Chapter Twenty-Three

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Chapter Twenty-Three

 

Monday

Lake City, LA

 

 “I’m comin’,” Brandon Mouton shouted at the front door. “Quit ringin’ the friggin’ doorbell, would’ja?” Brandon shuffled from his bedroom to answer the buzzer. After fumbling for a minute with the three locks on the door, he opened it with a jingle from the cowbell tied around the handle. The early morning sunlight burst into the dark cave of the modest house, blinding Brandon and illuminating a narrow hallway with brown tile floors.

Brandon rubbed his eyes until they adjusted to the morning sun. Then he recognized the short, bald-headed kid on the other side of the locked screen door.

“Whassup, Shorty?” Brandon opened the screen door and greeted his homeboy with a pound handshake and a half hug.

“What it do?” Shorty replied. “When you get back to the L.C.?” 

“Late last night. The trip was off tha slab! We won the tournament and guess who got that MVP?”

 “Yeah?” Shorty grinned. “That’s cool. Real cool. Proud of you man.”

“Thanks. So what’s up? I know you didn’t wake my ass up to talk basketball.”

 Shorty lifted his wife-beater slightly, revealing the unmistakable black grip of a Glock .357. He was no longer grinning as he said, “I need your help, bruh. You gonna let me in?”

Brandon suddenly wished he hadn’t gotten out of bed. He looked up and down the street trying to think fast. An old, burgundy Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight turned the corner in front of his house.

“Come on,” Brandon interrupted, feeling exposed. He gestured for Shorty to enter.

Once they got to his bedroom, Brandon sat down on the bed. “Aight Shorty, what we got to talk about?”

“Man, you shoulda seen yo’ face when you saw my piece. Looked like a scared little beeyatch.”

“Why you walkin’ around in the street with that goddamn gun anyway, Shorty?”

“Why else? It’s for protection.” Shorty reached into the small refrigerator on the floor of Brandon’s closet and took out a Coke.

“Protection from who?”

Shorty got quiet and then said, “I found somethin’. Somethin’ important.”

“You gonna tell me what it is?”

“I’ll tell you what it’s about.” Shorty rummaged through his backpack and Brandon could have sworn he saw what looked like a box of Playtex tampons. Seconds later, Shorty handed Brandon the newspaper.

“You seen this yet?” 

Brandon read the headline glaring back at him from that morning’s Lake City Advocate: “Governor Lafitte to Grant Lincoln Baker a Full Pardon.” He had tried so hard to shut out the memories of that awful day at Simmons Park. He could barely stand to look at the picture of Lincoln. Long gone were the days of looking up to his older brother, the basketball superstar-turned-murderer.

Why did you do it, Link?

“When is he gettin’ out?” Brandon felt a headache coming on.

“Eight this mohnin’.”

Brandon’s world was spinning. “Word?”

“Yeah, Bruh. I can’t wait for Link to get back on the block.” Shorty beamed with admiration.

Brandon thought he was going to be sick. “How…how is this possible?”

To his surprise, Shorty answered, “Come wit’ me and I’ll show you.”

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