Marty's Kid

By Hannah K

Everyone in North Philadelphia knows Connor runs drugs for Marty. What they don't know is Marty used to buy Connor gumballs and carry him up to bed. Connor wishes Marty remembered that. He wishes his school crush would hang out with him and wants to know why a neighbor kid keeps telling him that Jesus lov

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hannah K
• Release date: Dec 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798989652617

Book preview

Marty’s Kid

Marty’s Kid

Hannah K

Marty’s Kid

Copyright © 2023 by Hannah Johnson

Cover design copyright © 2023 by Isabella Perez. Cover photo by CJ Johnson. Used by permission.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations for articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author attests that no identifying information was procured through her surveillance of her drug-dealing neighbors. Although some spying was involved, primary sources were the internet and the imagination.

Scripture quotations are from The ESV® Bible (The Holy Bible, English Standard Version®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved. All paraphrases are the author’s own.

Print ISBN: 979-8-9896526-0-0

Imprint: Hannah K

Soli Deo gloria

To Mike, Jesse, three Gabriels,

and all the rest

because you are braver and stronger

than I am

and you brought this story alive

little by little

in my heart.

I pray God gives you grace

to overcome the hard beginning

For hope in the middle

and a happy ending.

Author’s Note:

While I have tried to handle the issues of abuse, neglect, and mental health with sensitivity, I wanted to be true to these realities in my narrator’s life. Some scenes may be triggering to some readers.

Please prioritize your own mental and emotional well-being while reading.

1

I

hate Christmas. Every other kid in Philly, in this hood even—they get something, they go somewhere, at least they got someone to hang out with. Not the skinny white kid who runs stuff for Marty. When I slide the closet door open and crawl out onto the grimy carpet of my bedroom floor, I find my fists clenching for no reason at all.

Christmas Eve, yeah, right. From the way Marty was talking he’s setting up to ice some Chico tonight, because he’s been stealing our customers. Marty will send me out with the hit guy—probably Jerrik, and he’ll try to push me around.

With a heavy breath, I kick through a pile of clothes and comic books, looking for a Captain America shirt. When I find one, my fists melt into hands again while I pull it on. I glance back at the dirty-white comforter, empty Advil bottles, and wide-ruled notebook lying open on the closet floor. Can I crawl back in there and wake up when Christmas is over?

In the living room, I turn the PlayStation on and stick my head in Marty’s room. Empty. Over to the kitchen area and stick my head in the fridge. The pizza’s gone, the milk is gone, and I don’t feel like beer for breakfast.

I let the fridge door swing closed and turn around, my eyes falling on the open Fantasy Battle case on top of the PlayStation. Okay, Racer, guess it’s just me and you again. Looking up, out the window, I see the Christmas lights decorating Skip’s house across the street. I remember me and Marty did lights one year, a long time ago, and I would stare at them, falling asleep against his arm. We’re not like that anymore. We’re pretty much what the neighborhood thinks we are—a tough-looking drug dealer and the silent blond kid who runs for him.

A minute later I’m gripping my controller as Racer dodges burning projectiles on his way into an ancient Frisian monastery. The monster catches us off-guard, right inside the door. I raise my gun but his smoking black arm swings around, pinning me in a corner. Trying to pull free, I fire, banging the buttons on the controller. But it’s not working—this thing is too strong for me. He opens his mouth, I see rows of rotting teeth, and the mouth comes down over my head. I curse in a whisper as the screen fades to black.

Hearing a key in the lock, I hit pause. Take a breath and glance around the living room. For once, reality seems safer than Racer’s world.

Marty enters, in his long raincoat, clutching a cup of coffee and a handful of mail. I smell sausage and toast and whipped cream, and my stomach feels hollow. My eyes track him to the kitchen table. He drops the mail, flicks through it, lifts a red envelope and sets down his coffee so he can tear it open.

It’s a Christmas card from my mom. I watch him pull out a twenty-dollar bill and drop the envelope back to the table.

As he pushes the bill in his pocket, I stand up and come over, reaching for the envelope. Stare at my name in her neat, businesslike print. Connor Cavalier. Pulling the card out, I glance at the grinning Santa—open it, look inside. Always the same card, always the same blank space staring back at me.

Blank space can say a lot. I drop the card on the table and push my hands in my pockets. Can’t believe Marty got the money again. Next year I gotta be faster.

When I look up, he’s heading into his room.

Marty, can I have like five bucks? For breakfast?

He tosses his raincoat on the bed.

Marty?

Who pays the rent, kid?

He used to say, who feeds you, or who bought you that shirt. But he don’t do much of either of those anymore, so I guess he knows better than to play that card.

We’re meeting Jerrik at ten. He barely glances at me. No gang colors.

I look down at my skinny blue jeans and Captain America shirt.

