Free Ten Mile River by Paul Griffin

bad.’ José winked. ‘Out in six on good b.’
    â€˜Yup,’ Ray said.
    The desk sergeant was tired but almost nice. ‘You want to call anybody? You got anybody to call?’
    They weren’t talking, only to each other. Ray mouthed to José, Yolie ?
    José shook no.
    â€˜Fellas, I’m gonna find out your names sooner or later.’ The sergeant called for a cop to take the boys back to a holding cell.
    On the way down the hall José whispered, ‘We prob’ly don’t want Trini knowin about this one. She kill us, she finds out we swiped a car. She don’t even like me playin Grand Theft on the Tee Vee.’
    â€˜Gonna hurt her bad, not knowin where we went.’
    â€˜I’ll let her know at some point,’ José said. ‘Meantime, nothin to be done about it, her wonderin. Hurts me more than her, her sadness, but that’s just the way it is.’
    â€˜Yo, José, man!’ some kid called from behind the cell bars.
    â€˜Yo, Tivo, what up, kid!’ José threw a nod and a grin Tivo’s way.
    Tivo was in a tagger crew Ray and José had run with in juvie. They called him Tivo because he did great impressions. ‘Yo y’all, look yo, it’s the J-man, yo!’ He busted out his José impression, slick movie star style. ‘“Yo, kid, what up, son ? Where’s the shorties at, bro thuh?”’
    The crew had been booked all together. They brightened at seeing José. ‘Yo, José man, what up?’
    â€˜â€™Sup, José?’
    â€˜Yo, remember me, J-man?’
    He’s rolling in welcome as Jesus on the palms, Ray thought. He wished he had that in him, that king thing. He nodded hi to the fellas in José’s wake, but nobody noticed him.
    The cop put them into a holding cell.
    â€˜God damn you, man,’ Ray said. ‘How you so mad cool all the time? You ain’t worried a lick, are ya?’
    â€˜Why worry?’ José smiled. ‘We be a’right, Ray-Ray. You see.’
    No sooner had the door shut than another cop, the arresting officer, came back. ‘Now I know who you two are. You were the ones that broke into that supermarket on Broadway a couple years back, right? The Bread Thieves, we were calling you. You break into a store full of cash registers, and all you take is ten loaves of Wonder.’
    Ray was embarrassed.
    José grinned. ‘That’s us, the Wonder Thieves.’
    â€˜Yeah well, you two been running together too long. Have the whole house throwing a riot inside of a day. I’m splitting you up.’ The cop nodded to Ray. ‘You, Big Boy, let’s go.’
    Ray cuffed, José cuffed, their hands behind their backs, they went back to back, grabbed hands. ‘Peace, yo,’ Ray said over his shoulder.
    José squeezed Ray’s hands, whispered over his shoulder, ‘Be cool, kid. Be brave, Ray. I see you. I see you, brother.’
    â€˜All right, break it up,’ the cop said. He led Ray away.
    â€˜Ain’t nothin but a thang, Ray,’ José called through the bars. ‘We be a’right, kid. I see you in six. We be a’right.’
    â€˜Yup,’ Ray said, except the word died in his throat. He looked back once, over his shoulder.
    Head down, José was resting his head against the bars, shaking his head. He was crying.
    After Ray pled down he was locked up in The Sprungs, where he would sit for a week or more while awaiting sentencing. The Sprungs was a juvenile detention unit on Rikers Island just east of The South Bronx, two hard shell tents in the airport’s takeoff path, three hundred yards across the water in Queens. Every thirty seconds, Boom!…Boom!…Boom! the tent plastic rattled. No cells here, just six hundred rickety cots, a scratchy blanket per kid. Yelling that never stopped, piss puddles, snickering.
    The snickering as Ray walked in.
    They had put Ray in with the big kids this time.
    The