Scavenger Hunt Read online

  Dad did something. Solomon didn’t ask what. His mom never did, neither, even though he heard her talking to Mrs. Greenway down the hall and heard Darius’ name a buncha times so he knew she knew what it was.

  Rumors spread through the school. That was what kids did, because even in elementary school they learned that rumors were an important part of staying social, staying connected, and sometimes even staying alive. Some said Darius got hit by a truck, coming back from school. Others said that he jumped in front of the truck, ‘cause he knew what an asshole he was and that he was such an asshole none of the gangs in the area would want him so he was as good as dead anyway.

  But the story that Solomon heard most was that Darius got hit in a drive-by. According to the story, Darius, his older brother Z-Dawg, and one of Z-Dawg’s homies were hanging out on the corner. Probably arranging for a drug run – the gangs used kids to run their product a lot, ‘cause cops was less likely to stop a kid than a tatted-up homie, and the younger the better – but the run never happened because an old brown car drove past, a shotgun stuck out of it, and boom-BOOM.

  Solomon couldn’t be sure whether this last story was true or not. But he knew that sometimes Dad rolled around in a crappy brown ride that he called Foxy Brown. And he knew that Dad had a shotgun.

  And those things… they made Solomon feel all hot and good in his chest, too. So he hated Dad, but he felt somethin’ warm for him, just the same.

  That was when Solomon Black learned three new lessons. The first was that life was complicated, and you could love and hate a thing all at once. The second was that, though a black eye could stop an argument, a double-blast from a shotgun could stop a person.

  And the third? The third was that stopping a person could be a fine damn thing.

  2

  “I dunno. Looks like a pussy to me.”

  “Nah, he ain’t no pussy.”

  “Says you.”

  “Damn right says me.”

  Solomon listened to the two dudes arguing over him, and wanted to say somethin’, but SFD told him before they got here that Solomon shouldn’t say shit. SFD was his sponsor – the member of the 52 Broadway Crips that first took notice of Solomon and had been using him to run product for the last three years. SFD stood for Six Feet Down, which SFD told him he got as his name ‘cause that was where he put the dude he shot as his audition for the 52s. Solomon heard another homie say it stood for the size of SFD’s dick – and that the “S” definitely stood for “Small” – but he never told SFD that.

  SFD was too scary to say that shit to his face. He was a stone-cold killer, a full homie with the Five Deuce, and no way an eleven-year-old kid was going to give him lip. Good thing, too, ‘cause SFD had taken a liking to Solomon Black. Got him out of school all the time, which was the shit ‘cause Solomon hated school. Everyone talked like there was a future if you stayed in school, but that was crazy talk because the only future in this part of town was getting in a gang and having your homies’ backs so they’d have yours.

  So when SFD came up to him and asked if he was Face’s kid, Solomon – who rarely referred to his dad at all, and never once since Zeke “Face” Washington got lit up by a dozen cops after trying to roll a liquor store – answered immediately. “Yeah. So?”

  Even then, Solomon knew who SFD was. Everyone did, just like everyone knew that Dee and Chuck, two fifth-graders, ran for him a lot. Dee and Chuck were the kings of the school, when they bothered to come at all; and their prestige was one-hundred-percent because SFD picked them up in his black BMW twice a week, and kept them in comics and made sure they always had current passwords to the best porn sites.

  Solomon had been ditching that day. Hanging out at the 7-11 and trying to figure out how he could distract the towelhead who worked the counter long enough that Solomon could fill up a Hefty bag he’d brought with him with cherry Icee. He’d just about decided on pulling the fire alarm at the back of the place, hiding in the bathroom, then coming out after the clerk bugged out and getting to work on his Icee heist, when SFD rolled up.

  The windows of his BMW were all tinted – even the front one, though not so dark as the sides. The side windows looked completely black to Solomon, which added to the cool effect when the driver’s side window dropped with an electric whrrr to reveal SFD himself.

  He wore the usual outfit: black tank top, tight on his muscled upper body; camo pants, pockets bulging with all sorts of secrets and all sorts of promises; shades with gold rims; and a chest full of bling. His nine-mil was tucked in his waistband; and just like the stories said, it had “S.F.D.” in gold letters on the handle.

