This Way Home Page 5

  Elijah turned his back and began walking away. He made it as far as the bench on the sidelines before Bull’s pained, choked words reached him: “This ain’t over.”

  ELIJAH RUBBED HIS throat and wished Michael and Dylan were with him. He scanned the Battlegrounds parking lot to see if Bull or his friends had a car; that way, he could keep an eye out, in case the big man decided to seek revenge. But the lot was empty, save for the black Mercedes he’d seen before. Elijah noticed the same hooded figure leaning against the front bumper, beckoning.

  Elijah pointed to his chest. “Me?”

  The figure nodded.

  “From bad to worse,” muttered Elijah. Slowly he made his way over to the shining black sedan parked at the far corner of the lot, out of reach of the bright fluorescent lights.

  When he was about fifteen feet away, the guy lightly tapped the car’s hood with the barrel of a small, silver handgun. “Sit down.”

  Elijah went close enough to touch the front bumper, but he did not sit. Under other circumstances, he might have corrected the guy. Don’t tell me what to do, he might have said. But everything about this situation—the gun, the remote location, the creepy vibe—it all told him that he should move slowly and, above all else, keep his mouth shut.

  “I want to talk business with you,” said the guy.

  “Okay.” What business? This isn’t good. Find a way to get out of here.

  A finger emerged from the hoodie’s cuff, pointing at the courts. “You got some serious skills with that ball. Where’d you learn?”

  “Right here,” said Elijah. “I’ve been playing here since I was six.”

  “Little brothers don’t play at the Battlegrounds.”

  “The guys used to chase me away. Eventually they gave up and let me into some games.”

  The guy’s laugh was high and reedy, forced through his teeth. “I seen how you handled Bull. It ain’t easy to drop a man like that. Brother’s all roided up.” He patted the hood again. “Sit down, man. We’re just talking.”

  Elijah sat reluctantly on the hood. “He clotheslined me; I had to do something.”

  “Uh-huh. Respect. But you know he’s going to come after you.”

  “I know.”

  “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “Hit him in the nuts again, I guess.”

  Another forced laugh. “That’s funny. It would have been easier to finish him when you had the chance, though. You should always deal with a problem the right way, and then it don’t come back. You feel me?”

  Elijah nodded, even though he thought it was a stupid philosophy, unless you wanted to end up dead or in prison. At least that was how it had worked for Dylan’s brother.

  The gun disappeared into the hoodie’s pocket, only to be replaced with a glossy picture. “This is for you. A message from my boss who’s interested in you.”

  Elijah held it by the corners as though the photograph might burn his fingers. The cropped image showed the front of his house, on Eutaw Place. And as clear as day, on the front steps, was his mother. She must have been returning from work, because she was still wearing her uniform for her first job, at the bank—a dark skirt and white blouse, with her hair pinned up in the back.

  “Why do you have a picture…”

  But the gun was out again, poking him in his upper arm. “Easy, brother. I’m just a middleman, delivering a message. And this ain’t no threat.”

  Elijah didn’t believe him for a minute. “Then what is it?”

  “Just something to get your attention. Go on and flip it over.” On the back, someone had written the house number, along with his mother’s two work addresses. “That’s to let you know your moms is easy to find, if someone wants to find her.”

  Elijah studied the addresses, trying hard not to let his fingers shake, trying not to show the fear that was steadily taking over his body.

  “So, do I got your attention?” asked the guy.

  “Yes.” Elijah stood up and forced the word through clenched teeth. He wondered how hard of a punch he could throw, and if he could deliver it before the gun went off. It wasn’t a serious thought, because he knew that he would sit still and listen to whatever else the guy had to say. But his right biceps twitched, as though the readiness of the fibers could override his brain and hijack the situation.

  “Good.” The gun barrel made a small circle in the air. “That’s the message.”

  “That’s it? Who’s your boss? Why is he interested in me?”

  “We’ll talk again, when it’s time. Understand?”

  “Yes,” said Elijah.

  “Now get lost.”

