Over the Tracks: The Hunt: Book 2

By Cy Emery

When we left Joseph “Jay Gee” Graham, he had overcome his bullies with the help of his family, his crew, and his mentor; Mr. Thompson. He went on to become the only underclassman on his basketball team and won the heart of his beloved Lanesha. He had begun to accept himself and his difference. However, at the end of the school year, it was announced: Due to the law to desegregate all public schools, West Side High would be closed. All the kids on the West Side of the railroad tracks must attend school on the East Side.

Integrated Schools had come to Reservoir City.

Knowing at the white school the odds will be stacked against him to make the basketball team, his ticket out of that cesspool of a town and fulfill his promise to his Mama is looking more uncertain than ever. With his brother and confidant Lavelle off at war, his best friend Benny Lee in Juvie, and no word from Lanesha; he’s alone, isolated, wondering if all the marching and protest was worth it. Amidst all the confusion, Jay Gee is finally told the family secret concerning him which complicates matters even more.

Faced with a crisis in their home, neighborhood, adolescence, and now integrated school, Jay Gee and the crew must choose between the culture-stripping new school environment or join Reservoir City’s New Underworld growing around them and tracing the steps of their daily walk Over the Tracks.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781796075557

Cy Emery

Cy Emery - is a retired public school teacher of 35 years with a Master's Degree in Health Education. He’s a champion High School and Collegiate Coach. An author, mentor, and Motivational Speaker; he’s the recipient of the A.I. Garner Leadership Award, the Pennsylvania Chapter of the National Organization of Black Law Enforcement Executive’s: Distinguished Community Service Award, and the Martin Luther King Leadership Development Institute’s Foot Soldier Award For: Youth Leadership Development. He’s a member of Kappa Alpha Psi Fraternity, Inc. Member of the Pennsylvania Sports Hall of Fame

Book preview

Copyright © 2020 by Cy Emery.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

EDITED BY Micah Cook

Rev. date: 01/23/2020

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

804543

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1 Benny Lee

Chapter 2 Tryin’ To Get Over

Chapter 3 Black Rain

Chapter 4 The Walk

Chapter 5 Crossing the Line

Chapter 6 Homogenized

Chapter 7 Maynard

Chapter 8 The Fever

Chapter 9 Use What You Got

Chapter 10 Infiltrate

Chapter 11 A New Hybrid

Chapter 12 Before Darkness Swells

Chapter 13 Let It Be

Chapter 14 Last Respects

Chapter 15 Grounded

Chapter 16 Escape Plan

Chapter 17 Confessions

Chapter 18 Right Book, Wrong Cover

Chapter 19 Silhouettes In The Moonlight

Chapter 20 Stretched Too Wide

Chapter 21 Lessons In The Loss

Chapter 22 The Shadows

Chapter 23 Bearing The Weight

Chapter 24 Melt Down

Chapter 25 Can’t Breathe

Chapter 26 Life Support

Chapter 27 The Gift

Chapter 28 Run Toward It

Chapter 29 Listen To Your Commander

Chapter 30 The Pot

Prologue

For decades: White Supremacy, White Privilege, Civil Rights Marches, a Race Riot stormed through Reservoir City, a town by the sea already drenched in a history of racial strife. The railroad tracks served as a dividing line. The Easties were the haves, the Westies, the have nots. But by 1970, the national movement for Civil Rights had brought about a change that swept from coast to coast, and by the fall of that year, its results would wash up on our shore. Integration of schools had finally come.

Integration of Schools had finally come.

Both sides were forced into participating in the experiment of desegregation and with participation came waves of fear and questions. What would be the results of this social experiment, conducted at a time when people of color, in the Deep South, were just beginning to openly express self-pride through customs in their culture? Would it heal the wounds of racial inequality left by a half century of Jim Crow Laws, which resulted in low income jobs, poverty, and poor housing; or, would the father’s sins of those living on the East Side continue to oppress those on the West? How much would be gained; how much would be lost; and whose culture would bend the most?

School would be the perfect place to deem us Westies incompetent and force us to give up trying to elevate our standard of living. A daunting task for my crew and I, whose plates were already full juggling crisis at home and in our neighborhoods; like balancing boiling pots which constantly spilled, staining our adolescent years with scalding reminders of where we were from. With few resources, bets were taken on both sides of the tracks as to how long we Townies would last in the experiment. Barely understanding concepts of social justice, we would be the first lab rats tasked to carry out the mission and possibly sacrifice everything we had come to know.

