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  “Problem?” the man grunted.

  “Pay first. Okay?”

  “Christ.” The man reached into his jacket pocket and took out his wallet. He opened it, and even in the darkness, Jimmy could see the thick pad of green. Staring all the time out the window, Jimmy reached down and gripped the handle that would open the truck door. He lifted up on it slightly and with one swift motion snatched the wallet out of the man’s hand.

  He was halfway out the door before the man grabbed hold of the back of his pants. Jimmy winced as the man’s nails slid across his lower back, scratching. He struggled to get free, a little cry escaping from him, his heart pounding, the tough guy gone for now.

  “You little prick! Get in here and deliver!” The man pulled him into the pickup, didn’t bother closing the door. Jimmy sprawled across the seat and the man yanked at his jeans, scratching Jimmy, struggling to get his pants down. He’s strong, Jimmy realized, and his fear rose. He still had the wallet in one hand; with the other hand, he reached up, extending two fingers, and poked the man in the eyes.

  “Fuck!” the man screamed.

  All at once, he slammed Jimmy against the seat and his hands were around Jimmy’s throat.

  The man whispered under his breath as the pressure around Jimmy’s neck grew tighter and tighter. His voice came out in a whisper, quickly, bordering on rage. “Little cocksucker. You’ll get what you deserve. What right do you have to a decent life? Little cocksucking shit…it’s all your fault. All your fault.”

  Gasping, Jimmy dropped the wallet to the floor and groped for his sock, where his switchblade was concealed. If only he could reach…if only he could reach it.

  “All your damn fucking fault. I’m a decent guy.” The man’s grip loosened as he began to cry. The loosening was enough for Jimmy to grab the mother-of-pearl handle of the knife.

  He brought it out.

  Jimmy raised the knife, bringing his arm around the man’s back: a lover’s embrace. Just as he was about to plunge it into the man’s back, with all the strength and hatred he could muster, the man screamed.

  In an instant the man’s hand came off his throat. His elbow cut into Jimmy’s arm, pinning it against the back of the seat. The knife plopped onto the man’s back as Jimmy lost his grip.

  Eyes met eyes. And now Jimmy realized how deep his fear could go. The eyes he stared into weren’t normal. They were like an animal’s.

  The man’s voice became deliberate. “Don’t ever think you can fuck with me, kid. I’ve seen too many of your kind. Don’t even think of fuckin’ with me. I’ll rip you a new asshole. Got that?” The man reached back and took the knife. He looked at it, sitting up and smiling. “Thanks.”

  Quickly, he put the knife to Jimmy’s throat. “Now get your fuckin’ feet back in the cab and close the door. We’re goin’ for a ride.” He giggled. “I’m gonna take you someplace where we can take off our clothes and get comfortable.”

  Jimmy stared at the dark water of Lake Michigan, the foam on the waves silver in the moonlight, as the man pulled out of the parking lot. He wondered if he’d ever see the lake again.

  The truck moved faster and faster. Jimmy lowered himself down in the seat, drawing his legs up close.

  He willed himself not to cry.

  Chapter 2

  West side of Chicago. Here, the houses line up in order, white and red brick bungalows, the occasional two flat. To Jimmy, who had grown up around run-down walk-ups and projects, the houses and their clipped lawns looked palatial, the province of the wealthy.

  As they turned into the driveway of a white brick bungalow just like all the rest on the street, Jimmy watched out of the corner of his eye as the guy pressed a button on the visor above him. An aluminum garage door began to roll up, spilling yellow light onto the concrete. Inside, Jimmy could see stacks of old newspapers, a lawn mower, a little girl’s pink bicycle.

  “Kid, you even breathe too loud and I’ll ram this fuckin’ blade right up your ass.” The man pressed the button to unlock the power locks. “You’re gonna walk into the house and stay in front of me all the time. Got that?”

  Jimmy took in the fire in the man’s eyes, the hunger, and didn’t say anything.

  He grabbed Jimmy by the hair and twisted until Jimmy winced. “Got that?”