  Elijah willed his frozen legs to move. He walked slowly from the car in measured strides. Twenty feet. Thirty feet. And then, no longer able to hold himself back, he broke into a full-out sprint. He ran as fast as he could, the image of his pretty mother standing on the steps outside their house burned into his mind. “Please,” he said out loud. “Let her be okay.”

  UP THE WALKWAY, gasping for breath; then Elijah was working his key in the lock.

  This ain’t no threat.

  It had felt like one.

  Inside, he leaned against the back of the door before sliding the bolt and chain. His heart beat wildly until he found his mother asleep in front of the TV. The house was quiet and orderly. He watched her sleep for several minutes, trying to convince himself that there was no real danger, that his heart could return to its normal rhythm. Elijah covered his mother with a blanket and turned off the TV.

  Upon reaching his bedroom, he poked distractedly at the orange Nike box on his dresser trying to make sense of all that had happened. First a fight with Bull, then a threat from the guy in the hoodie. And then there were the shoes. He didn’t believe there was a connection, but what kind of anonymous guy would front twelve hundred dollars for sneakers to a bunch of high school kids? It made no sense, unless there was a catch, something they had to do to pay the guy back. Like what?

  Just something to get your attention.

  Well, the guy had Elijah’s attention.

  He took out his phone and pulled up Michael’s contact.

  “Hey.” Michael picked up on the fourth ring. “What’s up?”

  “Michael, tell me about your friend who bought us the shoes.”

  “What, this again?” said Michael, slightly annoyed. “I told you, he’s a businessman. Ain’t nothing illegal about having a sponsor, if that’s what you’re bugging about. Lots of teams have sponsors.”

  “Then you should be able to tell me his name.”

  “His name’s Money.”

  “Money?”

  “That’s his street name. I don’t know his real one.”

  “This may sound weird, but what kind of car does he drive? Does he have a black Mercedes?”

  Michael paused for a moment, thinking. “Naw, that ain’t him. Money drives a white Escalade.” His tone dropped to show how hurt his feelings were. “You don’t trust me, do you?”

  “It’s not that. I just met this dude in a black Mercedes and wondered if it was your guy. But he definitely didn’t have an Escalade.”

  “But you’re still bugging about the shoes. Listen, man, I told you it’s cool. Why can’t you trust me on this?”

  “I do.” Elijah took in a long, deep breath. “But do we really need a sponsor? We made it to the semifinals last year with old shoes and white T-shirts. Maybe that’s who we are. Maybe that’s good enough and we don’t need Kobe 10s.”

  “I feel you,” said Michael. “Humble roots, right? But we’re getting older, you know what I mean? At some point a man has to represent and show he’s more than another broke-ass neighborhood kid. Besides, I can’t give them shoes back; it’ll look bad. I don’t want to offend the brother.”

  “I’ll do it, then. I’ll give them back. It’ll be on me.”

  “No, it still comes back to me, and I don’t want to get on Money’s bad side; he said he might be able to hook us up with jobs
after the tournament.”

  Elijah didn’t want a job from someone named Money, but he let it go. Why couldn’t he tell his best friend about what had just happened to him? He wanted to, but somehow, he knew that Michael couldn’t help him. He was on his own with the hooded guy in the Mercedes.

  “Listen, man,” said Michael. “Just relax and enjoy the shoes. It’s all good, I swear.”

  “Okay.”

  “So how come you didn’t come by? Where were you?”

  “I had to help out my mom’s friend with some house stuff. Afterwards I went to the Battlegrounds, then home.”

  “House stuff? There’s, like, less than two weeks before the tournament. How come you’re starting a job?”

  “It’s a long story. Basically I promised my mom. You know how that is.”

  “I do. Gotta respect the moms. Who is it, some old lady?”

  “A guy. Retired. Bought a house that’s all jacked up.” Elijah felt drained by the events of the day. His body ached from physical work, and then there was the pounding he’d received at the hands of Bull. His throat still hurt from being clotheslined. He wouldn’t be surprised if in the morning he had several elbow-shaped bruises on his arms and ribs.