I’d just placed my bullies in the rear view mirror, finally begun to accept myself and my differences. I was trying my best to walk in the light when my crew and I were waylaid by this challenge so great, there was no precedent.

I had to find a way to swim, to survive the experiment. I had banked everything on school and basketball as my ticket out of that God forsaken town and to help me fulfill a promise I made to my mother. If I failed, I’d let my whole family down. But how could I win? With integration, the stakes were raised tenfold for me. It was school or the streets.

It was school or the streets.

Times were changing. No place changed faster or as much as my hood. Life…well, more like circumstance, cut a path so wide on Franklin Street you would have thought it a six lane highway instead of the two lanes it was; the effects loomed large. The brothas and sistas made up their minds to stick it to The Man. Their motto, Take your $1.65 an hour jobs and shove it! Tired of begging for scraps at low paying menial jobs, they kicked The Hustle into high gear. We may be from the slums but we weren’t dumb. Inspired by black films, the action on Franklin Street grew beyond crazy. I got off the streets just in time. The kid hustles went from selling fruit, shining shoes, and selling pop bottles to being a lookout for the cops, an errand boy for the hustlers, or a messenger boy for the dope dealers.

The West Side Underworld had gone from low key to in your face overnight; from Sansabelt slacks and sundresses to ghetto fabulous. The ladies worked the corners in Hot Pants, Go-Go Boots, mile high Afro Wigs, and big hooped earrings; wrapped in long fake fur coats. The guys rocked either the Power look; short leather bomber or trench coat, leather pants, with a turtleneck shirt. Or they advertised their craft with the Super Fly, hustler look; rabbit fur fedora, turtle neck, wide Bell Bottoms, stacked heels; under a long rabbit fur coat. All chased their American Dream; an 8-Track, a color TV, and a Cadillac. I thought, How stupid, walking around in 95 degree weather looking like an Eskimo. Well, Black Coat came to mind. He had worn a long coat since birth. Then their dress didn’t seem so dumb. Wait…no, it still looked outrageously stupid to me.

Small cars like the Mustang, Charger, GTOs kicked to the curb; replaced by Cadillac’s Eldorado, Fleetwood, and the Buick Electra 225; better known on the streets as: A Deuce and a Quarter. Each ride was maxed out; Sunroof Top, Gangsta Whitewalls, TV antenna in the back. On my route to school; Pimps, Hustlers, Drug Lords chilled in their rides; sleeping off the night before. They’d call to you.

Hey Lil Man, c’mere.

You went if you were curious or broke, most were both.

Go in da stow ’n get me a pack of smokes, he’d say and hand you a five dollar bill.

Cigarettes were only .50 cents a pack. You’d come back with his smokes.

Keep da change, he’d say with a smile.

The ladies winked and blew you a kiss from the backseat. Most Townie boys admired those overdressed clowns, not me. For what it was worth, the old code still remained. Kids under age 18 were off limits, no active recruitment; only asked to run errands for smokes, food, and sodas. In fact, they encouraged us to go to school. They’d say, Go da scool. Don’t end up like me. But everyone wanted what they had… money.

So while Easties would shoot spitballs, laugh and joke on the school bus or walked through plush neighborhoods to school, my friends and I crossed the shadows of Gomorrah every day in our 20 minute route across the tracks to their school. Which pot would win out in the fight for our futures, Franklin Street or integrated schools?

Chapter 1

Benny Lee

The end of the summer was a Big Bang.

Life collided with destiny and parted ways, marred my dream; paralyzed my hope. I was set to become the next big thing on the West Side, but life frowned on my way to glory. A junior high prodigy and in my mind, I was destined to receive metals of honors up the ranks to being named Mr. Jaguar my senior year. A college scholarship awaited; freeing me from that cesspool of a town and fulfilling the promise I made to my mother.

Then, without warning, a social fire bomb was dropped: Integration of all Public Schools. West Side High, victim of the fallout, doors closed forever. Faced with attending white schools, with white coaches, my odds of getting out the sewage plummeted.

