Mick by Chris Lynch Page A

really different from anything before, was that my brother this time was threatening me. Not “I’m gonna break your head if you don’t shut up,” which he’d said and meant a million times before, not “Gimme five bucks, I’ll pay ya back when I’m good and ready,” not “... and don’t tell nobody what ya just seen or you’re a dead man,” which ended many of our conversations. No, this one was different. This one was the real one, because he was questioning whether I was on the team anymore—or if I was now the opposition. This one was the line in the sand, where if I crossed, there was no connection anymore, no responsibility, no rules, no limits. He was sort of giving me the opportunity to resign from being his brother, with all the stuff that would imply. Serious stuff.
    “Thank you,” I said evenly. “For the advice, I mean.”
    Terry left quietly, looking pleased, which meant he thought our conversation went a different way than I thought it went. He thought it went the way it always went before. His will be done.
    “Kiss me, Terry,” I said, making a loud smacking sound with my lips. “ I’ll give you undesirable. I got your ‘whatcha might call spillover burn,’ right here, ya goddamn ape.”
    It felt good to say it. Kind of lifted me right up off the bed to hear myself. It would have been even better if Terry were still there to hear it. Next time, I promised myself. Next time he will be. He was there for the important part, though. The thank-you. I meant it when I said thank you to him. Because what he was telling me, it was almost as if somebody was telling me I was, or could be, who I wanted to be. Which, basically, was not Terry. God, I wanted to be not Terry.
    Kind of a hoot, after all, that the one to tell me was Terry himself.
    Toy didn’t think the story was nearly as funny as I did.
    “I don’t like anybody talking about me, good or bad, even mentioning my name, when I’m not there. Never liked it. Never liked it. Don’t want to know about it.”
    “Ya but it’s just my ignorant brother. He’s not as big shit as he thinks he is. You don’t take it seriously.”
    Toy shook his head, shook his hat. “Very seriously,” he said.
    “I think he’s right,” Sully said. “I think they mean business.”
    I leaned way over forward on my milk crate, looking past Toy to see Sul. We’d taken to hanging out in front of the store most afternoons now, me and Sul flanking Toy, crouched on milk crates, backs to the wall under the CHEAPEST MILK AND CIGARETTES IN TOWN sign. We smoked cigars like Toy did, chewed the occasional Slim Jim, talked for long stretches, played backgammon, and didn’t talk for long stretches. Just to do it, to be seen doing it, protected in our raunchy brown tobacco cloud.
    “What do you know, Sully?” I demanded.
    Like I said, Sully is no natural at reading people. So if he pipes in that he thinks Terry means something by his words, it’s because he’s heard something.
    “I heard something,” Sully said.
    “Cough it up,” I said.
    “Well, it was the last time Augie beat me up, last Tuesday or Wednesday. The stuff he was sayin’ when he was slapping me—he’s always sayin’ something when he’s slapping me, y’know, so it takes forever; I hate that.”
    “Sul?” I said, getting more anxious. I figured Toy was too, but he wasn’t showing a thing. Not even interest.
    “Oh, so he’s cuffin’ me, saying, ‘And next time I catch your ass, if you’re hangin’ wit’ that big Spaniel bastard, don’t go thinkin’ that’ll save ya, ’cause that’ll just mean you’re gonna get what he gets. And he’s got a muthuh party comin’. Take a note, little man.’ And you know, I couldn’t figure what big Spaniel bastard he coulda been talkin’ about that I would be hangin’ with, so I guess he must have just screwed up and meant Toy. ’Cause Toy is big, and he is a bastard.”
    Toy laughed at that, leaned his head back against the wall, making