  “Yeah…I got it.” Jimmy bit his lower lip to hold back a cry until the man released his hair. Then Jimmy started to open the door and felt a sharp rap to the back of his head. With sullen eyes, he turned to look at the man, who was grinning and breathing heavier. “Wait a minute.”

  Jimmy sat frozen until the man pressed the button that would lower the garage door. When the door finally met the ground, the man looked over once more at Jimmy. “Now, get outta the cab.”

  *

  They entered through a kitchen door. Jimmy immediately felt out of place in the brown and gold kitchen. The maple table and chairs and the dried flower arrangement on the table seemed foreign to him. On the refrigerator were scribbled Christmas pictures, a Santa Claus from a coloring book that had been sloppily colored blue, the crayon’s markings swerving wildly beyond the black lines, and a Christmas tree cut clumsily from construction paper with aluminum foil ornaments glued to it.

  The man saw Jimmy staring. “My daughter’s.” He crossed to the refrigerator and took them down, burying them in a drawer next to the refrigerator. He mumbled to himself, “Scum like that get all the brains. What did she get?” He slammed the door closed two or three times, harder each time. Jimmy backed against the counter, willing himself not to tremble. He squared up his shoulders, thrust out his chest, and gripped the counter’s edge tight, whitening his knuckles.

  The man turned to him, breathing a little heavier. He smiled, almost seemed embarrassed. Here, in the bright overhead light of the kitchen, the man looked at least fifty…the kid’s clothes he wore and the bright red rouge on his cheeks only made that point more obvious. Jimmy stared back at him, trying to hide the terror that was welling up inside.

  This was one weird dude.

  Jimmy pulled a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and lit it. He cleared his throat. “What now, man?”

  “Oh, you’re just the practiced little one, aren’t you?”

  Jimmy blew a thin stream of smoke into the air, toward the ceiling. “Don’t know what you mean.”

  The guy took off the baseball cap and tossed it on top of the refrigerator. Jimmy could see the man’s black hair was thinning; his forehead glinted in the light. The man stared into the air and said, “He doesn’t know what I mean. Isn’t that a scream?”

  Everything he said had an underlying layer of rage, and Jimmy wondered what would happen when the guy turned the rage on him.

  But Jimmy didn’t want the guy to know what he was thinking, didn’t want him to know how scared he felt. He turned to look out the window. Outside, all he could see was black. On the windowsill was a small card. There was a picture of the Virgin Mary on it, a halo around her head.

  Jimmy picked it up, had begun reading the name Adele Morris and the date (just last month) when he felt the card ripped from his hand. He turned to see the man standing next to him, holding the card high and away from Jimmy, like he thought Jimmy would try to snatch it back or something. His face was red, contorted with anger; the rouge on his cheeks had almost disappeared in the flush on his face. He crossed back to the drawer where he had put the kid’s artwork. Putting the card inside, the guy muttered to himself: “Little fucker shouldn’t even touch it. Scummy little hands soiling my aunt’s memory. Never! Never!”

  Jimmy eyed the door to the garage, wondering if he could make it outside before the guy caught him.

  But Jimmy saw that the man had already turned back to him and was staring at him.

  The guy’s breathing seemed to slow. Normal color returned as he stared at Jimmy. His face was blank: the rage that had been there before was gone, replaced by a stillness that Jimmy couldn’t understand. He felt l
ike the man was studying him.

  Jimmy shifted his weight, looked for a place to put out his cigarette. “What are you lookin’ at me like that for? Huh?”

  The guy didn’t answer. His eyes, pale blue, bored into Jimmy, making him feel like the guy could see right through the tough facade he was trying to project, making him feel like the guy could see down inside him, where his fear quivered and moved like something alive.

  Jimmy tossed his cigarette into the sink as the guy moved closer. Without a word, he began undressing Jimmy, starting first by pulling off his shirt.

  Jimmy tried to smile. “Now we’re gettin’ down to business, huh?”

  Jimmy had thought that the beginning of sex would put him back in control, making him more comfortable. But the man’s cool hands on his body, the mechanical way he was unlacing his high tops so he could get them off, then pulling down his pants and not saying anything during the whole process, was too weird, and all Jimmy could do was hope that it would be over soon, hope that he could get out that door sometime tonight, even if the guy didn’t drive him back to uptown.