But the night before the social experiment was to begin; a tiny ray of hope compelled me to press forward, to not give up.

Benny…holy moly; how are you? Where are you? I spoke with great concern.

Um good, how bout you, he answered softly.

I’m okay, just a little anxious about starting school tomorrow.

I heard all da Townies got East Side Junya.

White Side Junior, I joked. We laughed. Where are you? How did your hearing go?

He paused, gathered himself. Somberly he answered.

Not good, not good at’ll. Um locked up.

Frightened by what would come next, I tentatively asked, When will you get out?

He took his time; a pause that stretched out my heart in thunderous rumblings.

Not fo’ awhile man,

Now it was my turn to pause. Struck by lightning and the stillness that came after, I tried opening my mouth; a choking gurgle of a cry broke through.

Don’t do dat, his voice cracked. I can’t do dat in here. It’s tough in here.

His warning snapped what remained of my voice back to trembling.

Benny, how am I supposed to go to school tomorrow without you, especially with all those Easties? I asked, my body fighting the ache.

You be aw right. Da rest of da crew be wid ya.

I know, but it won’t be the same without you.

That was the cold, hard truth, and we both knew it.

Well, ain’t nothin’ we kin do bout dat now, is der? En ya betta keep playin’ basketball. Rememba, I wanna see ya on TV someday, he chuckled painfully.

I will.

Ya promise?

I promise… Man, I miss you so much.

He paused once more.

I miss you too, his voice softened again. Kin ya do me a favor?

Sure, you name it, anything,

Will you tell my mama ta call me Tuesday round 6 o’clock? I need her ta do somethin’ fo’ me.

You got it. I’ll tell her tomorrow when I get home from school.

Thanks man. Well, I gotta go. Dey callin’ fo’ lights out.

When will you call again? I asked with expectation.

I‘ont kno’. We don’t get a lot of phone passes. I’ll call ya when I kin.

Okay, Blood Brother.

Y’kno’ it, Blood Brothas fo’ life. Bye Joseph, his voice faded.

Good-bye Benny. I whispered and hung up the receiver.

Punching my pillow, the rest of the storm came. Tear crashed against my cheeks. I wept aloud.

With slip-ons slapping against the floor announcing her haste, Mama clutched her night robe and rushed into the commotion.

Are you alright? Who was that? she asked in a huff and concern only a mother hen could match.

It was Benny. I rolled toward her.

Is he okay? she questioned knowing full well it wouldn’t help asking where he was.

He’s locked up in Juvie, Ma. His hearing didn’t go well at all. He’s going to be in there for God – knows how long, my voice trembled.

She allowed me to have that moment, set down on my bed, and stretched her arms around me; pulled me into her embrace.

I’m sorry Joseph. Did he say anything else? she cooed with concern.

He wants me to tell his mom to call him Tuesday at 6 o’clock, I wiped my face.

The tension left her voice, replaced with resolve. Well, make sure you deliver his message. He’s counting on you.

I cleared my throat, responded in a deep sigh, I will.

She gathered herself and stood. Alright, get some sleep. You have a big day tomorrow. Good night.

Good night Mama.

The sheet fell behind her and footsteps faded. Gaining some composure, I turned toward Casey’s bed for comfort only to find deep, dark, cold sockets staring. I didn’t recognize them. Then I caught a whiff of his foul, molding stench; Fear had crept in. In full form, he sat quietly where hope should have been. My stress over Benny Lee gave invite. The stories I’d heard about Juvie, what the older kids did to the younger ones, gave chills.

I couldn’t let the yellow eyed monster win.

A hard squint, a stiff upper lip, a guttural growl escaped my lungs. Half to embolden myself, half to expel the shadow, I repeated the action. Soon after, the window rattled, the screen expanded outward.

It was gone. Only the long night remained.

I peered into the night. Clouds rolled in, hid the solar system that would normally blanket a clear August night. A dim haze of the Moon remained.

Benny Lee’s plight surfaced again momentarily. His attempt to assure me he was fine, failed. How could he be fine locked up like an animal?

I prayed for him; God bless Benny Lee. Watch over him and keep him safe from the older boys. Amen.

