Page 45 of The Deadly Candies

Daphne kept crying.

“The diaries—you saw what happened to them as kids in the diaries, Daphne. How bad things were for them all. Your mama has protected you through it all. She and my mama protected us all. Don’t punish her. Talk to her. Please.”

Daphne looked up.

“How could she lie for so long to everyone?” Daphne wanted to know.

“Ask her. Because I’m going to tell you this: we all need a mama, and you’re the only one out of us that still got one,” Sandra said, her voice shaking. Daphne, crying, hugged Sandra tightly. She let her go and went back inside the house. Sandra followed.

“Mama!” Daphne said.

Aunt Debbie exited from the table to accept and hug her daughter. Daphne cried, holding on tightly to her mother, and Sandra felt her heart smile inside. Whatever happened to them and the reasons, she’d let them talk it over as a family. She went upstairs to her mother’s room. She closed the door. She went to the chest with the diaries. She pulled out 1950 through 1958 and put them all on the bed next to 1949. She would read them all. She may not have her own memories, like Nicolas said, but she had her mama’s. And Mama could tell her what to do next.

* * *

Dice clatter against brick.Under the sickly yellow glow of a neon CHET’S ARCADE & POOL HALL sign, a half-dozen men huddle in the alley shadows. Sweat, cheap beer, and desperation hang thick in the humid Harlem night. Crumpled dollar bills litter the ground at their feet. They're shooting craps behind the pool hall, and the tension is hot.

"Come on, baby, come on..." Junior mutters as the dice tumble. They bounce and settle — sevens. A chorus of whoops and groans erupts. Earl just crapped out and the men with side bets groaned in sync like a chorus.

"Earl, you done lost yo' damn mind bettin' all yo' bread!" laughs Big-Tee. Red grins, flashing a mouth full of teeth, and the men who never bet against Junior clap each other on the back.

"Jive turkey thought he was on a roll," Big-Tee mocks, shaking his head.

Junior was crouched low, scooping up the cash from his latest dice roll. The other men huddled around and laughed at Earl’s misfortune. Junior had wiped them all out in the past, but Earl was the only one dumb enough to step up with his rent money.

“This some bullshit!” Earl shouted; his face flushed with anger. “You cheatin’, Junior! Ain’t no way you rollin’ sevens like that back-to-back!”

Junior straightened up slowly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He counted the bills in his hand, deliberately taking his time, before tucking them into his pocket. “Man, if you can’t hang, then dice ain’t yo’ game. Simple as that, young blood.”

The circle of men erupted into laughter again, egging Earl on. “You gonna let him talk to you like that, Earl?” Leon teased. “Junior, just took your whole check, Jack!”

Earl’s eyes darted around the group, his pride stinging worse than the loss of his money. He reached for the Saturday Night Special tucked in his waistband, the gun catching the dim light of the alley as he aimed it at Junior. “I ain’t playin’ with you, Junior! You think you tough ‘cause you run what’s left of the Council? Nah, man, I know what you really about. You ain’t no kingpin. You just lucky yo’ daddy?—”

Before Earl could finish, Junior stepped forward, his smirk fading into a cold, hard stare. The laughter died instantly, the alley falling silent except for the distant hum of the city. Junior didn’t say a word, just locked eyes with Earl, his expression daring him to pull the trigger, his chest right up against the muzzle of the gun.

“Who my Daddy? Say his name muthafucka,” Junior said.

Earl hesitated, his arm and hand shaking. He glanced at the others, but no one was laughing now. No one was even breathing too loud. Earl’s bravado was crumbling under the weight of Junior’s unshakable calm.

“What you gone do with your water gun, punk muthafucka?” Junior asked through clenched teeth.

Nothing moved, not even a breeze. The distant bass from inside the pool hall seemed to hush. All of the rest of the men braced to run because if Earl were stupid enough to kill the bastard son of Don Matteo Ricci, the Butcher, every man in attendance would get carved up personally by him. Rumors all over the city said that the Butcher kept a closet full of fallen gangsters’ bones to sharpen his knives. Bullshit or not, no one wanted to test that rumor.

And Junior? He doesn't even blink. He fixed Earl with a harder stare. Slowly, Junior raises his hands halfway, palms out casually.

Earl’s gun wavers. His eyes dart to the others, then back to Junior. Sweat beads on Earl's forehead, rolling down past his temple. His chest heaves like a bellows. "Gimme my money back!" Earl barks, but his voice cracks. "All that bread mine! Y'all cheated me!"

Red speaks up softly, "Cool it, man..." He starts to raise his hands, too. “Junior ain’t cheat nobody. Ever. Those dice were just rolling hot tonight. We all good out here. It’s all in fun. Right Junior? Nobody wants no trouble."

"Shut up!" Earl snaps, wild-eyed. The muzzle flicks toward Red for a split second — and that's all Junior needs.

Junior, in one swift move, smacks Earl’s wrist hard. BAM! The gun fires, pops free and clatters to the oily pavement. Before Earl can react, Junior grabs him by the collar and yanks him forward. Earl yelps, swinging awkwardly as Junior holds him up with one fist and punches his face ruthlessly with the other. Blood spurts from Earl’s mouth and nose as he drops like a sack of potatoes. In desperation, Earl’s free hand dives to his boot, whipping out a rusty switchblade. But Junior is quicker: he kicks Earl to sleep, and the blade is dropped immediately.

It all happens in a heartbeat. Junior stands over him, calm but coiled tight. He spits on an unconscious, bloody Earl. "Look at you," Junior says, almost disgusted. "Pullin' a piece on me like you got the juice. You ain't got nothin', Earl." Junior’s voice is ice cold. The other men, brave enough to stay, watch in stunned silence; a moment ago, they'd been jeering Earl, and now even Big-Tee and Red look a little sorry for the man.

“Get the rest of my fucking money off him,” Junior said.

“He’s empty, boss,” said Big Tee, but Leon went and checked. Earl had a wad tucked in his boot. He pulled it out and showed them all the knot of cash. It meant he was skimming.

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