  “You Face’s kid?” asked SFD.

  “Yeah. So?”

  SFD leaned over and pushed the passenger side door open. “Get in,” he said. It was not a request.

  Not that Solomon woulda refused him anyway. He was eight years old, so he wasn’t a full-growed man yet, but he wasn’t stupid, neither. He slid into the seat, luxuriating in the smell of weed and cigars and some other, earthier and somehow more dangerous scents he caught running under it all.

  “Close the door,” said SFD. Solomon did. SFD waited. Waited. Waited. Finally he growled, “Buckle the hell up.” Solomon did, and SFD shot him a toothy grin and said, “Safety first, little man.”

  Solomon felt that warm feeling again. Only this time, there was none of the hate he felt whenever he thought of his dad. It was just warmth.

  SFD’s watchin’ out for me. Holy shit, large as legend and I’m in his BMW and oh, man, the guys at school are never gonna believe this.

  The ride was short. Just a few blocks. But when SFD dropped him off, Solomon had already grown up – he was ten grams heavier, to be exact. And when he lightened his load that night, delivering the bag to a dealer after sneaking out of the house, he felt even more like a man.

  The guy he dropped the drugs with clapped him on the shoulder, grinned, and said, “Any trouble?”

  “Five-oh saw me, I thought they was gonna stop me.”

  The guy, whose name Solomon never learned, shook his head. “Nah. You too young. They only give shit to the big boys.” Then he laughed as Solomon’s expression darkened and clapped him on the shoulder again. “Lighten up,” he said. He held up the small plastic bag and shook it. “You passed the test.”

  “Test?” said Solomon warily. “SFD didn’t say nothing about no tests.”

  The guy laughed. Another clap on the shoulder. “My man,” he said.

  Next day SFD turned up with another “errand” for Solomon. And the next. Then a week off. Then another errand.

  The errands got more complex, and the drugs got heavier in Solomon’s pocket each time. But the extra weight never dragged him down none. The more he carried, the faster he ran – and not ‘cause he was scared. No, he was just excited. SFD was the shit, and that meant Solomon was the shit, too.

  And maybe someday he’d be more. Maybe he’d even be Five-Deuce like SFD. That was the dream. But it wasn’t like you just walked into a Five-D crib and said, “So you holdin’ tryouts today?” Nah, you had to be invited. Had to have a sponsor.

  Maybe SFD would sponsor Solomon. Then he’d be on the way. Then he’d be the shit not ‘cause he was a reflection of SFD, but as his own man.

  Solomon worked hard. Got Ds in school, which was fine with him since he never figured on staying there long. But he was an “A” student in Street 101. SFD was his teacher, his mentor, his friend, and – in every respect that mattered – his father.

  Three years of running. Three years of doing whatever job SFD asked, and doing it better and faster than any of the other kids. That was why it wasn’t a surprise when SFD rolled up the night of Solomon’s eleventh birthday. Solomon’s mom had saved up and was going to take him to McD’s, and had already promised to get him anything on the menu that he wanted. But when she saw the BMW outside, she just sat down and said, “You gotta go,” in a quiet voice.

  Solomon loved his mom. She’d always been there.
And she understood the street. Didn’t give him a hard time about his grades, ‘cause she understood. She’d been Face’s old lady, after all. She knew what it was to love a gangsta, and Solomon knew she hoped he’d do even better than Face ever did.

  He planned to do just that. He’d get into the Fifty-Twos, he’d be street royalty, and he’d take care of his mom and show her what a real man was. Not some loser who showed up to leech beer and petty cash. Nah, Solomon would show her what it was to have the favor of a king.

  He got into SFD’s ride, buckling up like he always done ever since that first day, and they drove a mile or so. SFD got outta the car, gesturing for Solomon to follow him. They both marched into a store. Sold fish – not very good fish, either, from the smell of it – but they walked through the store without stopping, into the alley behind it, and up the fire escape on the building across from the fish shop.

  Solomon knew that this was normal precautions. No sense telling enemies their exact whereabouts. And since the world was full of enemies, that meant you always dodged around. Never went in a straight line if it could be helped. Never went anywhere important when someone else could be watching.