I turned the page to my girlfriend Lanesha, the other strain on my crane. The room inhaled a tender gasp. The window screen expanded inward. Two weeks prior, she told her well-kept secret; she was assigned to Sea Garden Junior High; our worst nightmare. Her words stung like a swarm of hornets. She disturbed the nest in a torrent of apologies over the phone.

Are you alright, she asked.

No, I’m not, I answered in shock. What are we going to do? When will I see you? Who’s going to cheer for me this year? I’m dying inside right now.

I know. I’m dying too. That’s why it took me two weeks to tell you. I didn’t want to hurt you, she whispered.

You knew two weeks ago?!

She paused. Her sniffles rang out through the receiver.

Yes…I cried all night when I got the letter; the next two nights too. I only answered your calls. I couldn’t talk to my girlfriends. All their boyfriends are going to Sea Garden with them. I knew I had to tell you. I didn’t want you looking around at school for me and finding out from someone else. What are we going to do, she cried.

I don’t know. There’s nothing we can do. It’s not your fault or mine. It’s that dumb School Board’s fault, them and this stupid school desegregation law. First, they took away our school. And second, they pushed us to whatever school they wanted. This bites butt so bad! But I guess we asked for it. All that marching, crying for equal rights, rioting. Now look.

They say their schools are better equipped; new books, supplies, smaller classes, she replied.

I know, but that doesn’t help our situation…you and me. They stole our life Lanesha. They hijacked it in plain sight… and our parents gave them permission.

I apologize for not telling you sooner. Please don’t be angry at me.

I’m not angry, just disappointed we won’t see each other at school.

"We still have a couple of weeks of summer left. Will I see you at the pool Saturday?’

Count on it… I love you Lanesha.

I love you more.

We held onto each other’s fragrance as long as we could, each flower still intact. The week leading up to the Great Experiment, reality set in. Phone calls, messages sent by mutual friends weren’t enough. Her calls would eventually stop; mine would go unanswered, not returned. That’s how it was in my hood. Important people in our life came and went without any or little warning.

I sat up, massaged the heartache of losing my best friend and my girlfriend. At the foot of the bed Sadness wanted his time. Easily recognized; shoulders hunched, head tilted down. He shook his crown to say, Don’t fight me. He crawled to the ceiling, hovered. I wanted to resist; couldn’t. A silent stream flowed past my lobs, soothing. The shadowy figure found refuge for a while.

Chapter 2

Tryin’ To Get Over

After Benny Lee went to Juvie, I needed to find my own money maker. With no siblings at home to pay for phone messages, I ventured uptown. I had my eye on the Pool Hall for some time, but you had to be 18 to get in. Until recently, my brother Lavelle shot pool there often before leaving for the army. I’d track him there to hang out with him for a minute. Mr. Frank, the door man was gracious enough to tell Lavelle I needed to see him outside. He’d come out if he wasn’t shooting a game. Remembering Mama’s words, If you’re hungry, ask the owner to sweep the floor or take out the trash for something to eat, but don’t steal. I decided to take a chance. I walked up to the door.

Hello Mr. Frank, nice weather today, I said, pouring on the charm.

Hey Jay Gee, Lavelle ain’t here t’day, he spoke quickly.

I know. He shipped out last week. It’s you I wanted to speak with.

Me… well, what you want? he asked.

I was wondering if I could sweep the floor or take out the trash, or maybe clean the pool tables for a couple bucks. Heck, I’ll even clean the restroom.

He chuckled and said, Ya ain’t old enough ta come in here.

"I know, but I’ll work fast and be as quiet as a mouse. By the time you turned around, I’d be standing there with my hand out for my pay.

He looked into my eyes. I’m sure they said, desperate. I was. He looked left, then right.

C’mere, he ordered.

He grabbed me by my arm and whisked me inside. He pressed my back against the wall. We stood face-to-face; well, my face to his chest. He glared down; I nervously gazed up.

Aw right Lil Graham, ya wanna make some bread? he asked in his gruff tone.

Yes, what do I have to do? I inquired.

He paused too long. Oh no, I thought. Mr. Frank wants me to run drugs or be a lookout; two things I swore I’d never do…but I was so broke.

Here’s da deal, he whispered reaching into his pocket.

Oh boy, here we go. I thought Where must I deliver it to?

Kin ya keep yo’ mouth shut? he asked. His voice deepened, eyes stretched.