As he drops himself down on the bed, he runs his hands through his spiked-up hair, turning it into tousled brown waves. Got that?

Here in the hood people don’t say ‘got that’, they say ‘ya dig?’ But Marty’s not from the hood—grew up middle class, Chicago suburbs, and he does things his own way. He glances at me and I nod. Then he reaches into his nightstand drawer, slides a gun aside, and fishes out a ten-dollar bill. Holds it out, face turned the other way.

My eyebrows go up and a smile crosses my face as I come over to take it. Thanks, Marty.

Yeah, don’t get used to it. He drops back on the bed with a half groan, his eyes closing. When I pause in the doorway, he opens them again. Quit staring at me.

Back in the living room, I push the bill in my back pocket and grab my controller. Once I hit play I know I gotta fight that monster again. Half of me just wants to quit the game and go down to Dunkin’ Doughnuts for some hash browns. But something else in me thinks—give me two seconds, I’ll have him down on the ground, screaming for mercy.

When the monster reappears, I use my last boost to swing the gun—fire. It hits him in the foot just as the screen starts going black. He reels—I raise the gun and aim. The third eye from the right—that’s the way to kill ‘em with one shot. Which is good, cause I only got one shot left.

I fire, he screams an eerie scream right before he hits the dusty tile floor. Thud.

Marty’s voice—Quiet, kid.

I hit the mute button without looking and smile as Racer springs over the dead body and runs free.

***

It’s ten p.m., and we’re sitting in the dark car at the Sunoco three blocks away from our house, waiting for Jerrik. Marty’s on his phone—the pale white light cast across his expressionless face. I’m trying not to watch him. Trying not to think about what he’s gonna make me do tonight. Whether it’s picking a lock, or staking someplace out, or crawling through some hole with a handgun because I’m small and know how to shoot. Whether he’s coming with me, whether he’ll leave me alone with Jerrik, what I’ll do if the guy tries to—

Don’t go there, kid. Leaning back against the seat, I focus on a group of Puerto Rican kids outside the convenience store, watch them push at each other, fooling around. I rub my damp hands on my jeans—first one, then the other, push them into my jacket pockets, take them out again and lean forward and push them through my hair.

Headlights flash across our faces as Jerrik pulls up next to us. He gets out, slapping his hand against the chain on his leg and pushing a pair of sunglasses over his eyes.

Marty rolls down his window and grunts at him. Can you even see anything?

Jerrik’s crooked mouth smirks. Is he looking at me? I can’t tell.

Take him. Marty jerks his head toward me. Pick Skip up at Cooper’s. He lowers his voice. Just what we planned, give the kid a run-down… He half glances over at me. Don’t need to tell him…you know…

Jerrik nods and comes around. Flings my door open. Instinctively I lower my head, pulling away.

Marty’s voice is quiet. Kid.

Swallowing, I glance up at him. Ain’t you coming?

Shut up and listen to Jerrik, okay?

Marty… I try to beg him with my eyes. Can’t I go with—

He pushes a button and the car sputters to life. Jerrik gets hold of my arm and pulls me to my feet. I yank away, glaring at his shadowy, ash-smeared face, my voice going harsh. Touch me tonight and I’ll kill you.

A sick grin spreads over his bony face. I shove a hand into the pocket of my leather jacket and grip my knife.

Jerrik, don’t get him all worked up. Marty shifts into drive. Shut the door, man.

My stomach sinks as I watch Marty pull away. I follow Jerrik to his car, slip into the back seat, and sit close up against the door. I can see him in the mirror—not his eyes, but his thin mouth and part of the scar across his chin. He glances back at me—grins. Man, I wish I weren’t so small and skinny. There’s fourteen-year-olds at school that are almost as tall as Jerrik and could knock him down with one shove if he tried messing with them. Me, I’m still the size of a sixth grader.

When we pull up to the curb outside Cooper’s, I’m watching Jerrik so close I don’t see Skip till he’s jumped into the passenger seat in front of me. He’s grinning too, but it’s a nicer kind of grin. He grabs Jerrik’s head in a playful greeting. Yo Roguey!

Jerrik punches his shoulder and Skip turns to grin at me. Yo Baby Rogue.

Skip’s pretty decent. He’ll stick up for me if Jerrik goes too far.

What’s wrong, man? Skip’s dark eyes glisten with excitement. Don’t know what you’re doin’?

Don’t wanna know. I swallow, looking away.

Bro, you know Gonzales, don’t you know he crossed the Avenue? We can’t have Chicos crossing the Avenue, man, you know they tryna take over.

He waits for me to agree, but I don’t even blink.

Right now he waitin’ for a delivery from someone he never seen before. Skip reaches between the seats to jostle my head. We just have you knock and when he opens me and Jerrik take care of him, yeah, bro?