  “Why don’t you say somethin’, man? You like that dick?”

  The guy was on his knees before him, staring at Jimmy’s crotch. Jimmy wished he could get hard, even tried fantasizing about Miranda beneath him, her eyes staring up at him as he thrust into her, but nothing worked.

  The man began to whisper. “This is for your own good, kid. I can teach you something, teach you a lesson. Maybe it’ll change you. Maybe in the long run, you’ll come to thank me.”

  Jimmy tried to laugh, but it came out more like a cough. “For what?”

  “For showing you the path.” The man stood in front of Jimmy now and stared into his eyes, but it was as if he saw through the eyes; there was no contact. “The path to righteousness, son. And pain is the quickest way down that path.” He led Jimmy over to the table by the back of his neck, holding Jimmy in front of him. The man brushed the dried flower arrangement to the floor.

  “Don’t think that this’ll be a pleasure for me, kid. I do this only to teach you children something. I don’t like it; I find my pleasure only in the marriage bed.”

  “Sure,” Jimmy whispered. “I know that.” Jimmy found it hard to swallow. This’ll all be over soon, he told himself. You’ve had weird tricks before.

  The man, still holding on to Jimmy’s neck, pushed his face down into the wooden surface of the table. Jimmy felt a slickness against his cheek: oil. He smelled lemon and it turned his stomach.

  He heard the guy fumbling with his other hand and then felt the guy’s hard dick, pressed against him.

  “Hey, man, don’t you want some lube? It’ll go a lot easier.” Jimmy didn’t want to feel the ripping, the needles of pain shooting through him as the guy entered him dry.

  “Pain, my boy. Remember? It’ll heal you.”

  Jimmy closed his eyes and bit his lip so hard blood spurted into his mouth as the man slammed his penis into him, sending white-hot waves of pain through him, causing him to feel the heat everywhere: his fingertips, the roots of his hair.

  But he would not scream.

  The man began, in a loud voice: “Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee. I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell…”

  Jimmy went somewhere else. Before him, he saw Lake Michigan shimmering in August heat. The beach was full of people and he and his friend War Zone dashed into the water, sending up an icy spray.

  He barely felt the warm trickle of blood on his thighs.

  *

  Hours later. When? Darkness around him. A mattress, something soft beneath him. He remembered getting fucked, the sharp pain as the man entered him. He remembered the man grunting, wishing he would finish soon. He remembered the smell of B.O. and how the man flipped him over later onto his back and threw his legs over his shoulders. Remembered thinking this was never gonna end.

  But what else? What else? Why did he feel numb? Why did it feel like he couldn’t get up? Why was it cold and wet between his legs? Where were his clothes?

  Jimmy couldn’t remember how he got to this room. A flash of red, white, and blue. A Crisco can. God, Jimmy’s throat constricted at the memory. He tried to turn over and felt a stabbing sensation in his rectum. The nausea, bitter, rose in his throat.

  The man’s voice, praying: “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…” Jimmy didn’t want to push it, but here, in the darkness, it was easier to remember, to visualize. He didn’t want to see him dipping his hand into the can of Crisco.

  “This will heal him.” Jimmy remembered the guy whispering, almost as if he were talking to someone else in the room.

  He stopped the memory there, because he knew it wasn’t long after that he passed out.

  Now, as his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw he was in a room that looked like a den. A desk with a computer occupied one wall. Above the desk was a painting of Jesus, holding open his robe to show his heart. There were newspapers everywhere: stacked on the desk, along the floor. The other walls were lined with bookcases that held magazines, figurines, and lots and lots of paperback books.

  What’s gonna happen to me?

  Jimmy closed his eyes, trying to lie still, so that the stabbing pain in his butt didn’t rise up to make him catch his breath. He lay still and remembered being eleven years old.

  *

  Eleven. It was a Thursday night. Summertime.

  Trying to catch some Z’s. Jimmy turned over in his bed, the sheets moist from the humidity outside and his sweat. The rotating fan added nothing except to blow the hot air around and add a hum to the room. The hum did nothing to drown out his mother’s whimpers in the next room and the groans of the—two? three?—men in there with her.