I paused. I didn’t want to do it but I needed the money. I was hungry. I gathered myself and nodded yes. He backed away a little and continued.

Ya gonna see ’n hear a lot but ya kin’t tell a soul…ya hear me boy? he asked.

Once again, I nodded yes.

I could use ya help but ya gotta work fast ’n git outta here. If da law caught ya in here both our ass is grass. Ya hear me?

Yes sir, I answered with a straight face.

"If da cops drive up you haul ass out dat back doe ’n don’t look back. Ya hear?

Yes sir, don’t look back.

Da broom ’n da dust pan’s over by da stick rack. One mo’ thang, don’t bother da back tables. Leave’em ta dey business. Ya hear? he warmed.

Yes sir, leave them to their business, I repeated.

Aw right den, I needs da flo’ swept ’n take out da trash. Don’t forget da trash in da restroom. Dumpster be out back. When ya done, come see me. Rememba, move quick ’n don’t bother da back tables.

I Understand.

Mr. Frank purposely stood in front of me the entire interview. His presence demanded my attention. He probed for my trust. He moved aside, I froze in awe, scanned with laser intensity. A set going strong, a lot of things going on; the Jukebox blared, had no idea it was on. A mini-casino in full swing across the back row; Table 7: Black Jack, Table 8: Poker, Table 9: A High Stakes Pool Game. Dice clattered in the back left corner behind Table 7. After a fast shake of the dotted squares, Baby needs a new pair of shoes one shouted, and into the wall they went. Yelling, cheering, swearing; brown bags turned up all around. They sipped without shame. A cloud of sin framed the area. These were the foot soldiers for the Underworld: the Thugs and the Playas, dangerous just the same. Their piece winked from their waistband.

The Thugs, a Wannabe Gangsta, donned the Euro-look; black or brown leather jacket, straight leg pants, and flat shoes. They matched tapered shirt or a turtle neck with a red, green, or blue beret; signifying which kingpin they clocked for. Their bosses divided the city into territories; Downtown – Blue, Midtown – Green, Uptown – Red. They didn’t work the Parks. The Parkers came to them; drugs, bootlegged items, buy/sell/fenced stolen goods. Pool Halls, clubs, eateries were common ground. No beefs settled there… well, most of the time. The streets were the battleground, especially if caught doing business on another man’s turf. Carl Lucky Crawford ran Downtown; Lester Silk Jenkins ran Midtown, and Paul Flat Top Wallace ran Uptown. I lived in Midtown, Silk Jenkins’ territory. I walked to school through Flat Top Wallace’s turf.

The Playas, a Super Fly in training, pranced around in a watered down version of their mentor; wide brim hat, butterfly-collar print shirt, bell bottom pants, and platform shoes. Their piece strapped to their ankle. They sat one hip on the table, exposed their heat; alerted the Thugs, I might look pretty but don’t cross me! Cause I’ll pump more holes than Swiss Cheese in ya. Playas recruited clients and potential workers for their boss. Far too much info for a 13 year old to have but I knew those streets like the back of my hand. I had to if I was to survive in the jungle.

Those hoods and their bosses clocked 24/7 trying to get over; selling false hopes, dreams, illusions for a night to anyone who’d listen. Sad thing is, they planned to escape poverty by getting over on their own people; a group desperate to find answers to their own plight. They used their need for escapism to hook them on drugs, prostitution; a life of crime. Everyone knew their hustle was wrong. But for some, it was the best game on my side of the tracks. Many compromised their upbringing for a piece of the action. In reality, the whole neighborhood was trying to get over something: their hurt, anger, fear, poverty, and their disappointments made them susceptible to buy into the illusions.

Mr. Frank’s voice brought me back. Rememba, leave ’em ta dey business. Only go back der ta git da trash out da restroom ’n take it out da back doe ta da dumpster. Okay, git to it.

I set a world’s record for sweeping and taking out the trash that first day. In no time flat I was back in front of Mr. Frank with my hand out.

Ya done aw ready, he asked in awe.

Yes sir, I answered with pride.

He strolled down each row with white gloves. I waited up front. When he reached the back, he turned, smirked, and came toward me.

Man, good job, he complimented as he gave me my pay.

Thank you, thank you very much. When do you want me to come back? I asked.

