Shakedown

Chapter Five

Latrell found the utility box on the side of Marcellus’s house,?ipped the switch cutting off the electricity, and vaulted the porch rail, the tired wooden planks sagging under his weight. The gun in one hand, he yanked open the front door. He was invisible in the dark, though he could easily see inside the house, the goggles painting everyone in a green haze. The Winston brothers, shaking the television like it was a vending machine that had eaten their quarters, ignored him; Marcellus shouted “what the fuck?” like it mattered.

Latrell assumed the firing position, just as he did on the range. Marcellus and the Winston brothers were nothing more than targets hanging from a wire. He pulled the trigger again and again and again, the inside of the house glowing with gunfire.

He saw the bodies where they’d fallen, Marcellus on his back in the middle of the room, the Winston brothers piled against one another in the corner next to the television. Latrell knelt on the?oor, collecting his spent shells, sliding them into his pocket.

He cocked his head at the sound of the whimpering child upstairs suddenly gone silent, imagining Jalise covering his mouth with her hand. Though she had always left Latrell alone and the boy had never even chased a ball into his yard, Marcellus had ruined them. If he let them live, Jalise would end up like his momma, her boy growing up like Latrell. That would be wrong. Things had to be put right.

Latrell rose, slipping on the bloody?oor, catching himself against the stair rail. He took the steps one at a time. There was no need to hurry. It was happening exactly as he imagined it would. He found them hiding in a closet.

Afterward, he went out the back door, standing on the concrete patio, the rain in his eyes. Blinking, he looked down at his feet. His galoshes were splattered with blood, the coppery smell all over him. He peeled them off, turned them inside out, stuffing one on each hip inside his belt.

Latrell held his hands up, squinting. They were steady. He put one hand on his chest, his heart barely registering.

All he wanted to do was go home, until he saw Oleta Phillips standing beneath a tree on the side of Marcellus’s backyard, staring at him through the driving rain. The tree’s limbs drooped in surrender to the summer’s drought, yellowed leaves scattered around the trunk. Her thin dress was soaked and matted against her bony frame, arms hanging at her sides, one hand clutching a wad of cash.

He didn’t know whether she’d seen him go inside Marcellus’s house, but she’d seen him come out and that was all that mattered. She didn’t move as he approached her.

“Thank you,” she said.

Latrell didn’t know what to say. He studied Oleta’s face, seeing her, then his mother, then Jalise, then all of them. He raised his hands to her throat, tightening his grip, feeling the bones in her neck crumble, twenty-dollar bills dropping from her hand, mixing with the dead leaves.