Free Brotherly Love by Pete Dexter Page B

of a house a block and a half from his
shop and the neighborhood is still his, even if he lives two miles
away in a better part of the city. He knows the history of this
street and all the streets around it—he is part of the history—and
he knows the faces, even if he can’t always remember the names.
    He remembers the names later, sitting at dinner, or
lying in bed. Nothing is lost, only stored farther back. That is what
lets him smile.
    He pushes himself off the wall and moves toward the
boys until he can hear them over the wind.
    "Let’s see them pockets."
    The white boys go into their pockets and come out
with a dollar or two in change. The colored boy who noticed Nick
before turns and looks at him again, surprised to find him closer.
    "You crazy, motherfucker," he says.
    Nick doesn’t say a word. Phillip Flood’s kid
notices him then, thinking at first he is help, then deciding he
isn’t. The other one, Charley’s kid, stares at the dark faces in
front of him, holding himself straight. He reminds Nick of Charley,
the way he holds himself. Charley had worked with his hands before he
moved up in the union. He’d spent time on roofs and looked it,
nothing like his brother.
    Phillip never was part of it until his brother was
running Local 7.
    One of the colored boys takes the money. He studies
it a moment, then says, "Shit," and puts it into his
pocket. "Let’s see them shoes," he says.
    Nick folds his arms again and spreads his feet. The
white boys take off their shoes—new, white sneakers—and the
colored boys take them too. Nick feels something stir, but he thinks
of the Cadillacs that come and go in front of the house across the
park, all hours of the night, and stays where he is.
    He does not want the connection.
    "Let’s see them other pockets," the
colored boy says, and the white boys look at each other and then pull
their coat pockets inside out too. A comb, some matches and
cigarettes, something that looks like a lady’s compact. Nick
squints; and yeah, Charley’s kid has got a lady’s compact. His
hands are pink from the cold, the nails are dirty. The compact is
round and almost the color of his skin.
    The colored boy reaches for the compact too, but the
kid pulls it away. The colored boy smiles.
    "Let’s see that," he says.
    The boy shakes his head no.
    "I gone whip your white ass right here," he
says. The kid who looks like Charley doesn’t say a word. His cold
hands roll into fists and he waits.
    "You think this old motherfucker gone help you?"
the colored boy says, nodding to Nick. "He ain’t gone do
nothing but get fucked up hisself. He probably like to get his ass
beat, make him feel good."
    The boy holding the compact is as grim as this
street. The other one, his cousin, stares at him, waiting for him to
give the colored boys what they want.
    And if he does that, Nick will go back to the garage
and look at the water pump. That’s the contract he makes. If
Charley’s kid stands up, it’s another story. Nick won’t leave
him in this alone.
    The colored kid stares at the boy with the compact, a
smile breaks his lips.
    Nick waits.
    He doesn’t want the connection. He doesn’t want
to be a thought in Phillip Flood’s head; it gets turned around.
    He sees something change in the white boy’s
posture; he senses this kid who looks like Charley Flood is going to
turn over what is in his hand. Its value has changed.
    He is relieved and let down at the same time.
    And then, almost in the same moment, the boy
surprises him. He takes a step forward, claiming the empty space
between himself and the colored boys, and throws a soft-looking fist
at one  of their heads. He is off balance and scared, his thumb
is tucked inside his fingers. He hits the colored boy’s mouth as
hard as he can; the colored boy barely moves his head.
    A gesture, nothing else.
    The colored kid runs his finger over his nose and
checks it for blood. "Now I gone kick both your asses," he
says. "See what you done?"
    He