His Uptown Girl. Liz Talley

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СКАЧАТЬ didn’t know that. And he didn’t know Shorty D and Mama were still on the third floor.

      In the moonlight, Tre could see only the whites of the man’s eyes. But he knew what lay in their coal-black depths. Revenge. “That so?”

      “Yeah. I’s going back to get Miss Janie’s horn and then I’m going to Big Mama’s.”

      G-Slim moved toward him. Tre shrank against the rough brick, feeling around for the knife, hoping somehow he could save himself. Maybe G-Slim wouldn’t kill him, but maybe he would.

      A gun fired, the shot hitting far above Tre’s head. He squeezed his eyes shut as dust fell on him.

      “Get your janky ass away from my boy,” Tre’s mom said from the doorway. Tre opened his eyes, shocked to find his mother standing on the stoop in a stained T-shirt. Talia’s braids were ragged, but both her gaze and the gun were steady.

      G-Slim held up both his hands as if Tre’s mama was the police. “Whoa, now. I ain’t hurtin’ your boy.”

      “I’m going to blow a hole in you a truck can drive through if you don’t back the hell up off my boy,” she said, eyeing G-Slim as if he was a cockroach sitting on their table. “Get upstairs, Tre.”

      Tre moved quick as a snake, bolting through the space between his mama and the doorway.

      “Oh, that’s how it is, bitch?” G-Slim said, his voice not sounding the least bit scared. G-Slim was hard. He’d been in prison a couple times, always out because no witnesses would testify against him...because they knew they’d bleed their life out on the street.

      “That’s how it is, Gerald,” Talia said, her voice firm but sad. Tre felt the tears on his cheeks. He hadn’t even realized he’d started crying. And his pants felt wet. Maybe he’d peed them. He couldn’t remember.

      “Go on then,” G-Slim said. Tre couldn’t see him, but he imagined he’d dropped his hands and turned toward Talia. G-Slim wasn’t afraid of a bullet. He wasn’t afraid of Talia. He’d beat the shit out of her many times before declaring her a waste of space. G-Slim didn’t even give Talia anything for Devontay, and G-Slim was Shorty D’s daddy.

      “Oh, I am, and you better stay the hell away from me and my kids. I got plenty of bullets,” Talia said, inching back through the door. She didn’t take her eyes off the banger in front of her. “Tre, get your ass upstairs like I told you. ’Bout that time, baby.”

      Tre turned and ran up the stairs two at a time, the bundle of stolen goods thumping against his belly. He and Mama had planned for every scenario in regards to the storm and G-Slim. He knew what he had to do even though it made him feel sick. His job was to get Shorty D out of ’Nolia. Mama had gotten bad sick over the past days, and she’d told Tre he had to be the man. It was up to him.

      He ran into the apartment, ignoring the smell of vomit and spoiled food. Shorty D stood in his baby bed in the corner wailing, a lone sound in the still of the building. Most folks had left. Gone with the National Guard. Like they should have done. But Talia wouldn’t leave because she said the old people had to go first. And she hadn’t found Aunt Cici.

      Tre pulled out the bundle from his shirt and ran to the closet. They had a place they hid stuff. G-Slim had used it to hide drugs, but now Talia used it to hide the gun, bullets and other stuff they didn’t want anyone to find. Tre lifted the wood subfloor and jabbed the bundle into the space between the aged joists, tucking it in good, slamming the board back into place and tugging the tired green shag carpet over it. He’d just backed out of the closet when Talia came through the front door, sliding the dead bolt into place and doubling over in pain.

      “Get Devontay and go. G-Slim ain’t waitin’. He mad and we ain’t got time.”

      “Mama—”

      “You do what I say, Trevon.”

      “Yes, ma’am,” he said, grabbing Shorty D, who still cried. Tre jabbed a pacifier in the toddler’s mouth and Shorty stopped whining. “Come on, Shorty. We gonna play a game. Gonna be fun.”

      Tre dragged his brother over the bed’s rail and sat him on his hip. He grabbed the dirty cloth diaper bag sitting on the table, shouldering it as he moved to the bedroom, sparing a parting look at his mother, and at the room where his only worthwhile possession sat on his bed—his saxophone. Couldn’t carry it with him. Shorty D was too big as is.

      “I’m scared, Mama.”

      “No time for scared. You’s a man now.”

      “Come with us,” Tre said, shifting his brother to his other arm. He didn’t care that the tears fell on his cheeks. G-Slim would kill his mama if he got hold of her. Talia wasn’t strong enough. He couldn’t believe she’d fired a gun and stood up to G-Slim earlier.

      “I’ll come when you safe. Go. Now.”

      Tre moved quickly because it was all he could do. He flung open the closet, stepping over his few pairs of shoes, pulled the air-conditioning vent from where it sat under a makeshift shelf. It was a false front, put in by whoever had the apartment before them. The hole led to a small space in the wall, which led to a similar vent in the apartment next door—Miss Janie’s apartment. No one had ever questioned the vents, though the projects didn’t have no air-conditioning.

      Shorty D fussed as Tre scraped his head on the crumbling drywall. “Shh, Shorty, shh.”

      The toddler quieted and laid his head on Tre’s shoulder. Tre patted his brother’s back and pulled the grate into place. For a moment, he paused, trying to hear his mother. Trying to decide if he really had to take Shorty D and go find a policeman.

      Then he heard the door break open and his mama scream.

      Gunfire made him clap his hand over Shorty D’s mouth.

      More gunfire before his mama yelled, “Run!”

      Tre choked back a sob as he punched in the grate in Miss Janie’s apartment, pushed past a small cabinet hiding the secret entrance and headed for the window and the ancient fire escape.

      Shorty clung to Tre as if he knew what was going down, as if he knew his life depended on holding on.

      As if he knew his father was next door killing their mother.

      Tre set Shorty D down so he could open the crumbling window. G-Slim would figure things out soon enough...unless he was dead. Tre couldn’t count on that so he snatched up Shorty D, climbed out onto the iron scaffolding and shut down his mind, focusing on simply breathing.

      Just breathe, Tre. In. Out. Breathe.

      CHAPTER ONE

      New Orleans, 2013

      “HOT GUY AT TWO O’CLOCK,” Pansy McAdams said, craning her head around the form mannequin and peering out the window.

      Eleanor Theriot rolled her eyes and swiped her dust cloth over the spindles of the rocker she knelt beside. “You think half of New Orleans is hot.”

      “No, I’m just optimistic.”

      “Or need a good optometrist.”

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