One to Go by Mike Pace Page B

boy made no secret of his desire to join the family business.
    One evening after a parent-teacher gathering at the school, Tom had entered his car only to discover he had a passenger in the backseat. Chewy introduced himself and instructed Tom to drive to Marion Park. When they arrived, Chewy told him to get out of the car. The park lights were out. No one was in sight.
    â€œLet’s take a walk,” said Chewy. “I know you’re scared, but ain’t gonna hurt you. Wanna talk about Jerome.”
    Tom’s fear lessened as he followed Chewy to the eastern side of the park. “Smartest student in the class.”
    â€œProblem is, he wants to, you know, follow in my footsteps so to speak. He needs a chance, before the shit gets him. You gotta get him out.”
    â€œOut, like out of the neighborhood?”
    â€œI hear there’s this boarding school up in Northwest, offers a few scholarships to black folk so the rich, liberal assholes can feel good ’bout all their big cars and big houses and fat bank accounts. Jerome, he needs to get one of them scholarships.”
    â€œCarver Prep. Great idea, I’ll do everything I can—”
    â€œMaybe you didn’t hear me. Jerome needs to get one of them scholarships.”
    The next day, Tom filled out the scholarship application and wrote a glowing letter of recommendation. He took Jerome shopping for a navy sport coat and rep tie. He worked with the boy, honing his responses in preparation for his interview. Jerome acedthe interview, and a week after that received a letter congratulating him on his admittance to Carver Prep.
    A month later, Chewy waited for him at his car after school. “Just want to let you know, I owe you, Teach. You need anything, you call me.” He handed Tom a torn slip of paper with a phone number written on it. Without waiting for a response, he got into the back of a black Escalade and his driver pulled away.

    Tom had kept that slip of paper, never believing he’d ever use it. An hour earlier, he’d dug it out from inside a rolled-up pair of socks in the back of his sock drawer. He’d walked three blocks to the CIT-GO, the only place left in the neighborhood with a working pay phone, and made the call. He hadn’t spoken to Chewy Lewis for almost seven years. For all he knew, the man was dead or in jail. He heard the click of the call being connected.
    â€œHi, this is—”
    Before he could finish, Chewy responded, “Same place, eleven.”
    So here he was, parked outside Marion Park. The lighting had been improved, although the lights on the eastern side still weren’t working—no doubt shot out to create the dark ambiance one needed to properly conduct off-market pharmaceutical business.
    Tom checked his watch. Ten past eleven. It occurred to him that by “same place,” maybe Chewy meant the shadows of the east side. He got out of the Lexus, locked the car, then strolled into the darkness.
    He walked along the deserted path, but saw nobody. He was about to return to his car when he heard, “Hey, Teach.”
    Tom turned and there he was. Better dressed, looking much more than seven years older.
    â€œHi, how’s it going?” asked Tom. “How’s Jerome?”
    â€œGot a full ride to Princeton next year.” Chewy didn’t attempt to hide his pride. “Princeton’s in the Ivy League, like Harvard.”
    â€œThat’s great.” Actually, Tom felt a sense of pride himself due to his small part in launching a kid from an at-risk neighborhood to almost certain success.
    â€œWhat you need?”
    â€œA gun. Needs to be clean, never used in any, uh, situation.”
    â€œThat’s it?”
    â€œThat’s it.”
    Chewy nodded. “Ain’t much, so my debt ain’t fully paid. Case you need anything else.”
    â€œDoubt it, but thanks. And tell Jerome I said congratulations.”
    â€œTake the long way