  Solomon followed SFD up the fire escape, clanking up six flights, then crawling through an open window barely big enough for him to fit. He had finally caught some of his growth. He wasn’t a muscular type like SFD – not yet, anyway – but he was already five-foot-ten, and sure to get another six or seven inches taller before he finished.

  The window he crawled through had been covered with aluminum foil, so it was dark inside. The dark was thick and, for some reason, Solomon thought it gave the apartment a bad vibe. Like the place had its own personality, and that personality was the kind of thing that would pull legs off a cat to see what would happen if it could no longer land on its feet.

  The paint – what little could be seen between posters sporting images of rappers, cars, and the women who loved said rappers and cars – was peeling, and dark patches of fungus spread across the ceiling.

  Yeah. A bad place.

  “I dunno. Looks like a pussy to me.”

  SFD had told him on the way here – “Don’t say nothin’. Not a single damn word,” so Solomon managed to bite back the words that came automatically. He just stared at the guy who’d said it. He was dressed similar to SFD, only he was huge. Only a few inches taller than Solomon, but the guy had to be three hundred pounds of solid muscle. He sat on a sofa in the corner of the room, seated dead center and his arms splayed out so no one else could possibly sit there ‘less they wanted to try and cuddle.

  “Nah, he ain’t no pussy,” said SFD.

  “Says you.”

  “Damn right says me.”

  The last sentence was where Solomon wondered if the dude on the couch was something big. He was wearing Five-Deuce colors, so he was part of the gang, but that didn’t mean much. But the way SFD talked to the dude… same kind of words Solomon had heard him say a million times, but there was something about SFD’s voice that made him worry a bit.

  SFD was the shit. He didn’t walk, he strutted. And the strut was in his voice, too – the words bounced up and down, bobbed and weaved like they was constantly dancin’. But now they was strangely flat, and SFD kept looking away from the dude on the sofa.

  The dude leaned forward, elbows on knees and hands folding together like he was about to pray. He squinted at Solomon. “Nah. Pussy.”

  Solomon said, “Say it again and you’ll find out how true it ain’t.”

  Beside him, SFD took in a breath so fast and hard it sounded like it probably hurt.

  3

  The man on the couch looked surprised, but only for a moment. Then he laughed hard and loud, and that was when Solomon saw the dude’s two front teeth had been capped in gold. He knew now who this was: Two-Teeth.

  He wished he could take back the words he’d said. Two-Teeth was laughing, but Solomon was wise enough to know some dudes laughed when they was happy, and others laughed at the idea of shoving a blade into someone’s guts. From what he’d heard, Two-Teeth was definitely in that last group.

  But Two-Teeth surprised him. He held out a fist, and after a moment’s pause Solomon bumped it. “My man,” said Two-Teeth. Then the laughter disappeared and he sat forward and said, “You want to be Five-Deuce? That’s what SFD tells me.” His eyes flicked toward SFD and again Solomon marveled to see his friend’s eyes cast down, avoiding Two-Teeth’s own.

  “Yeah,” said Solomon. “Dad was Five-D, so I figure that’s where I go, too.”

  “Face was a good dude,” agreed Two-Teeth. He smiled again. “I ran with him for a while. When I was about your age. Taught me a lot, and I figure I owe him for that.” His smile widened. “So you ready?”

  “For what?”

  The smile didn’t disappear, but it hardened. Two-Teeth’s face now looked like the stony sculpture, the creation of some artist who was dying of cancer and wanted to tell the world what he thought of it. A smiling face that was all rage and madness and the deep, dark things of the world. “For whatever I say to do,” said Two-Teeth.

  Solomon felt like he was on the edge of a cliff. On one side, the foundation that he’d known. The life he had. On the other, there was a darkness that could hide anything within. This was the moment to jump… or to crawl back down the mountain and hide at the bottom, knowing he was nothing and never would be anything.

  He jumped. “Whatever you say’s okay with me,” said Solomon, trying to sound casual.