I pull my head away.

The playful grin comes back to his face. Yeah, you chill, man. He turns back to Jerrik. We gonna rip up a party after this, yo?

Jerrik is probably smirking at me, but I’m not gonna look. Leaning forward, I drop my head in my hands, messing with my hair. I got Captain America. I got a vibranium shield guarding my chest. This is like a movie—this is cool.

The car slows, a hand grabs my arm, and I gulp to hold in a curse. It’s Skip, whispering in my ear. Right up those stairs, room twenty-five, second floor, quick now, make somethin’ up, don’t forget to duck so we don’t hit you, man, you listenin’ to me?

Trying to breathe, I nod. Glance around, taking in a drab motel building, multi-colored lights, and pounding Latino music in one sweep.

Ya dig? Gonna remember?

Again, I nod. I remember everything.

Then I’m going up the stairs, staring at a couple girls hanging on the railing, giggling and winking at me. I want to smile back, but it’s not working. I think I’d give my right arm just to be a normal kid. A fourteen-year-old guy should at least know how to smile at a girl.

By the time I find room twenty-five my heart is pounding. Yeah, there’s a rival gangster on the other side of the door who might open it and shoot me. That, and one of those girls on the stairs just reminded me of Emily. Every time I think about her my heart does this crazy jumping thing. She was going with Jaden, but I heard she dumped him last week. She probably wouldn’t even give me a chance, but if there’s ever a time to try…

The door opens. He’s big, skulls and flames tattooed all over him.  There’s a scar in a straight line across his knuckles—the mark of his gang. I point my thumb over my shoulder, kinda stammering. Uh… Gonzales? They sent me over with somethin’ for you.

He pulls the chain off, eyes darting around the darkness behind me. I take a step toward the open door and feel a rough shove from behind as Skip knocks me outta the way. The Chico has his gun out in a flash, but Skip’s faster. A shot, a groan, a body hitting the floor—I watch it happen, but I’m not really thinking. I don’t think with this stuff, don’t feel. If I saw it all and really saw, I’d go crazy.

Inside the room, I watch Skip grin a dirty grin, watch him rustle through the baggy pockets of the rival’s clothes. Numbly, I follow him to the door.  He reaches for the handle, putting his hand out to hold me back. Stay here and keep a lookout, he whispers. Gotta know who’s doin’ the delivery—stick here and chill, man.

Every muscle in my body wakes up, tightening, preparing for a fight. No… I push his hand away. Don’t leave me, Skip.

It’s chill—he’s dead, just—

Who gonna pick me up? I don’t wanna be here alone—what if someone comes in, what if the cops—

Shh… He puts a finger to his lips, like he does when he hushes his baby nephew. Boss ordered.

I don’t care who the—

The curses only bring a slight smile to his face and he reaches out to ruffle my hair. I jerk away, clenching my teeth.

Hey. He opens the door, face serious again. You be a’ight, man.

I jump forward a second too late. He’s gone. Bringing my fists down against the weathered wood of the door, I swear. But the angry words and kicks against the door are drowned out by the loud, steady beat of the music down the hall. Clenching my hair, my head, the damp back of my neck, I try to clear my mind. Don’t think, kid, don’t think. They’ll come, someone’ll come for you eventually.

The room is dim and colorless—heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke, sweat, and filth. I find my fists clenched again, my stomach turning uncomfortably. Marty knows I hate being left. Wait here to see who’s bringing the delivery? Skip probably just wants to get rid of me so they can go party without a kid hanging around. I don’t even know where I am. It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m stuck in rival territory with…

He’s right there on the floor next to the bathroom. Taking a deep breath, I try to distract myself. The TV. My sweaty fingers slip on the remote as I jam the button to turn it on. I don’t look at it—just want faces, voices, music. And something to eat. The plastic bag on the table crinkles as I rummage through it. Wow, the Chicos feed their guys better than my uncle feeds me. Haven’t had a burrito this good in a long time.

My muscles relax as I sit down on the floor, lean back against the bed, and start on my dinner. Staring at the city lights out the window, drinking, I start forgetting everything I don’t wanna think about, which is pretty much my whole life. When everything’s gone I squeeze the empty beer cans into hourglasses, muttering to myself. Hey, it’s warm in here, kid…Who wants to be home on Christmas anyway…? Yeah, Connor, Merry Christmas…

My head goes back against the bed, and I smile. "Sound like my teachers now—Connor. Please answer me, Connor… Watch your language, Connor… What happened to your face, Connor?"

I laugh a little, but it comes out like a cough.

I gotta get myself a girlfriend.

2

T

here’s a terrible pounding in my head. I wish those people would shut off their music. Opening my eyes, I see a skull scrawled in red pen on the wall. The pounding—someone’s knocking on the door.

