Black Alley (18 page)

One thing's for sure, CB pulled off a good one earlier when he wormed permission to see him out of his parents. At first, the mother, predictably, had been against it: I don't want Mixon hanging around with these good-for-nothings anymore, she grumbled at her husband. Mixon's father took their side: don't forget that it's because of them that Mixon was brought to the hospital so quickly. You're forgetting that your son is on drugs because of them. The father gave a disheartened sigh: you simplify things so much you distort them. You have to hold Mixon responsible, not his friends. She didn't blink, just turned on her heel and sat down. He shrugged his shoulders, smiled at them and went to sit back down with her.

Ketcia isn't clear on what happened in the church basement. She sees a blinding whirl of lights swimming in dizzying
smoke, hurried crowds of students, she hears the hammering of the music. One thing is certain, there's before and after the joint: in the beginning, movements are orderly and seem logical, afterwards, the scene becomes cloudy, unreal, threatening. She remembers they were in a stall in the men's washroom, around the bowl passing the joint around. After a few drags, Mixon was choking with laughter, and CB's features turned hard: either you calm down or you're out! What did I do, CB? Anyways, somebody has to keep their eye on the Latinos. Let's go! Mixon slammed the stall door: it's not fair! From then on things get hazy, even though she clearly remembers the growing anxiety that gripped her. Then the rest of them hobbled out of the washroom and, though they looked everywhere, couldn't find Mixon. At one point they even thought he'd got mad and gone home.

Leaning against the wall, she let herself slide down onto her heels, harassed by macabre thoughts and furtive images of her childhood. The smoke took on the shapes of phantasmagorical animals and, since her ears were blocked, the rhythm of the music was literally beating in her head. Suddenly, the little Vietnamese girl in the coatroom started to scream, then let out sharp little sobs, as if she was going to choke, and Gino came running. The group fell into step behind the monitor and that's when Ketcia noticed Mixon lying motionless on the ground as if he was dead. CB ran to the body: somebody call an ambulance, dammit! And Gino went to call. CB didn't seem to care about his bloodstained hands, but she barely had the courage to approach the body, something she's angry with herself about now. In the meantime, it was like a cold shower on the party: the music stopped and most of the revellers left. When the paramedics arrived with the stretcher, CB insisted on going with Mixon in the ambulance. It's okay, one of the paramedics said, that way you can call the injured boy's parents from the hospital. CB asked the other members of the gang to meet them at the hospital, but they all took off
saying they had a headache or were tired. Later, in the waiting room, CB punched his fist into his palm: I'm sick of them! Not even capable of coming to visit their friend who just got shanked, for Christ's sake!

CB finishes his sandwich and picks up the magazine again, stroking his goatee as he scans it. Ketcia sucks up her Coke through the straw and a deep gurgling sound comes from the bottom of the can, which again attracts Mixon's mother's icy little eyes. Now the police officer, a six-foot-tall gorilla, is leaving Mixon's room and coming towards the parents. In slow motion, he takes out a little pad and leafs through it after wetting his finger, he questions them and writes down the mother's words especially. Ketcia can only catch bits of her sentences. Twice he turns his head towards them and CB, his face contorted by a grimace, waves bye-bye at him. After a little while, the officer comes slowly towards them, his arms swinging, constantly glancing around as if to inform the nurses and the parents he's got his eye on them. That's all we needed, thinks Ketcia, a first-class moron. He comes to a stop in front of them, and, mechanically, clears his throat: he's not going to waste their time, he's going to get right to the point. Do they have any idea who could have stabbed their friend? CB sighs in frustration and avoids looking at him, while Ketcia feels obliged to answer, if only to get him to leave her alone, and simply tells him, they really have no idea. Do they have any enemies? No, Ketcia replies dryly. Everyone has some enemies, don't they? the officer insists, a vague smiling floating across his puffy face. This time, wondering if maybe she made a mistake by answering the first time, she doesn't even bother to look at him. The officer steps towards CB: and you? CB looks up, I don't know anything, then looks away. The officer mutters under his breath, scribbles in his pad and walks away without saying goodbye.