  “Elijah,” said Michael. “You still there?”

  “Yeah,” said Elijah. “But I got to get going.” He wished he could rewind the events of the day and play them over differently. If only he had skipped the Battlegrounds, he wouldn’t have gotten into a fight with Bull. Nor would he have sat on the hood of the Mercedes, not being threatened. But even if he could rewrite the day, the picture of his mom on their front steps would still exist. There was no way to change that.

  “Okay, bro,” said Michael.

  THROUGHOUT ELIJAH’S DREAMS, a cold, flat voice replayed the same line.

  We’ll talk again. When it’s time.

  In the morning, he pulled the covers over his head to shut out the alarm. It was time to get up if he was going to stick to Banks’s ridiculous military schedule. Seven-thirty was a deal breaker, and he thought of all the reasons he should stay home. In addition to the fact that school had just ended and he needed a break, there was the issue of the practice sessions he wanted to have. However, practicing at the Battlegrounds brought to mind the two people he most wanted to avoid—Bull and the guy in the black hoodie.

  Elijah dragged himself out of bed and dressed in his oldest T-shirt and pair of jeans. Then he made his way to the kitchen to grab a quick breakfast and make sandwiches.

  His mother was busy mixing water and a fine dark powder in a tiny pot. “Do you want to have some Turkish coffee with me?”

  “Is that what that is?” He peered into the pot, sniffed. “I think I’m good with regular coffee. Or better yet, some OJ.”

  She placed the pot over a burner and stirred it. “I wanted to try something different. Who knows, maybe I’ll like it. And maybe I’ll be adventurous and go to Turkey one day. I’ll sit in an outdoor café and order a cup. A real cup served with two cubed sweets.”

  “Since when do you want to go to Turkey?”

  “I’m not sure that I do. But right now I’m happy to dream about going to Turkey. Sometimes the dream is more important than the thing itself. Does that make any sense?”

  It did, which was exactly why he didn’t speak of his dreams about his father. They were too important. Besides, the events of the prior day were still fresh in his mind. He wished there were a way to tell her about the hooded guy and the picture. But where to start? Hey, Mom, some nameless thug has a picture of you and knows where we live. I don’t know who he is or what he wants, but I just thought you should know.

  No, it would be better to deal with it on his own. As soon as he figured out how. “I’m going to work at Mr. Banks’s house.” He grabbed his backpack, phone, and keys.

  “Oh, good. I knew you two would hit it off. Isn’t he nice?”

  Elijah smiled. “Well, I wouldn’t say he’s nice, but he does need lots of help. You were right about that.”

  “Can you stay for breakfast?” She turned the stove burner off and pulled out a carton of eggs, milk, and a loaf of bread from the fridge. “I’ll cook today. You’re doing a good thing. Plus, I don’t get to see you anymore.”

  “No, Mom. I’ve got to go. But will you do me a favor?”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “Keep the doors locked, even when you’re home, okay?”

  “Why?” His mother scowled. “It’s that shooting, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “I just think we should be careful.”

  ELIJAH JOGGED SLOWLY past the Battlegrounds, keeping an eye out for danger. But the park was empty. He’d never been there so early, before the sun had charged the concrete and the surrounding buildings with its heat. It was peaceful, and he wished he’d brought a ball so he could have the place all to himself. It would be nice to drain twenty or thirty shots while everyone else was still asleep. It would be a private thing, without noise or competition. A little piece of time without worries or responsibilities.

  He resumed jogging and arrived at Banks’s house at seven-thirty sharp.

  “You’re almost late.” Banks sat on the porch steps in his gray T-shirt, a stub of a cigar clamped between his teeth.

  Elijah checked the time on his cell. “Seven-thirty. I’m right on time.”

  Banks pointed to a row of tools laid out neatly on a green canvas tarp: a sledgehammer, a five-foot steel pry bar, safety glasses, and leather work gloves. Next to the gloves was a clean white envelope.

  “What’s this stuff for?” asked Elijah.

  “The envelope’s your pay for yesterday and today,” said Banks. “The tools are for a new driveway.”