  “My man,” Two-Teeth said again. He gave Solomon a package. “Go to the corner near Bobby’s where the crackheads hang out. Tonight. Don’t tell no one, and don’t be seen. You do good with what I tell you, and you got a future.”

  Solomon nodded, and then SFD was practically yanking him outta the place. Back out to the fire escape, back out to the street.

  SFD took him to his car, but didn’t offer him a ride. He just got in and looked at Solomon for a long moment. “You do this….” His voice drifted away, and for a second Solomon wondered if maybe SFD was still on that mountain, still hadn’t jumped all the way himself. Maybe he was even figuring on pulling Solomon back to firm ground.

  But the darkness… that was where the promise was. Where the street kings lived.

  Solomon walked away from SFD. Even an hour ago, such would have been unthinkable. But now, Solomon knew he wasn’t SFD’s no more. He belonged to Two-Teeth, and maybe – if he was lucky – to the 52s.

  He looked in the package that Two-Teeth gave him. Saw what was there and expected it to scare him. But it didn’t, and that night he was right where he was expected to be.

  Bobby’s was a corner store whose awning boasted of “GROCERIES! EGGS! MEAT!” in faded orange letters, but which Solomon knew mostly held liquor, cigarettes, and a magazine rack in the back for anyone who didn’t know what the internet was. It was also a regular hangout for some of the dealers from the 59 East Coast Crips, which were sworn enemies of the 52s.

  Solomon walked to the corner across from Bobby’s and sat on a bench. He waited. There were two 59 ECC dudes in the alley just behind Bobby’s and just seeing them there burned Solomon inside. They was way out of their territory. They shoulda stayed near Hooper Ave, the center of their strength… and if it was up to the 52s, Solomon knew, they’d all be dead and gone.

  He watched the dudes. One was a short, fat dude who wore a black, old-school LA Raiders jersey, jeans slung low, and bright blue Nikes. The other was tall, lanky. His stick arms hung from the blue tank top he wore, and his stick legs could be seen poking out of his low-riding shorts. Both wore blue bandanas around their necks, ready to be pulled high to cover their faces if the five-oh showed up.

  At first Solomon figured the short, fat dude was the leader. But after a while he realized that the thin guy was the boss of the small crew. He watched ‘em both, though. They took no notice of him, which was, he figured, at least part of why he’d been tapped for… whatever was coming.

  A
buzz sounded. Solomon pulled out the burner phone that had been the first item in the bag Two-Teeth gave him. He flipped it open – thing was so basic it was a flip phone, for Jesus’ sake – and answered.

  Two-Teeth spoke to him. Fast and quick, and Solomon didn’t say a word back. Just listened until Two-Teeth was done, said, “Werd,” and hung up.

  He waited, and though it was already full night, the sky seemed to get darker somehow. A few streetlights flickered and then went dark. Solomon took that as a good sign.

  A while later, both the dudes in the alley bumped fists. Just like Two-Teeth had said they would. Fatso walked away. Just like Two-Teeth had said. Skinny Boy stayed behind, and rolled a joint. Just like Two-Teeth had said.

  Solomon waited five, then crossed the street, pulling out the second item Two-Teeth had given him. He held the gun at his side until he was close. He walked like he was heading for Bobby’s as he crossed the street, but veered off at the last second and went to the alley.

  Skinny Boy looked at him in irritation. “The hell you think –”

  That was as far as he got before Solomon unloaded the gun. He missed the first two shots, but figured the last seven went into Skinny Boy just like they was supposed to. He straight-up knew the last two did, because Skinny Boy was already down, and Solomon put the gun against his head as he gasped and pulled the trigger those last two times and then Skinny Boy didn’t move.

  It happened so fast that Solomon was away – running down the alley and around the far corner – before anyone else appeared. And that was like Two-Teeth had said, too.

  4

  He met Two-Teeth the next night. Strolling down near Skid Row, and Two-Teeth pulled up. That was the first time Solomon realized that SFD’s BMW wasn’t that great after all. Two-Teeth’s ride was tricked out beyond belief, with mag wheels lit from behind by blue LEDs, icy blue xenon headlights, a custom grille, and an oversized spoiler. The chariot of a king.