Free Winners by Eric B. Martin Page A

players passing nearby. “That right, I’m talking ’bout you, nigga, you’re weak, bitch, you are weak.”
    “Beat your fat ass, nigga.”
    “Beh put your diary, mothafucker, wait ’til leap year.”
    “That’s why you sittin’.”
    “Talk to me you run five straight.” The other guy laughs, struts on back to the court. “Shit,” Jo Jo says, watching him go.
    “You run like this every Saturday?” Shane says.
    “This ain’t shit, man. They got butchers and America’s Most Wanted here today.” Jo Jo turns to him, shaking off the game. “There always something though.” He watches Jo Jo hesitate, then decide to grant Shane a conversation. “Most of the time, these thugs don’t run.” He points out on the court. “Lex, Cliff, Dare, Show, they all gentlemen, we don’t need that shit, we just come up to play. During the week, it’s pretty civilized. But I can’t come during the week no more, working nights, so I up here most Saturdays, if I can. When the once and future convicts come on out.”
    “I never played up here before.”
    “Yeah, huh. Where you play at?”
    “I’m usually outside, but I’m trying to get back indoors. Concrete’ll beat you up after a while.”
    “Yeah, I don’t even mess around with that.”
    They sit in silence for a second, watching the next game in progress.
    “My brother and me, this guy we play with told us about up here,” Shane says, finally. “I think he plays here all the time.”
    “Who’s that?”
    “This guy Sam. Kind of skinny, tall, pretty good hops. Likes to takes it to the hole, not really a shooter. Long arms. Shot blocker.”
    “Huh.”
    “Kind of half white, I dunno, funny looking, almost like freckles all over. Like brown hair.”
    “You talking about this dude Sauce,” Jo Jo says, nodding to himself now, satisfied. “Yeah, I know who you talking about. But he don’t really play up here. I mean he shoot around, you know, but he don’t play with nobody.”
    “He doesn’t play?”
    “Nah. He in here all the time, but he just shoot around.”
    “I thought he played. I thought I’d see him up here.”
    “I ain’t seen him for a while.”
    “Me neither. He used to come up and play over my other game, like three times a week. He stopped coming, though. He left a bag up there, too, with a cell phone and stuff. Just been sitting in my van, waiting for him to come back.”
    “Yeah, I don’t know. I haven’t seen him.”
    “You think anyone knows where he lives, like?” Shane says, his heart beating a little fast like he’s doing something wrong.
    Jo Jo hesitates. “I don’t stay down there no more. I know his momma’s up in there, F-3 I think.”
    “Where’s that.”
    “That’s the projects, man. Right over here.”
    “Maybe I’ll go down there.”
    Jo Jo laughs. “You go, but it ain’t recommended.”
    “I bet. I just want to get his shit back to the man.”
    Jo Jo nods, thinking. “I don’t stay there no more,” he repeats.
    “Yeah, I understand. I guess I could leave the bag up here, it’s just, I don’t know, it’s got like some valuable stuff, you know.”
    “Naw, don’t leave it here.” Jo Jo stands up. “I know what you’re saying, that’s old school, take care of your boys.”
    “He’d do the same for me.”
    Jo Jo nods. “Yeah. Well I’ll show you, you want.”

6
    S HANE AND J IMMY catch up to Jo Jo and a friend on the sidewalk where the pavement meets the grass of the baseball diamond. Jo Jo doesn’t say anything as they drop into step, just keeps walking, four abreast now down the third-base line. No baseball today. The infield’s dry and overrun by dogs, while out in the wide expanse of right center field a coed soccer game is under way. White men and women kick the ball north then south then north again.
    Jo Jo heads for the chain-link behind home plate, where the fence gaps and gives way to a dirt trail through grass and trash, crashing down between the buildings below. Trash everywhere: