“I was wondering why I got invited to a kids’ party.”
“I like talking to the next generation,” he admitted. “Makes me still feel relevant.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that, sir. I’d say you’re still pretty relevant.”
“Now,you,” Mitchum said. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself lately.”
I just nodded. I wasn’t sure why Francis Mitchum had wanted to meet me.
“I hear your brother was killed by a nigger,” he said. “And your father’s a flamer—”
My head swung up, cheeks hot. “He’s not my father anymore.”
“Take it easy, boy. None of us can pick our parents. It’s what we choose to make of them that’s important.” He looked at me. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“When I was beating him unconscious.”
Again, I felt like I was being given a quiz, and I must have answered correctly, because Mitchum kept talking. “You’ve started your own crew, and by many accounts, you’re the best recruiter on the East Coast. You took the rap for your second in command, and then taught him a lesson as soon as you got out of jail.”
“Just doing what needed to be done.”
“Well,” Mitchum answered, “there aren’t too many like you, nowadays. I thought honor was a commodity that was going extinct.”
Just then, one of the other little boys snapped the neck off the piñata, and the candy cascaded onto the grass. The kids fell on it, grabbing up sweets in their fists.
The birthday boy’s mother came out of the kitchen carrying a platter of cupcakes. “Happy birthday to you,” she started to sing, and the children crowded around the picnic table.
Brittany stepped out onto the porch. Her fingers were blue with icing.
“Back when I was running a squad,” Mitchum said, “no one in the Movement would have been caught dead being a junkie. Now, for the love of God, Aryan boys are teaming up with redskins on reservations tomakemeth somewhere the feds can’t intervene.”
Happy birthday to you!
“They’re not teaming up,” I told Mitchum. “They’re banding together against common enemies: the Mexicans and the blacks. I’m not defending what they’re doing, but I understand why they might be unlikely allies.”
Happy birthday, dear Jackson!
Mitchum narrowed his gaze. “Unlikely allies,” he repeated. “For example, an old guy with experience…and a young guy with the biggest balls I’ve ever seen. A man who knows the former generation of Anglos, and one who could lead the next. A fellow who grew up on the streets…and one who grew up with technology. Why, that could be quite a pairing.”
Happy birthday to you!
Across the yard, Brit caught my eye and blushed.
“I’m listening,” I said.
—
AFTER THE FUNERAL,everyone comes back to the house. There are casseroles and pies and platters, none of which I eat. People keep telling me they’re sorry for our loss, as if they had something to do with it. Francis and Tom sit outside on the porch, which still has some shards of glass on it from my window project, and drink the bottle of whiskey Tom’s brought.
Brit sits on a couch like the middle of a flower, surrounded by the petals of her friends. When someone she doesn’t know well comes too near, they close around her. Eventually, they leave, saying things likeCall me if you need meandEvery day it’ll get a little easier.In other words: lies.
I am just walking the last guest out when a car pulls up. The door opens, and MacDougall, the cop who took my complaint, gets out. He walks up the steps to where I am standing, his hands in his pockets. “I don’t have any information for you yet,” he says bluntly. “I came to pay my respects.”
I feel Brit come up behind me like a shadow. “Babe, this is the officer who’s going to help us.”
“When?” she asks.
“Well, ma’am, investigations into these things take time…”