The elevator doors slide shut behind the officer and, without wasting any time, they head for Mixon's room, under his mother's
watchful eye. When they walk past the first bed, a pale child of six or seven years old, opens his violet-ringed eyes. In the two opposite beds, patients are sleeping. Farther in, near the window, Mixon is awake, his arms crossed over his stomach, his head turned to the side. Again, at that instant, Ketcia has the feeling he's dead. He slowly turns his head towards them and gives them a painful smile. CB stands close to him, while Ketcia positions herself at the foot of the bed.

“You see that?” Mixon asks. “A cop came to see me.”

His voice sounds surprisingly clear. Ketcia examines his downcast face with some degree of relief: she doesn't really know why, but she was expecting worse. His arm, on the other hand, covered in bandages, swollen and purplish all the way down to his hand, doesn't look very promising.

“Yeah,” CB nods, “he came and asked us a few questions, too. How did it go? He wasn't too annoying?”

“I told him a story that didn't make much sense,” Mixon says with a forced smile, his eyelids half shut. “He didn't really look like he believed me, but since I pretended to be in pain sometimes, like this, ‘ooowwww!' he didn't push too hard.”

The three of them laugh. Mixon can't help but close his eyes.

“That's how you have to treat them,” CB says.

“What about the joint?” wonders Ketcia. “Did he ask you anything?”

“Only if I sold it, too. Obviously, I said no. I said to him: I swear, sir, it was the first puff I ever took in my life. I wanted to know what it was like. That's all. He looked annoyed and he said: all right, all right . . . And he didn't ask any more questions about it.”

“How do you feel?” Ketcia asks.

“Okay, I guess.”

Mixon glances at his arm and Ketcia has the feeling he's going to burst out crying. It's as if he's using all his strength to control himself.

“I got five stitches. For sure, it hurts when I move. The doctor said I could leave the hospital tomorrow morning unless it's really serious. Any way, I'm keeping my fingers crossed. I don't feel like staying here for a week.”

“You look really good,” CB said, “I'm sure they'll let you go tomorrow. You'll see, in a few days, you won't feel anything anymore. You're going to beat me at arm wrestling.”

CB smiles, looks at him warmly.

“And your parents?” he asks, “they came to see you before, didn't they? Did they ask you questions about the pot?”

“With them, it's a little more complicated. I think the doctor told them we'd been smoking. My mother had a freakin' fit. She said to me: why, Mixon? For the love of God, why are you on drugs? Haven't we told you enough about how dangerous it is? A bunch of stuff like that.”

“We'll talk about the drugs at home, if you don't mind,” his father had cut in. “It's embarrassing enough as it is, I don't want to talk about it here. Besides, Mixon has to get better, he has to rest.”

“Okay,” his mother had agreed. “But at least let him tell us who did this to him. Are you in danger, Mixon? Do you owe money? Because of the drugs, right?”

“Wow!” exclaims CB. “Your mother's really starting to lose it!”

“No, no, Mom,” Mixon had replied. “The guys who did it were thieves. They weren't even from our school. They were a lot older than us. I think they were professional pickpockets.”

“That's what you told her?” CB says, “That's great!”

“But if they wanted to rob you,” his mother said, “why did they do this to you? It doesn't make sense . . .”

“They stabbed me,” Mixon explained, “because I didn't want to give them my wallet. First, I fought with one of them, and since I was winning, another came up from behind and shanked me. That's all.”

“You'll really never change,” Ketcia comments with a laugh. “You're the best liar I know.”

“Shanked?” asked his mother. “What do you mean? What does that word mean?”

“Oh, you don't know anything!” Mixon exclaimed. “It means when someone takes out a pocketknife and stabs you.”

“One thing's for sure, you've learned your lesson,” his father remarked. “Next time just give them your wallet right away. No more playing the hero, get it?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Mixon had answered. “And after that, my father said they shouldn't tire me out and they left.”

“Your father's okay,” Ketcia offers. “He's cooler than your mother, anyway. I'm just afraid once you get home she's really going to get on your case with all this drug business.”

