noticed and invited him to a game. That was cool, given that he wasn’t part of the posse. Still, he shook his head. He needed to stay on task… get a quiet moment to talk to Joe about Garnett. But Joe had already handed the dice to Buck-Buck and nodded to Ice Box, and soon they were well into their game.
Nearly as soon, Buck-Buck was ahead. He scooped the dice. A lucky roll would hand him victory; Frankie hoped he would win fast and end the game.
Aunt Jenny strolled up, in baggy jeans and a denim shirt—a different look for a different occasion. She took a seat beside Joe, staring down at her cell phone.
“You think Buck-Buck is going to win?” Joe asked her.
“You know I don’t play games,” she said. Her voice was flat, the flirt packed away as tightly as the bag she’d stuffed with groceries earlier.
Ice Box, the furthest from victory, tapped his red game piece. “Buck-Buck, you nah go win this time.”
“No, mon. Me going to win this game now,” Buck-Buck said.
“Want to bet?” Ice Box challenged.
Ice Box always reminded Frankie of one of those kids at school who never opened his books, but was super insightful when it came to people.
Aunt Jenny looked up from her phone. “A fool and his money don’t know each other for a long time.”
“Who you calling fool, Jenny?” Ice Box folded his arms, his muscles rippling.
“You, fool,” Buck-Buck said, laughing.
Joe lit a spliff, took a long draw. “Roll, mon, and please roll a six and finish di game. Me can’t listen to you two all night.” He exhaled.
In Troy, people only bonded together when a river flooded or a fire raged; it took mass destruction to pull people together. But here, there was a genuine spirit of camaraderie. Joe had told Frankie on one of their many walks that the posse had to be a real family, with Rasta values. Not like the Kingston posses, where everyone sat around lazy, or went robbing and marauding to get some petty revenge on another posse. When Joe told him that he sometimes had them all go over Bible study topics, Frankie had been floored. The light was always burning here at camp, Frankie thought wryly. At his father’s house, the light went out with his mother. That was when Frankie started coming up to the camp more often. Hanging with Joe and Aunt Jenny made him feel less… alone. Yeah. They were always glad to see him, have him around, a stark contrast to his father’s silence. Not that Samson and Frankie had ever really gotten along when his mother was alive, but they’d been, at least, more cordial, less distant than they were now.
Buck-Buck rolled. The dice tapped across the board. “Six, me win it!” Buck-Buck turned to Ice Box. “See, you should never bet against me.”