Free The Martini Shot by George Pelecanos

That’s when I saw Tonio Harris running east on Morton, heading for the housing complex. A late-model black import was behind him, and there were a couple of YBMs with their heads out the open windows, yelling shit out, laughing at the Harris kid, like that.
    â€œYou all right here?” I said to Young.
    â€œFine, Sarge,” he said.
    My cruiser was idling. I slid under the wheel and pulled down on the tree.
Tonio Harris
    Just around midnight, when I was fixin to go out, my moms walked into my room. I was sittin on the edge of my bed, lacing up my Timbs, listening to PGC comin from the box, Flexx doin his shout-outs and then movin right into the new Nelly, which is vicious. The music was so loud that I didn’t hear my mother walk in, but when I looked up there she was, one arm crossed over the other like she does when she’s tryin to be hard, staring me down.
    â€œWhassup, Mama?”
    â€œWhat’s up with you?  ”
    I shrugged. “Back Yard is playin tonight. Was thinkin I’d head over to the Hole.”
    â€œDid you ask me if you could?”
    â€œDo I have to?” I used that tone she hated, knew right away I’d made a mistake.
    â€œYou’re living in my house, aren’t you?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œYou payin rent now?”
    â€œNo, ma’am.”
    â€œTalkin about, do I have to. ”
    â€œCan I go?”
    Mama uncrossed her arms. “Thought you said you’d be studyin up for that test this weekend.”
    â€œI will. Gonna do it tomorrow morning, first thing. Just wanted to go out and hear a little music tonight, is all.”
    I saw her eyes go soft on me then. “You gonna study for that exam, you hear?”
    â€œI promise I will.”
    â€œGo on, then. Come right back after the show.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    I noticed as she was walkin out the door her shoulders were getting stooped some. Bad posture and a hard life. She wasn’t but thirty-six years old.
    I spent a few more minutes listening to the radio and checking myself in the mirror. Pattin my natural and shit. I got a nice modified cut, not too short, not blown-out or nothin like that. For a while now the fellas been wearin braids, tryin to look like the Answer. But I don’t think it would look right on me. And I know what the girls like. They look at me, they like what they see. I can tell.
    Moms has been ridin me about my college entrance exam. I fucked up the first one I took. I went out and got high on some fierce chronic the night before it, and my head was filled up with cobwebs the next morning when I sat down in the school cafeteria to take that test. I’m gonna take it again, though, and do better next time.
    I’m not one of those guys who’s got, what do you call that, illusions about my future. No NBA dreams, nothin like that. I’m not good enough or tall enough, I know it. I’m sixth man on my high school team, that ought to tell you somethin right there. My Uncle Gaylen, he’s been real good to me, and straight-up with me, too. Told me to have fun with ball and all that, but not to depend on it. To stick with the books. I know I fucked up that test, but next time I’m gonna do better, you can believe that.
    I was thinkin, though, I could get me a partial scholarship playin for one of those small schools in Virginia or Maryland, William and Mary or maybe Goucher up in Baltimore. Hold up—Goucher’s for women only, I think. Maybe I’m wrong. Have to ask my guidance counselor, soon as I can find one. Ha-ha.
    The other thing I should do, for real, is find me a part-time job. I’m tired of havin no money in my pockets. My mother works up at the Dollar Store in the Silver Spring mall, and she told me she could hook me up there. But I don’t wanna work with my mother. And I don’t want to be workin at no Mac -Donald’s or sumshit like that. Have the neighborhood slangers come in and make