“Yeah,” sighs Mixon, “she might. But between now and then, she'll have time to settle down a bit. Well, I hope she will anyway.”

For a while, they don't say anything.

“Now,” CB says, leaning towards him, “you're going to tell us what really happened.”

Mixon opens his eyes wide, as if stunned, then, punctuating his sentences with long silences, he describes in detail the events that took place in the coatroom. When he finishes his story, CB places his hands on his cheeks and stays in that position for a long time. Then, in a low, conspiratorial voice: “Latino Power's main objective was to steal our coats. That much is clear. The fact they shanked you looks like an accident, like it wasn't part of the plan. You have to understand me, Mixon. I'm not trying to excuse them, I just want to understand what they were up to.”

From one of the beds next to Mixon's, short syllables filled with
o
's reach their eyes, as if someone was talking in their sleep.

“I want to ask you one question,” CB continues. “But I really want you to think hard before you answer me . . . Who shanked you?”

For an instant, Mixon furrows his brow, grimacing as if he can hardly stand the pain anymore.

“I don't know,” he answers. “It was too confused.”

“Was it Flaco?” CB presses him.

“I don't think so. Maybe.”

“We have to act now,” Ketcia suggests. “It's urgent, if we want to get our coats back. And you know, if we don't do anything, they'll think we're just a bunch of chickenshits.”

“I already have an idea,” CB says rubbing his hands. “Every Sunday, I've noticed something about the fat one in their gang. What do they call him again?”

“You mean Teta?” Ketcia asks.

“Yeah, that's it. Teta.”

 

Did the Centre Pierre-Marquette really host the Jeux de Montréal that year or was your memory failing you, Marcelo? What's for sure is that the stadiums looked alike and that children don't pay much attention to place names, and even less to architecture or decor. Early in the morning, amazed and excited, you'd paraded in and greeted the crowd, which was principally composed of students who'd come to support their schools. In the bleachers, they stood, they shouted, they did the wave. But the procession went on forever, tempers flared and right in the middle of track, a fight broke out. The music was interrupted and you stopped moving. A feverish crowd formed around two students trying to see who could punch the other's face the hardest. There was so much confusion the monitors couldn't get their hands on them. The crowd was fired up: with insults and provocations, they encouraged the brawl. Finally, the monitors got their hands on them. They appeared in front of everyone: not embarrassed at all, they were laughing to themselves, proud of having screwed everything up. The organisers had the players leave the field. They'd wasted enough time already. Come on, let's go!

You and Akira climbed up to the top of the bleachers, where your school's supporters were. The only topic of conversation was the fight. To avoid any other similar incidents, half the monitors took positions in the stairways, and the other half spread out along the track. With booming messages from the loudspeakers, you were constantly reminded to settle down. Finally, the qualifying races started, and as a result the crowd was re-energized and started shouting even louder. From one school to another, students threw confetti and balled up paper at each other, and then the monitors would rush over right away. The Phys. Ed. teachers sometimes got involved and when they lost patience, they'd order the rowdiest students to do push-ups.

You and Akira picked out Cléo at the other end of the red benches, making his way through the confusion on the stairway. When he went by École-Saint-Antonin, someone chucked a water balloon and it burst against his chest. The whole school was laughing and pointing at him. He wiped his T-shirt at length, looked at them for a moment, then shouted: screw you, morons! The students were momentarily stunned then they rained balled-up paper down on him. But Cléo casually went on his way down the stairs, stopped in front of a vending machine, bought himself a Coke, and, in an effort to avoid his attackers, climbed back up the other side, where you and Akira were sitting. In passing, Akira offered him a T-shirt to change into, Cléo accepted. He changed right there and sat down with you for a little while. So, you asked, what have you been up to? We hardly ever see each other anymore. Oh, nothing special. His parents were getting a divorce, but he didn't really care, it had been coming for such a long time now. Other than that, his mother was working a lot, and giving him more freedom. Remember, Marcelo, it was like he was telling you about someone else's life.