Deacon King Kong(26)

The stories were crazy, and Deems never believed them. But Sportcoat’s love of the game washed over Deems and his friends like rain. He bought them baseball bats, balls, gloves, even helmets. He umpired the annual game against the Watch Houses and coached it at the same time, wearing his hilarious umpire costume—mask, chest protector, and black umpire’s jacket—running around from base to base, calling runners safe when they were out and out when they were safe, and when either side argued, he’d shrug and switch his rulings, and when there was too much yelling, he’d holler, “Y’all driving me to drink!” which made everybody laugh more. Only Sportcoat could make the kids from those two housing projects, who hated each other for reasons long ago forgotten, get along on the ball field. Deems looked up to him. Part of him wanted to be like Sportcoat.

“The fucker shot me,” Deems murmured, still facing the wall. “What’d I ever do to him?”

Behind him, he heard Lightbulb speaking. “Bro, we got to talk.”

Deems shifted around and opened his eyes, facing them both. They had moved to the window ledge, Beanie smoking nervously, glancing out the window, Lightbulb staring at him. Deems felt his temple. There was a huge lump of bandage there, wrapped around his head. His body felt as if it had been squeezed in a vise. His back and his legs still burned, aching from his fall off the plaza bench. The ear, the one that was wounded, itched badly—what was left of it.

“Who’s covering the plaza?” he asked.

“Stick.”

Deems nodded. Stick was only sixteen, but he was original crew, so he was okay. Deems checked his watch. It was early, only eleven a.m. The usual customers didn’t show up at the flagpole until noon, which gave time for Deems to establish his lookouts on the four buildings that directly faced the plaza to spy for the cops and hand-signal any trouble.

“Who’s the lookout on Building Nine?” Deems said.

“Building Nine?”

“Yeah, Building Nine.”

“Nobody’s up there right now.”

“Send somebody up there to look out.”

“For what? You can’t see the flagpole plaza from there.”

“I want ’em up there looking out for the ants.”

The boys stared at him, confused. “For the ants?” Lightbulb asked. “You mean the ants that come ’round that we used to play with—”

“What’d I say, man? Yes for the fucking ants—”

Deems snapped to silence as the door opened. His mother marched into the room with a glass of water and a handful of pills. She placed them on the nightstand next to his bed, glanced at him and at the two boys, and departed without a word. She hadn’t said more than five words to him since he’d gotten out of the hospital three days before. Then again she never said more than five words to him anyway, other than: “I’m praying that you change.”

He watched her as she moved out of the room. He knew the yelling, the screaming, and the cursing would come later. It didn’t matter. He had his own money. He could take care of himself if she made him move out . . . maybe. It was coming soon anyway, he thought. He stretched his neck to ease the tension and the movement sent a flash of pain firing across his face and ear and down his back like an explosion. It felt like the inside of his head was being torched. He belched, blinked, and saw a hand extended at his face. It was Lightbulb, holding out the water and the pills.

“Take your medicine, bro.”

Deems snatched the pills and water, gulped them down, then said, “Which apartments did they get into?”

Lightbulb looked puzzled. “Who?”

“The ants, bro. What apartments did they get into last year? They follow the same trail like always? They come up from Sausage’s basement in Seventeen?”

“What you worrying about them for?” Lightbulb said. “We got a problem. Earl wants to see you.”

“I ain’t studying Earl,” he said. “I asked about the ants.”

“Earl’s mad, bro.”

“About the ants?”

“What’s the matter with you?” Lightbulb said. “Forget the ants. Earl says Sportcoat got to be dealt with. He’s saying we gonna lose the plaza to the Watch Houses if we don’t do something.”

“We’ll deal with it.”

“We ain’t got to. Earl says he’ll deal with Sportcoat hisself. Mr. Bunch told him to.”

“We don’t need Earl in our business.”

“Like I said, Mr. Bunch ain’t happy.”

“Who you working for? Me? Or Earl and Mr. Bunch?”

Lightbulb sat in silence, cowed. Deems continued: “Y’all been out there?”

“Every day at noon,” Lightbulb said.

“How’s business?”

Lightbulb, always a goof, grinned and pulled out a round wad of bills and held it out to Deems, who glanced at the door where his mother had disappeared and said in a hushed voice, “Put that up, man.” Lightbulb sheepishly pocketed the money.

“Light, anyone come through from the Watch Houses?” Deems asked.

“Not yet,” Lightbulb said.

“What you mean not yet? You hearing they gonna come through?”

“I don’t know, man,” Lightbulb said forlornly. “I ain’t never been through this before.”