Calaphas gets out of the car, locks it, pulls up the hood of his raincoat, and follows the front walkway, shattered window glass crunching underfoot. The fire must have been intense. Everything burnable has been reduced to dross that the rain compounded into a carbonaceous mud. Metal pipes had half melted into bearded serpents and other fantastical forms.
In spite of the ferocity of the blaze, the neighboring homes stand untouched. Although the lots are wide in this suburb, the failure of the fire to have any smallest effect beyond the property lines is curious.
Treading cautiously, Calaphas circles the ruins, studying the scene from multiple angles. Outdoor furniture is tumbled across the back flagstone patio—six chairs, two sun loungers, small tables—the metal frames intact, the scattered cushions badly scorched and soot stained. The swimming pool is a swamp. After he has come 360 degrees to the front walkway, he is convinced that, even with a skilled team of forensic excavators, he won’t find what he most wanted when he came here, which is a photograph of Michael Mace.
LEANING TOGETHER, HEADPIECES FILLED WITH STRAW
Because maybe Nina knows he drives a black Cadillac Escalade, Aleem is traveling in a white Lexus SUV driven by his homey, Kuba Franklin. Earlier, Kuba parked two blocks from Nina’s shitcan house, and Aleem walked to her place.
Now that Aleem is back in the Lexus, riding shotgun, Kuba takes them into Nina’s block and parks across the street, at a distance but within sight of the house, so they have a clear line on whatever might go down. He lets the engine run to keep the heater on, but he switches off the windshield wipers, so as not to be too obvious.
“You drippin’ all over my upholstery,” Kuba says.
“Fuckin’ weather app said won’t be no rain till four o’clock. I ruin this jacket, I oughta sue their ass.”
“What makes me wanna jack up somebody is my health app.”
“You got a health app?”
“Too much data, man. Too much naggin’。 Says eat this, next thing says iffen you eat it, you get cancer.”
“You got a health app?”
“Sends me an alert, says it can track my menstrual cycle, predict when’s my next period. They think I’m goin’ trans or what?”
“You confuse ’em, spellin’ Cuba with a K, like a girl might. What’s the point, gangbangers like us havin’ a health app?”
“Come sixty-five, I want my brain and balls workin’ good.”
“Sixty-five?”
“I wanna enjoy retirement.”
“How old are you, homey? Twenty-eight, twenty-nine?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Only way you get as far as fifty is Jesus pullin’ a miracle for you.”
“I believe in positive thinkin’。”
“You do, huh?”
“I do.”
“So a carload of Crips or Bloods, gunned up for a ride, pulls up next to us, outta nowhere.”
“This is too deep into Vig ground.”
“Nowhere’s too deep. They got themselves a full-auto breakdown loaded with slugs in a big-dick magazine.”
“You gotta worst case it to make your point.”
“They hose us through your window. How does positive thinkin’ make a difference?”
“It’s better than negative thinkin’。”
“It is, huh?”
“Damn right.”
“How’s it better?”
“You worry about a thing, you’re callin’ it to you.”
“That your philosophy?”
“A piece of it, yeah.”
“So now I’m gonna worry about a good-lookin’ bitch knockin’ on this window to give me the sweetest piece of head I ever got. Hope this don’t take too long ’fore it happens.”
Kuba laughs.
Aleem says, “You see the error of your philosophy.”
“No way. I’m laughin’ in spite of myself. It don’t mean you’re Socrates.”
“Don’t matter how long you live, homey. Matters that you get what you want when you want it. Matters that you jack them up ’stead of they jack you up. Matters that no one never wants to die enough to disrespect you.”
They sit for a moment without speaking, cocooned in the roar of the downpour, which to Aleem is the sound and the promise of power, matching the quieter but persistent roar within him, the power within him to enforce his will with violence and be known as a war god of the streets.
Kuba says, “What Miss Nina do when you told her how it’s gonna be?”
“What’s she gonna do ’sides what she did? She hangs her head, says ‘yes, sir.’ She knows better than back talkin’ me.”
“But you don’t trust her.”
“Ever known a piece of tail you could trust?”
“Not even my mother.”
“There you go.”
“How long we in this?”
“If I spooked her bad, she’ll split after dark. If not, she’ll hang here a day, maybe two, get her business done.”
“You sure she put the house for sale?”
“Clarise, the ugly bitch sells dirt in this hood, she knew she didn’t tell me, her little shop better have fire insurance.”
“Maybe we just snatch the kid now.”
“And the brother who needs more convincin’？ What about him?”
“We just do it, then Antoine he’ll come along.”
“Or won’t. Not a chance worth riskin’。 Antoine got ambition.”
“Who don’t?” Kuba says.
“Antoine got it big-time. For now.”
“For now?”
“Not so much come day after tomorrow.”
Kuba thinks about that. “Antoine gonna be enlightened?”
“A sudden education.”
Kuba spends time thinking about it and then says, “Somebody might have a chance to move up come day after tomorrow.”
“You got somebody in mind?”
“I might.”
Aleem smiles. “You ready to make a recommendation, I’ll value it highly. Most highly.”
The afternoon slowly darkles, and rain falls in such volume as to float an ark large enough to spare all the species of the world from extinction.
A VIRTUAL JOURNEY
Aware that the GPS in the post-office vehicle indicates that it is in front of the house, Michael puts aside his wineglass and takes the elevator up one floor and crosses the foyer, where the etched-steel forest is forever without weather, where the still and silent deer gaze perpetually in witness of those who come and go. He steps outside into the rain just as the mail truck pulls away from the curb. He takes nine envelopes from the box beside the front door, returns to the house, leaves six envelopes on the foyer floor, and descends to the library with three pieces of mail, all from the Department of Motor Vehicles. The licenses, each with his photo but featuring a different name, should get him through the coming year.
However, he’ll soon be the most wanted fugitive in history. As those hunting for him become more aware of his capabilities, they’ll adopt strategies and tactics that force him to change identities as frequently as a chameleon changes colors as it scurries across the vibrant palette of a tropical forest.
Having drunk two generous servings of cabernet, he concludes that changes to his metabolic process have rendered him immune to the inebriating effect of alcohol—which is a disappointment—though he does feel somewhat relaxed. With a wine as good as Caymus, he’s happy to drink it for the flavor alone, and he pours a third glass.