"You see this trash?" he says, handing it to the big guy in the passenger seat up front.

"Chinese, man. Probably blow up in your dumbass face, you pull the trigger. How much this cost you, youngblood…a half yard?"

"Seventy-five," I tell him.

The driver don't say nothin' just keeps rolling.

"Give my man Tyrone somethin' good," Luther says.

The big guy hands me a brand new piece. Bigger'n mine. He wearin' black gloves too. I got to get some.

"This here's a Glock, homeboy," Luther says. "Smoothest thing they make. You got sixteen rounds in there. Super Nine. Come out fast as you pull the trigger. You know how to work it?"

"Yeah, well, I…"

He takes the piece from me, pushes on a button. The clip comes out the butt. He slams it back in, jacks the slide forward. "There ain't no safety on this sucker. It's locked and loaded now…all you do is pull. Got it?"

"I got it."

"I got dissed the other night," he said. "Dissed bad. I park my ride over the other side of Atlantic, do one of the clubs. I come out and some foul little motherfucker scraped a key all along the side. Took the paint right off. You know what that mean, boy?"

"Mean somebody got to pay."

"Righteous. Nobody works one of my houses 'less he shows his heart. You ready to go the other half?"

I knew what he meant, the other half. I got a baby. By this girl Sarita. A little boy. He named for me. I can make a life. The Man wants to know…can I take a life?

"Fuck, yeah." I says to him. Icy, the way you suppose to say it. Be for real. That's me. Real. 24–7, real.

He gives me a long, cool look. Nods his head. "We goin' round the block, homeboy. Right past the corner where I got dissed, okay? We just go'n' drive by. They be standin' on the corner, doin' what they do. You push this switch here, the window goes down. Then you do some motherfuckers, understand? Take 'em out. Many as you can, got it?"

"I'm down," I tell him.

This is where it shows, the heart of a man.

The Jeep makes the turn, slows down, rolling near the curb.

There's a righteous rap on the speakers inside the ride. Chug-a-chug. Like a train.

"Hit the window, Tyrone," the man up front tells me.

I push the switch. I don't feel nothin'.

People all over the corner, sittin' on the stoops, couple a girls dancin' to the music from a big box sittin' on a car. Hot weather brings 'em out.

I stick the piece out the window, start pulling the trigger. Blam! Blam! People screamin', runnin'. I keep pullin' till I hear a click in my head. No more.

The Jeep turns the corner, rollin' fast now. I hand the piece back to Luther.

We make it back to the block. Luther, he dukes five yards on me, all in hundreds. New bills. Clean and green.

"You my man, Tyrone. You did the thing. The piece is yours now–be waitin' for you at the house tomorrow. You musta dropped half a dozen of those fuckin' Jakes…teach those Rasta motherfuckers they don't be downin' me–it don't fuckin' pay. Come by the house tomorrow, ask for Dice, he run the joint. He'll show you where you work. You in the crew now."

I slap him five, hit the pavement.

I'm out there a long time that night. Tellin' my homeboys the score. Tyrone's movin' up. Movin' out. Go'n' be somebody. I flashed the cash. No more rustlin' for me–I'm a shooter now.

Women come over, give me the eye. Bitches, they always the first to know who's the man.

We did some smoke, did some wine. Went down to the basement, did me a bitch too. Fine little young bitch. I give her one of the new bills, tell her, next time I see her, she be wearing somethin' nice. For me. Her eyes get big behind that. They all ho' in they heart anyway.

Like my momma, and that's the truth.

Almost light when I roll back to my crib. Climb the stairs, smell them nasty smells. Elevator don't ever fuckin' work in this place. Even the Welfare don't come around no more. Soon's I get the bread, I get me a place. Giant color TV, white shag carpet.

Maybe I get me a ride like Luther's too.

I get to my floor, open the staircase door. Two Jakes standin' there, dreadlocks down to they shoulders–got sawed-off shotguns in they hands.

I guess I never get to be sixteen.

Dumping Ground

Sodium lights burned islands of orange on the dark wet streets. Sunburst patches. Hard-bright centers tapering off to soft rays around the edges. Black splotches between the islands. Prowler's footprints.

A maroon sedan cruised the streets, a string of police lights across its roof. Safeguard Security Services between two broad white stripes on each side. The factory district was deserted after dark.

Two men in the front seat. Gray uniforms, police caps, gun belts. The radio on the console between them crackled. The man in the passenger seat picked up the microphone, thumbed it open.

"We're swinging past Ajax, then we're checking the freight yards."

"Dead zone," the dispatcher's voice chuckled.

"We're on the job," the guard said, a hurt tone in his voice.

"Ten-four."

The sedan's tires hissed on the greasy streets. The guard looked out his window.

"I don't like this part," he said.

The driver was a tall, slightly built man in his forties. Dark hair, long, hollow-cheeked face. His eyes had a yellowish cast in the streetlights. He glanced over at his partner. "You like the other part."

The passenger lit a cigarette. "You think maybe we should find another spot?"

The driver's lips moved, showing his teeth. "It's perfect. Everybody knows the wiseguys use the back end of that wrecking yard to dump toxic waste. Nobody's going to go poking around in there."

"You really think…you think the ground is poison and

all?"

"How could it be? The dogs are always there."

The passenger dragged on his cigarette, watching the empty factory buildings as the cruiser sliced through the night.

The car circled the dump at the edge of the district. On patrol.

"Quiet as a grave," the driver said.

"Tommy, the last time we were here…the dogs tore the bag open."

"So what? They're animals. They get a taste of something, they want more."

The passenger's face was sweat-sheened. He stubbed out his cigarette. His hands shook.

"Like us," he whispered.

The driver wheeled the patrol car onto a dirt road, running parallel to the pit. He killed the headlights. "Last stop," he said, turning off the ignition.

They climbed out. The driver opened the trunk. It was lined with green plastic garbage bags. Industrial strength. A heavy white canvas sack was inside, dark stains running across its surface like marbled fat. They each took an end of the canvas sack, wrapping the garbage bags around their hands. Pulled it free from the trunk. They made their way down the embankment in the dark, balancing the weight of the sack between them.

"She was the best one yet," the driver said.

At the bottom of the slope, they swung the bag back and forth. "One, two, three!" the driver grunted as they flung the bag into the pit.

Fire-dots of light shone from below. The passenger was breathing hard. "Fucking dogs. They always know we're here."

"They're the only ones who do," the driver said, starting back up the slope.

The patrol car waited for them as they climbed toward the dirt road.