Page 33 of The Street Disciples
Whit’s SUV purred out back where the rats were fat. Saint stood in the slot where cameras looked tirelessly. He wore an umbrella like a conscience. Whit’s in a bomber too clean for rain, white gloves like he doesn’t touch door handles.
“You look like a snowstorm,” I stated him, chin up. “Lose the gloves when you talk to men.”
He grinned. “I talk to budgets.”
Saint’s eyes barely moved. “You late.”
“I’m right,” I countered. “Late is for the folks who think minutes matter more than leverage.”
Saint heard me anyway. He always does. That’s why I prefer him to Whit. Whit made noise. Saint remembered it.
We ventured inside, not together. The look mattered. The manager met us with a rag in his hand and a lie on his mouth. I shook his hand, so he doesn’t have to use either.
We made our way to the blind lane. Lights off. The machine at the end clicking like it was bored. I wasn’t sitting. They did. I circled the ball returning with my knuckles like a pastor at a baptism.
Whit yawned. He’s young enough to pretend boredom is power. “Friday,” he mentioned. “Backyard jam. You sure you can get your boys to clap on beat?”
“My boys clap when I look at ‘em,” I let out. “Your boys clap when a camera does. You bringing the camera?”
He flashed a smile that was purchased, not earned. “Always.”
Saint slid a piece of paper across the plastic table. Permits. Words that told me the space was allowed when we all agree to pretend. I scanned them and pointed where the typo mattered. “Line eight. Swap ‘noise mitigation’ for ‘community relations.’”
Whit blinked. “Why?”
“Noise mitigation means you turn something down,” I answered. “Community relations means you shut somebody up. We ain’t turning down nothing. We’re shutting up one person.”
“Ro,” he grinned, like it tasted good.
I wasn’t giving him that. “Whoever stands where a camera likes faces.”
Saint watched my lips. He felt the change without telling me I was right. Another reason I prefer him.
“And the debt,” Whit announced, lazily. “Sal’s ledger.”
Ledger. People like that word because it feels old. What it meant was simple: somebody got more than they should and now somebody else wants to feel tall.
I drummed a slow pattern on the lane with my gloves. “We settle the ledger when the noise stops. Until then, it’s a story we tell the bad men to keep them out of worse rooms.”
Whit looked offended because he confused desire with entitlement. He leaned back. “We need money moving. I don’t like waiting.”
“You’ll love the alternative less,” I spoke, firmly. “Police attention is expensive. Ask your dad.”
Saint’s eyes cut to me. Not a warning. A measurement. He tapped the paper. “Friday handles Ro. What handles the wife?”
“It ain’t about handling her,” I informed. “It’s about keeping her where her strength becomes a tactic, not a threat. You move a strong woman wrong, and she becomes a map for other people. You move her right and she becomes a storm you can schedule.”
Whit snorted. “Poetry hour?”
I leaned forward until the cologne on his jacket thought about leaving. “You’re in a bowling alley with a man you’d call a felon if a camera asked and another, you’d call a consultant. We ain’t here for rhymes. We’re here because you don’t know how to lose without breaking your toy. I’m the toy doctor. You cry again, and I smack your hand.”
Saint’s mouth almost twitched. “Done with the lane?”
“Done,” I stated with finality. “Friday. You bring the sheriffs and light it up like your Christmas party. I’ll bring a reason for them to stand near the gate and look concerned. You’ll get your show. Maybe even a speech.”
Whit stood. “What about the camera boys on the block? I see one everywhere. Skinny, toothpick in his lip, thinking he Scorsese with EBT.”
“Toothpick Tony,” I confirmed. “He’s the soundtrack. He ain’t the movie. I’ll park him where he thinks he found everything on his own.”
