Peel Off My Socks ...the depression is worse tonight because I shot a boy.
I’m finally home. I sit on the edge of my bed, peel off my socks and come apart. After the anger comes tears.
I’m angry because that’s how I push away feelings. Once the rage is spent, depression returns— and it’s worse tonight because I shot a boy.
He was facing me down, gun pointed—saw the Kevlar vest and knew to take a head shot. We both fired—he missed. Now he’s dead.
Maize, my collie, senses my mood. She comes over and leans her body against my legs. I wonder if the kid had a dog and if that dog was missing him now—weird. I don’t think about the parents—the ones who lied for him and refused to cooperate.
I just wanted him off the streets and now he’s dead.
The phone rings. It’ll be Roz, my partner. I told her I was fine, but she saw through the lie. I don’t want to pick up, but if I don’t, she’ll keep on phoning.
“Ya, Roz.”
“You in bed?”
“Naw—getting there—kinda.”
“Good. I need you down here.”
“Where’s here?”
“Main and Tecumseh—we’re in for round two.”
“Don’t do anything—I’ll be there in twenty.”
“Roy, I think you better try for ten.”
“Hang tight.”
I’m out the door and into the car, dressing while tromping the accelerator. Last thing I want is Roz playing hero.
It’s turf warfare now—Crips versus Bloods—winner take all.
Jose was gang leader. It’s not rocket science to figure the Bloods are trying to make their push—catch the Crips while they’re off balance and drive them out.
I’m on the thruway gunning the Vet, cranking it past 120.
The jumbled mosaic of lights ahead seems impossibly far. Suddenly, as if without moving, I’m there. I spot Roz’s red Camaro by the park and pull in, my front bumper almost touching hers.
“Where’s the action?”
“Don’t know—saw ten Bloods head for the river, another dozen take the path to the Band shell.”
“Damn! Could be either place. They’ve got no idea where the Crips are.”
Gangs like the Crips seem dumb. They have no imagination—always hanging out in the same spots no matter how many times they get busted there. Now Jose’s gone, they could be anywhere. They might not be at the river or the Band shell—they might be—
“Holy Shit! How stupid can I be? They’re not hunkering down—they’re after me.”
Roz’s eyes grew wide. “You think they’d try a hit at your house?”
“Don’t think it—know it.”
Lex Villacrez was next in line, right after Jose—he was crazy and reckless. Taking out a cop was lame, but he’d risk Rikers just to avenge Jose.
“What are you going to do?” she asks, her face flushed as the hunter’s Moon above us.
“I’m not going to sit around and be prey for Lex—he’s out for blood—I’ll give him a target. C’mon, follow me back to my place.”
We retrace my route and all I can think about is Maize guarding my empty house. I feel my fingers squeezing the wheel and see Lex and his skinny neck. I try not to think any further.
Ten minutes later, we’re sitting around the corner in Roz’s Camaro—the Crips would spot my Vet in a heartbeat. The street’s deep in shadows and totally still.
Neither of us talk—we don’t need to—we know the drill.
I like Roz—we don’t talk—both of us too scared to get close because of the job. We spend each day minding gang bangers with guns, the way teachers watch a classroom—only these kids don’t push pencils.
“You okay?”
She gives me a scowl, but I can see the lines of worry, the crinkled crow’s feet round her eyes—the tight lips. I smile.
“You’re one tough broad.”
“Don’t forget it,” she smiles, and stares a second longer than necessary.
She’s beautiful and hard. I feel tension coil and uncoil inside me and figure it’s lust, not fear—at least, that’s what I tell myself.
The neighbors are asleep in their beds, oblivious to the drama beyond their walls. They lock their doors, thinking they’re safe behind fragile windows. Crips carry Glock 17’s—eighteen rounds that go off far too easily after the first shot.
One stray burst and there’s a massacre.
I’m figuring on Lex and one or two others. One as sentry, one as backup. Lex as shooter. If I’m wrong, someone’s gonna die.
I hear Maize’s soft whine from the front door. I touch Roz’s arm and we move out and melt into the shadows—I take the front and she takes the back.
Steve, down the street, is a night shift worker at Dawe’s Glass. I hear him come out of his house, crank up his car, and back out of his drive. The sounds seem amplified in the stillness. I see his profile glowing in the dashboard lights as he drives past me and turns at the bottom of the street.
I spot my first Crip—it’s Diego. Diego’s a weasel who hangs around schoolyards—no way he’s carrying, so he’s gotta be sentry. I take him easily—my gun to the base of his skull, cocking it to let him hear.
“No noise—move!”
I push him, muzzle to the nape of his neck, and guide him back to the car. Once there, I cuff him, throw him in the back, and duct tape his mouth shut.
I make my way back to the house.
A shadow glides from Steve’s house toward mine. From the outline, the guy’s short and skinny—probably, ‘Cuzz’—one of Jose’s most trusted guards.
I stay in the shadows watching the figure crouch near a bush and then swing effortlessly over my neighbor’s privacy fence. Roz is in back waiting. An icy minnow of fear wriggles up my spine—tingles at the back of my skull and I fight the urge to go back and protect her.
I can’t see Lex.
Minutes pass—an eternity—too long for a quick kill. I move along the dark perimeter and scale the fence, dropping soundlessly to the grass on the other side.
The yard is pitch black, save for a distant orange window square.
I glance up at the sky and can barely discern a gray patch of moonlight swallowed up by dark clouds.
I move forward stealthily.
Just as I round the corner of the porch, a flashlight snaps on and I hear Roz command.
“Don’t move, or I’ll shoot.” I see Diego on the porch, his hands in the air, blinking and blinded by the light.
I’m about to move out and join her when I notice a movement behind her back.
The moon breaks through the clouds and sails serene in a starry rift. Lex is standing, his arm extended, gun pointed at Roz’s back.
I draw and fire in one motion and watch him topple in a heap.
For the second time tonight, I come home, sit on the edge of my bed, peel off my socks and come apart.
I’m angry because that’s how I push away feelings— and it’s worse than normal tonight because I shot another boy.
He was facing Roz, gun pointed—prepared to take a shot. I fired and now he’s dead.
Maize, my collie, senses my mood. She comes over and leans her body against my legs. I wonder if the kid ever had anyone who cared about him like I care about Roz. I figure he didn’t.
I lie back and stare up at the ceiling. There’s no sadness this time—just relief. I shiver picturing that Glock aimed at the back of Roz’s head.
I turn over onto my side and drape my arm over her sleeping form.
“You’re one tough broad,” I whisper.
She murmurs and I hold her tight.
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