The Outlaws of Sherwood Street: Giving to the Poor Read Online Free Page B

screamed, “Shoot the sucker.” Then came blasts of machine-gun fire,
ACK-ACK-ACK, ACK-ACK-ACK.
I recognized that stupid dialogue from a video game Silas liked to play,
Death Commandos in Hell,
and knocked again, harder. Inside the sound got turned down, footsteps moved across the floor, and a man called, “Who’s there?” His English was very good, with just a trace of a Haitian accent, which sounds kind of French. This was Tut-Tut’s uncle, Jean-Claude. I smelled booze right through the door.
    â€œIs Tut-Tut here?” I said.
    The door opened. Uncle Jean-Claude peered down at us, forty-ouncer in hand. He was tall and thin, and resembled Tut-Tut in some ways—they had the same high cheekbones, for example. But the effect was very different: Tut-Tut’s face was sweet, Jean-Claude’s mean. Over his shoulder I could see the TV, a futuristic war frozen on the screen.
    His bloodshot eyes went to me, then Ashanti, and back. Did he even remember me? He’d been pretty wasted the only time we’d met, a nasty occasion that had ended with Jean-Claude knocking Tut-Tut to the floor with a vicious backhand blow and Tut-Tut and me taking off. Recognition dawned, which I knew from his face getting meaner.
    â€œYou,” he said.
    No denying that. “Is Tut-Tut here?” I said.
    He turned and called over his shoulder in a high voice, maybe mimicking me. “Boy! Are you here?”
    Silence.
    â€œDon’t look like it,” Jean-Claude said.
    â€œDo you know where he is?” I said. “He wasn’t in school today.”
    Jean-Claude put his hand over his chest in a dramatic sort of way. “Not in school today? How will he ever get ahead in this earthly life?”
    I could feel Ashanti’s anger rising. It jumped the space between us, like some kind of instant contagion, and set me off. “What the hell?” I said. “Why are you doing this? Just tell us!”
    For a moment, I thought Jean-Claude was about to get angry too. Instead he smiled and said, “Well, well. A hotheaded young chick.” He glanced at Ashanti. “Two hotheaded young chicks.” And now he did start to look angry, or at least annoyed. “How does that little retard get friends like you?”
    â€œHe’s not a retard,” we said together.
    â€œNo?” said Jean-Claude. “Then how come the INS grabbed him?”
    â€œOh, no!” I said. “Is it true?”
    â€œCouldn’t be truer,” said Jean-Claude.
    â€œWhy didn’t they grab you?” Ashanti said.
    â€œI’m no retard,” Jean-Claude said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a laminated card with his photo on it. “Plus, I have this, and he doesn’t.”
    â€œWhat is it?” I said.
    â€œA green card,” Jean-Claude said. His chin tilted up. “I’m as legal as you.”
    I gazed at the green card. It wasn’t even green. For some reason, that seemed important to me.
    â€œHow did it happen?” Ashanti said.
    Jean-Claude shrugged.
    â€œCome on,” she said. “There must be illegal immigrants all over the city.”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “Why did they pick on Tut-Tut?”
    â€œDon’t ask me,” Jean-Claude said, but his eyes shifted, not meeting ours.
    â€œOh, my God!” I said.
    â€œYou dimed him out,” said Ashanti.
    Jean-Claude raised the forty-ouncer, practically poured it down his throat, then wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “Think what you want,” he said.
    What I wanted was to do something real bad to him. All I could think of was grabbing that green card, held loosely in his non-beer hand, so that was what I did.
    Jean-Claude called me a name I’m not going to repeat and tried to snatch it back, but he was slow and clumsy, maybe much drunker than I’d thought. I retreated into the hall, Ashanti right beside me. He took a step or two after us, his