The Old Neighborhood Read Online Free PDF Page A

roar forth and dis-integrate everything it touched.
    â€œWho de fuck gave you de envelope?” Mickey roared. “Was it that cunt or the old man?” Mickey snatched a big air vent in the dashboard and pulled it right off. He reached his hand into the opening and came out with a nickel-plated 9mm semi-automatic. He slid the barrel back until it clicked and shot forward with a sharp, metallic crack. “WHO THE FUCK WAS IT?!”
    Lil Pat twisted in his seat, snagged Mickey by his collar, and slammed his head against the far window. Mickey’s eyes bulged, but he made no move—the gun laid limp in his stubby hands.
    â€œI told you not to talk to the kid like dat,” Lil Pat said.
    The two snarled at each other, eyes locked in some darkened collusion. “And put dat fuckin’ piece away.” Lil Pat released him. “Neighborhood’s hot enough as it is wit’ out you try’n to be John Wayne every five minutes.” Mickey returned the pistol into the stash and fastened the vent.
    Lil Pat turned back to me. “Joey, it’s OK… Go home. I’ll see you at the house later.” The warmth in his voice returned.
    I turned toward home, then looked back over my shoulder.
    â€œGo on, it’s alright,” Lil Pat urged as the Lincoln pulled away.
    I started for home, then darted into a parking garage across from the corner store. I ducked behind a green Nova and peered out into the intersection. A few seconds later, the Lincoln appeared northbound on Clark, stopping in front of the corner store. The back door opened, and Fat Buck got out wiping sleep from his eyes with his thick wrists. He looked up and down Clark and nodded back. The other three got out. The young one in back got in the driver seat while Lil Pat and Mickey walked toward the store.
    â€œHey… Look who it is, my favorite old shitbag!” Mickey spread his arms out, palms open, like he was going to give someone big a hug. He disappeared into the doorway, and Lil Pat stepped in behind him. Then, Lil Pat hoisted his knee up to his chest and booted over a large stack of pop cases just inside the door. They avalanched in a thunderous clang. There were more crashes and a large bang. Mickey raged in demonic tongues—only sparsely decipherable phrases leapt from the doorway. “THEMONEY MOTHERFUCKER! SANDNIGGER, FUCKWITHME, FUCKWITH ME!” It scared the hell out of me.
    Lil Pat emerged from the doorway stuffing bills in his front pocket. He looked back and shouted for Mickey. A cheap champagne bottle smashed through the large front window. It arced slowly in profile with a wake of glass shards sprinkling after it like confetti. Then, it popped on the sidewalk and sent white fizz splurging out over the curb. The window crinkled and fell in chunks.
    â€œI got us some champagne, brotha!” Mickey yelled as he walked out clutching a big dark-green bottle. Lil Pat laughed crazily, but he must have felt my eyes on him, because he looked back at me. His wide grin evaporated, and his mouth hung open in an O. The cross sat dead center in his solar plexus, and the etching threw flecks of the morning light in sharp glints. The old man moaned in defeated agony inside.
    They piled into the Lincoln and were gone.
    â€¢
    I HAD AN IDYLLIC CHILDHOOD. It wasn’t all dark. We had the best block parties in the whole city of Chicago. Da being a precinct captain, we were all kindsa hooked up! The fire engines and the cops on horseback would show up and hang out. The jumping bean would spend the whole afternoon on our block. Hundreds of kids from all over the neighborhood would show up to the 1600 block of Hollywood, and we’d have water fights that lasted the entire day—from dawn to dusk. Ma ran the whole thing, so we had dibs on everything, like the ice cream eating contests and the hundreds of water balloons we had in our little above ground pool.
    Parts of the neighborhood were as clean as my