Free Dark Corner by Brandon Massey Page A

dropping out. Both T-Bone
and Poke promised that they weren't going back to school
this fall.
    "Hey," T-Bone said. Jahlil smelled beer on his breath: a
bottle of Coors, wrapped in a paper bag, was wedged between T-Bone's thighs. "What's up with you?"
    "Working this tired-ass job," Jahlil said. "That fool Old
Mac's getting on my nerves"

    "We 'bout to play ball," Poke said. "You comin'?"
    Jahlil chewed his lip. He really wanted to play ball and
hang with the crew. But if he ditched his job, Old Mac would
tell Dad, and Dad would never shut up about it. It would be
one more thing he'd hold over Jahlil's head to explain why he
wouldn't allow him to do something, like drive a car.
    "Let Old Mac pick up his own trash, man," T-Bone said.
"We been picking up white folks' trash for centuries."
    Jahlil didn't bother to mention that almost everyone who
lived in Mason's Corner was black, and chances were, any
trash littering the parking lot had been dropped there by
black people. But T-Bone was forever talking some quasimilitant shit.
    "We cruised by the court, man," Poke said. "Andre's there"
    "For real?" Jahlil said. Andre, though he didn't actually
deal dope, always had weed on him, and he was cool about
sharing with them, probably because he lived with T-Bone's
sister.
    "Yep," T-Bone said. "So what's up? You gonna hang, or
you gonna slave for the white man?"
    Jahlil looked toward the store. Old Mac stood beside the
front entrance, arms folded across his chest, glowering at
Jahlil.
    The decision was easier than Jahlil had imagined.
    I ain't working for you no more, Jahlil thought. Tell my
dad, I don't care. I hate you and your stupid store.
    "Let's roll," Jahlil said.
    T-Bone laughed. "That's my nigga."
    Jahlil didn't bother to look back as they rolled away.
    Chief Jackson got a call he loathed almost as much as notification of a crime: Old Mac, calling to say his son had
ditched work.
    "I've got to let go of your boy, Chief," Old Mac said.
Jackson heard genuine regret in his voice. "I've given him a chance, but he doesn't want to work. His attitude stinks, and
I can't depend on him."

    Jackson paced the floor of the small office at headquarters, the phone pressed against his ear. Across the room,
Deputy Ray Dudu glanced up from the tabloid he was reading.
    Jackson settled into his swivel chair, turned to face the
calendar on the wall. He didn't like to let folks see him
upset.
    "Okay, buddy," Jackson said. "I get you. Thanks for giving my boy a shot. Apologize for the trouble he's caused
you"
    "I don't want to tell you how to raise your son, Chief, but
he's headed down a dangerous path. Those hoodlums he
hangs out with-"
    "Mac, I've got to go" Jackson did not want to let Old
Mac get started about the "hoodlums" that were Jahlil's
friends, because then Old Mac would start complaining
about people loitering in the parking lot of his store, and
then he'd begin to rant about crime in general in Mason's
Corner-he would go on and on. "I'll stop by and chat with
you later, hear?"
    Jackson hung up. He checked himself from throwing the
phone across the room. His son ... he did not understand
him. He just didn't.
    "Jahlil having problems at work?" Deputy Dudu said.
    "Something like that," Jackson said, turning around. He
didn't like to discuss family business with outsiders, especially with someone like his deputy. Deputy Dudu was a
good guy and a top-notch cop, but he was an odd one.
    Deputy Dudu unfolded himself from the seat behind the
desk, and it was like watching a praying mantis maneuver
out of a crevice. Light-skinned, Dudu was tall and lanky,
with a small head that seemed out of proportion to the rest of
his body. He was fastidiously neat, clean shaven, with big
white teeth. His uniform was spotless and pressed, the creases of his slacks almost as sharp as blades. His shoes
were so shiny that Jackson half believed the deputy wore a
new pair each day of the week.

    Dudu leaned on the edge of