I jump to my feet, spin around and take in the hotel room, the dead Chico, the vibrating door. They’re trying the handle now, the angry stream of Spanish words growing in intensity. Running over to the window, I throw myself against the lever, pushing hard to get it open. It flings open so suddenly I fall forward and find myself gripping the window frame, staring at the pavement two stories below. No one’s down there, but there’s no fire escape either. Marty’s taught me a lot of things in the past few years, but climbing down drainpipes isn’t one of them.

By the time I get my phone out of my pocket the pounding has stopped. The voices fade as they move down the hall. My phone says Marty texted a little after midnight. Beat it.

Thanks Marty. Ditch me here with a dead body and then tell me to beat it an hour later.

Trying to avoid looking at the body, I slip to the door. Check the peephole. Reach for the handle. Wait, kid. Wait five minutes.

Five minutes later I’m out on the sidewalk, glancing over my shoulder as I start off at a brisk walk. The sky is faintly grey with the first light of morning, the air sharp and cold. Looks like it’s gonna snow. As I come to a corner, I push my hair back, staring at the green street sign above me. Rising Sun? Great, that’ll take me straight to the Chicos’ hideout.

Checking my mental map of North Philadelphia, I realize that to avoid rival territory I’ll have to take the long way around. Whatever. I got no one to see, nothing to do. I knock on the streets a lot, and mostly, if I stay on my side of the Avenue, no one bothers me. The bullies, the gangs—they know me. They know I won’t do drugs cause Marty would kill me, and I won’t join nothing cause I been sworn to Marty’s gang since I was eight years old. Don’t matter that at fourteen I’m already sick of it. I’d rather be alone my whole life than join a family like that.

I walk slowly, head down, hands shoved in my pockets. Flecks of wet snow sting my face. Stopping beside a building, under a tattered awning, I stare at the quiet street and shiver. 

At eight o’clock I start texting Marty. Come get me? Chs on my tail. Cp on the corner. Can’t lose em.

He doesn’t answer. If he’s awake, if he looks at the messages, he knows there aren’t any Chicos on my tail or cops on the corner. And he knows I could lose them if there were.

Marty, please come?

Right after hitting send I regret that one. Sounds too desperate.

It doesn’t matter because he don’t read them. I push my phone back into my pocket and start looking around for a place to warm up. I come up to a big church—looks okay, a few old ladies and families with kids, all dressed up and smiling. Going in, I keep my fingers tight around my knife and glare at the guy trying to hand me a flier. It’s big, this church—like a theater. Slipping up the quiet carpeted stairs to the balcony, I find a seat in the far back corner and spend the first two minutes reading the scene and planning exit routes in case anything goes down.

I don’t feel real good—wish I had some Advil. All the singing and talking and clapping is distracting, but the pain in my chest won’t let up. It’s church, kid. It’s like baby Jesus and stuff—no one’s gonna touch you.

Talking to myself helps. The pain’s not so bad now. And the music is cool. It’s church. Church is safe, and…

I jerk awake. Can’t believe I fell asleep again. Looking up, I shake myself, putting my hand to my head. The place is empty. A murmur of voices downstairs, but the balcony is warm and quiet, like a dream. I see something in my lap and fumble for it. A twenty-dollar bill? And a piece of paper? Squinting in the dim light, I read it.

Jesus loves you.

He died to give you life.

What the—? Standing, I look at the bill, at the note, up at the deserted balcony. This gotta be bait, or a bribe, or a setup. I feel my coat and pockets—my phone is there. My right hand settles on my knife. I’m not gonna be took in by nothing. The clenched bill in my other hand blinks up at me. I’m not gonna turn down a good dinner either.

In the lobby, a couple guys in suits and a lady in a dress kind of stare at me. Do you need anything? the lady says. I shake my head, going for the door.

Now I’m confused. If it ain’t a setup, what is it? Someone drops a twenty on some kid sleeping in church, and walks off? Like, maybe I look like a homeless kid, or abused kid, or whatever, but nobody just drop money on a stranger.

Snow flurries hit my face as I run across the street, eyes on the bus stop. I don’t care why some dude gave me twenty—I’m gonna use it, quick, before someone tries to jump me. And I know where I’m gonna go. Before I’m even on the bus I’m thinking bowtie pasta and never-ending bread sticks, and my mouth is watering.

Russo’s is kinda uppity. We were slicker stuff back then, me and Marty. Maybe that’s why he agreed to meet my mom there on Christmas Day, all those years ago. She and Marty went back and forth about me—schools, jobs, money—you take him, you take him, what’s your problem, he’s your kid anyway. Till I buried my head in Marty’s lap and sobbed for him to take me home. He gave me a stick of gum and told me to shut up, but when it was time to go, he took