  Jimmy turned once more, facing the wall. There was a long crack there, and he tried to concentrate on that, tracing its way down from about midway up the wall to his bed. He slipped his hands over his ears so he wouldn’t hear Carla and those guys she’d brought home. Fucking.

  He had a hard-on and that seemed pretty sick. It was his mother.

  Jimmy sat up in bed as the squeaking mattress springs and cries in the next room reached a crescendo. He reached for his shorts, lying on a chair next to him, and his T-shirt on the floor. He dressed quietly, trying not to think about the sounds coming through the walls.

  He left the apartment moments later, closing the door quietly, so quietly, even though he was certain he wouldn’t be missed. Carla would sleep long into the next day.

  And who knew what the men would do?

  Outside, Lawrence Avenue seemed a different place after midnight. Not so many cars, but the ones that did go by moved slower, as if the heat radiating from the pavement slowed their progress. At the corner, some kids had opened a fire hydrant earlier and big, muddy puddles of tepid brown water surrounded it. Jimmy pulled back out of the bright streetlights and leaned against a clothing factory outlet storefront, pressing the metal grating against his back.

  A black dude walked by. Everyone made fun of the guy because he had a deformity that caused him to carry his hand behind his back. It dangled there, like a tail. Jimmy tried to meet the guy’s eyes and smile, but the guy only glared at him.

  “You’re the evil one,” he whispered and hurried by.

  Jimmy snorted and flipped the guy the bird.

  He didn’t notice the car at first, but when the yellow Camaro came around the block a third time, Jimmy moved away from the wall and started walking west on Lawrence.

  The car pulled over to the lane closest to him and slowed to match his walking speed. Jimmy hurried. The car hurried.

  Jimmy glanced over his shoulder and could see the top of his building. He wished he could be there; his eyes burned and his limbs felt heavy. He just wanted to sleep.

  The Camaro had pulled a little ahead of him and had pulled over to the curb. As Jimmy passed, he heard the thonk of th
e car’s door lock being released. Jimmy slowed and glanced into the car’s dark interior.

  A guy with a bush of kinky hair, colorless in this light, and wire-rim glasses smiled out at him from the car. He had turned in his seat so he was facing Jimmy.

  Jimmy swallowed. He’d been on the streets enough to know what this guy probably wanted. He slowed down, coming almost to a stop.

  Suddenly the noises from his mother’s bedroom came back to him.

  He looked out of the corner of his eye at the guy.

  The car’s driver was still staring at him.

  Was he smiling?

  Jimmy chewed on his lip.

  “Hi.” The voice coming out of the car startled Jimmy. Jimmy stopped chewing his lower lip and turned to the car. Took a breath and moved toward it.

  Leaned inside.

  The guy’s pants were open.

  “How you doin’?” Jimmy said.

  *

  In the morning, the man came back to him. Dull streaks of sunlight filtered in through rectangular windows high up.

  The man looked different in the sunlight, wearing chinos and a plaid shirt. Almost fatherly. He smiled at Jimmy and squatted down beside him.

  “How you feelin’ today, son?” He began to loosen the clothesline around his wrists.

  The tone of his voice, the gentleness of his touch, and his demeanor were so different from the man he was with last night that for a moment Jimmy was unable to respond. But then he remembered the fury in the man’s eyes and decided he’d better answer. “A little sore.”

  The man undid the ties that bound Jimmy’s feet. “Yeah, it’ll take a little while. You bled quite a bit, but it’s pretty vascular back there. I’m sure you’ll be okay.” Jimmy shuddered.

  “You like the room? It’s the attic; I fixed it up myself.” Jimmy looked around. Was he supposed to compliment the guy or what? “Want some breakfast?”

  The thought of food made Jimmy’s stomach churn. But the last thing he had eaten was a Twinkie and a Coke at ten o’clock yesterday morning. He couldn’t afford to get weak on this fucker, or he’d never get free. “Um…yeah.” Jimmy forced himself to sit up, even though the pain began a dull throb. He shifted his weight to one side to try to diffuse the pain.