Angry Black White Boy Read Online Free PDF Page A

face was as flushed as theirs were ashen, as if both their blood now flowed through his body, or he’d leaned for hours over fire. He fist-banged the glove box and the door dropped open with a squeak. Metal scraped plastic and Macon slid backward across the worn vinyl seat until the meter jabbed him in the back. With both hands clamped around it, he thrust a heavy, empty .38 caliber pistol into the small space in the partition and sighed hugely: a gust of human exhaust that filled whatever space was left in the small cabin. He could smell his air and both of theirs, all three mouths stale and disgusting, their breath meeting the gunmetal and the cab plastic and cab vinyl so that the car stank like a microphone in heavy freestyle rotation. Macon always sniffed the mic. A small perversion.
    “Shut the fuck up,” he said, eyes darting from one to the other, other to the one, gun barrel following his glance, mind dancing just above the moment. Control flowed up from the gun and coursed through Macon’s body. He had to remind himself to keep his hands clenched as the rest of him relaxed. His toes laughed. Thighs, tingled. It was all Macon could do not to turn and sneak a peek in the rearview. He knew he looked heroic, and he knew he was invisible to them behind the mass of postings, stickers, and graffiti signatures that covered the partition. All Cartwright and Punctuality saw was a gun.
    “Take out your wallets and leave them on the seat,” Macon commanded, giddiness mounting as he heard his own gruff, not-to-be-fucked-with voice. He wagged the gun a centimeter, pointing. “And your phone, Cartwright.” A final inspiration: “And both your neckties. Hurry. Look up and I’ll shoot you in the face.” Gun back-and-forth inclusive.
    “Okay,” Punctuality stammered, awash in more sweat than Macon had ever seen except the time he went to Celtics pre-camp with his dad and Reggie Lewis—rest in peace—was taking a reporter’s question afterward and Macon, barely knowing why, reached out and touched Reggie’s huge forearm, slick and glinting with warm sweat. Macon had drawn back immediately, embarrassed at the wetness, and Reggie had looked at him and smiled, and Macon had grinned back, almost crying.
    Punctuality flailed, words and limbs. “Just don’t hurt us,” he said again and again, hand shaking as he took the necktie from his jacket pocket and, Macon noted with amusement, folded it into a neat, even swath. Scott was faring better. His tie was jumbled in his hands and he stared into his lap with great focus, as if wanting his assailant to take special note of his willingness to cooperate. The thought of making them strip naked barreled through Macon’s mind, but he declined to detain it.
    Two leather wallets, a flip-top StarTac cell phone, a Motorola pager, a Donna Karan tie, a Gianni Versace knockoff, and two silvery watches lay on the backseat between them.
    “I didn’t ask for any watches,” Macon said. He buzzed down the right rear window. “Throw them out.” The wristwear hit the tarmac, and Macon sealed the portal.
    “All right.” He turned back toward the road. “Now. Where were we going? Eighty-fifth and Fifth, was it?”
    “Can-can’t you drop us off right here?” Scott’s voice was meek and shivery, a poverty-stricken cartoon rodent on the night before Christmas. “Please?” He threw his shoulder at the door again.
    “You sure, homeboy? I wouldn’t want Kim and her black friend to think you’d stood them up.”
    Macon’s gut clenched with suppressed laughter as he wondered what they’d say to that one. A few ticks passed in silence, and then Punctuality was hyperventilating, choking on huge droughts of air, eyes bulging to the blood-veins, too frenzied for caution. “Why are you doing this to me?” he brayed as tears blazed down his face.
    Scott grabbed Punctuality by the scruff of the neck and pulled him down into his lap—a blow-me motion Macon was sure he’d executed many