And that was it. I was in. My schedule: Monday, Wednesday, Friday mornings at 10 am the rest of the summer. I never told a soul. To avoid the crew, I took the path behind the closed Roland’s Supermarket, to get to the Pool Hall. I was grateful that Mama made me sweep and take out the trash as part of my chores; more important, she taught me how to humble myself and ask for what I needed.

By the end of the first week, I negotiated up to $1.25 for the hour of work; which included, brushing off the surface of the pool tables. Bear and Tank, the Bouncers, kept tabs on the back tables. Both looked like Linebackers for the Manopa Sharks Pro Football Team. Cool guys though; got to know them well, did smoke runs for them. They were packing, as well as Mr. Frank. Once again, I had to put myself in harm’s way to earn a buck, while the Parkers and my counterparts across the track; mowed lawns, raked leaves, trimmed hedges, delivered newspapers, and cleaned swimming pools. I didn’t hate though, they had their reality; I had mine.

The jukebox took a cut of my pay; two spins for a quarter. With Lanesha’s tenderness still on my lips, I longed for her touch. Her passion still burned inside. I spied cars, store fronts, the faces of passersby. I pressed G-4, Just My Imagination, my favorite tune. The best line, Each day through my window I watch her…but it was just my imagination. Those lyrics went deep. I thought I saw her everywhere. But it was just my imagination.

My 2nd favorite, I’ll Be There, stoked the fire. The line, Just call my name, took me back to the community pool, my basketball games, our phone conversations; memories of her calling my name. One hot summer night, during a phone conversation, she called my name, Joseph, I love you. I love you so much. Before I could answer, a deep groan, and the mountain erupted. Are you alright? Mama shouted from the other bedroom. I stuttered between breathes. ‘I’m…okay…I’m …on the phone.’ I flipped back the covers, turned on the light; manhood appeared; his first visit during waking hours.

Drifting on her memory, I’d close my eyes; sang my tunes after work. Sneaking up on me, Mr. Frank interrupted, Who is she, he asked.

Huh, I answered in a daze.

C’mon, it must be a girl. What’s her name? he smirked.

Oh…Lanesha, her name’s Lanesha.

Ya must really like her, he probed.

Yeah, I did, I confessed.

Ya did…ain’t she yo’ girl no mo’?

Nah, not anymore, I admitted.

He stepped closer, put his hand on my shoulder.

Well, der be other girls. Ya can’t stand round cryin’ over spilled milk. When it happens, ya wipe it up ’n get another glass.

Two weeks later, I stood near the jukebox, humming my tunes. A cue ball whizzed by me, smashed against the wall. I flinched, opened my eyes and looked over at Mr. Frank. He waved frantically. I checked the front door. Two cops five steps from the door. I’d missed the get out signal. The casino scrambled to put away the brown paper bags, cards, money, and the dice. They repositioned their hardware to their back waistband, walked briskly toward the pool sticks where I was standing. I scampered in the opposite direction, trying to make the back door. They knew I wouldn’t make it. They surrounded me, hide me.

Get down, one whispered.

Get under da table, another ordered.

I dropped like a rock, crawled to the far end of Table 7, stayed put. Hiding eight feet from the back door; I wanted to run for it. I couldn’t think. My heart raced a mile a minute, pounded out my chest. I went numb, throat closed; couldn’t swallow… cotton mouth. On the verge of passing out, I snatched two deep breaths; exhaled slowly. I gathered some composure and peeked around the base. Several Underlings played pool, others leaned against the wall, chatted; pretended to have next game.

Two pair of patent leather hooves faced Mr. Frank. I thought, Now’s my chance. I turned to leave, a knee heeded my progress. Not now Lil Fella, came from up top. I took another peek. The hooves were coming! They oinked at the crowd as they drew near. I prayed, God, if you get me out of here, I won’t come back. The drumming in my chest would give me away if it didn’t stop. They paused at the front of Table 7.

"Well Tavon, when did you get out?" One cop asked.

Three weeks ago, he answered.

How’s it going Jesse? the other asked.

Pretty good, Mista Dale.

The pork waddled to the middle of the table, night sticks in hand. I grabbed my shins, folded into a knot. I tried to disappear. Without warning, the taller one dipped his head under the table…snorted…and came up.

They continued toward me. I could smell