  “I’m going to put in a new driveway with a sledgehammer?”

  “No,” said Banks. “You’re going to remove the old concrete with a sledgehammer. Unless that’s too physical for you.”

  Elijah got the distinct impression Banks wanted him to fail, which strengthened his resolve to prove that he wasn’t a quitter. “Just show me what you want me to do.”

  Banks shrugged, then hefted the sledgehammer into a long, looping swing. The concrete gave under the impact, spitting up several fist-sized chunks and a small cloud of dust. He hauled back for another powerful swing.

  “Okay, I got it,” said Elijah, grabbing the tool from Banks. In a single motion, he popped the sledge off his shoulder, slid his right hand down the wooden handle, and let it rip. The steel head cracked off the concrete but didn’t produce so much as a crack.

  “That’s a cream puff of a swing.” Banks chewed his cigar and scratched his beard stubble. “You’ve got to find a weak spot, like that crack there.”

  Elijah swung again, harder; the crack widened. Once more, this time lengthening the arc of travel, stretching it high above his head at its apex. The blow dislodged two large pieces.

  “Better,” said Banks grudgingly. “Stack the loose chunks in the backyard. Make sure to break ’em up so they’re small enough to carry. And put that money away before one of the neighbor kids steals it.” He walked away and disappeared into the garage at the top of the driveway.

  Elijah spent the next four hours pounding the concrete into irregular, fifty-pound slabs, and then working them loose with a pry bar. He tried to carry bigger pieces, but they proved too difficult. Once, he staggered under the weight of a monster and nearly dropped it on his toe. Smaller pieces were easier but effectively doubled the amount of time it would take him to finish.

  So he worked with fifty-pound chunks, counting off an average of eighteen steps to the backyard. It was like doing weighted lunges, only to the tune of a hundred and seventy sets, compared with the gym standard of three. After each trip, he muscled the sledge into the air and then brought it crashing down. It felt good, especially when he imagined hammering away at the hood of the black Mercedes.

  “Did that get your attention?” he said out loud. “Stay the hell away from my mother and me.�
�� He brought down the sledge again and again, but stopped when an unfamiliar voice called out from behind.

  “Excuse me, but who exactly are you talking to?”

  Elijah turned to see a young woman around eighteen or nineteen—the one he’d seen getting out of the red Fiat—standing a few feet away. She had long straight hair and wore stylish black glasses and a T-shirt that said “FBI” in big letters. She handed him a glass of iced tea.

  “Thanks,” said Elijah.

  “My dad talks to himself, too. It’s no big deal. Doesn’t mean that you’re crazy.” Her smooth, pretty face broke into a smile. “Or it doesn’t mean you’re that crazy.”

  Elijah drank, then wiped his sweaty face and forehead on his shirtsleeve. “You’re Banks’s daughter?”

  “I prefer Kerri,” she said. “I’d shake your hand, but you’re too sweaty. Is that normal?”

  Elijah looked at the backs of his forearms, which glistened with perspiration. He tried to think of something to say, but Kerri turned away, walking back toward the house.

  “Bye.”

  —

  WHEN ELIJAH STOPPED for lunch, his shoulder and back muscles quivered with exhaustion, but he felt good. He devoured his sandwiches and then worked some more.

  Elijah levered the pieces loose, and then carried them into the small backyard. The edges were rough and tore at his T-shirt and bare arms; his skin was covered in scratches, abrasions, and the fine powder of concrete dust.

  Banks came out the back door and grunted hello. In his hand he jiggled a glass of yellow liquid and ice cubes.

  “Is that lemonade?”

  “It’s beer and lime juice. Lots of vitamin C for my health.”

  “Like the cigars,” said Elijah, wondering if the man had any sense of humor or if the army had surgically removed it along with his personality.

  “Exactly.”

  Banks lit up a cigar and sipped his beer. “When you finish busting up all the concrete, I’ll pick up pavers from Home Depot. You think you can figure out how to put them in?”

  “Probably. I do all the work at my mother’s house, and I’ve been taking Building Trades at school.”