The Heist

After track next day, Billy and Tyron walk the mile and a half to Costco. Parking lot is crawling with Kardashian’s swarming into Oakland since the tech invasion. Chris’ Charger is parked at the far right side of the lot, bordered by trees lining the canal between Oakland and Alameda. The boys cut through the grove to either side of the car, get in casually, and drive away.

They share a J on the way to Lucky Liquors, listening to JC to chill. Billy parks across the street from the gook mart. Storefront windows is stacked with boxes, bottles of booze, cases of water and soda right up to the glass door with iron bars. White bird crap spots a blue cloth awning that runs along the top of the old brick building and shades the sidewalk below.

They wait for the rush hoping to drown out their day and the night ahead. Sun’s setting when Billy finally swings the Dodge round and parks in front of the liquor store. They put on tattered Oakland A’s caps, pull down the rim to their brows, then hoods over their heads to the brim of the caps. Tyron grips the toy gun inside the long pocket of his hoodie and holds it pressed to his stomach as he follows Billy’s lead out of the car and into Lucky Liquors.

Billy goes to the cold cases in the back and pulls a six pack of Bud. Tyron grabs a bag of pretzels and Lays and brings them to the register as Billy comes up behind him.

Chink stands behind the counter, seen only through the small space not packed with crap for sale. He don’t look at Tyron as he scans the bags. The slant deserves to be messed with. Payback for the neighborhood he’s pretending don’t exist while they fork over their welfare checks to buy his shit.

He pulls the toy gun from his hoodie. “Gimmy every fuckin bill in the register. NOW!” Tyron demands as he points the gun at the Chinaman who just stands there. “I said now, foinky!” Ty’s rushing, feels like a speed buzz. Scared, but something else too… Smart. Powerful. Heart pounds hard, but beats steady, filling his chest like music does.

The chink finally looks up at him, speckled gray eyes wide. Then he looks at Billy.

“Ya heard da man.” Billy’s voice is deeper, angrier than Tyron’s. “Give em the cash now or my blud here splatters your brains all over your booze.” He eyes a golden bottle of Jack Daniels on one of the shelves along the wall behind the chink, and goes to get it.

“Sup, hom?” Tyron gets tense, with Billy not following the plan.

“I’m elevatin us above the crap we been drinkin.” Billy rounds the counter to get the whiskey behind the old man.

There’s a loud bang! Tyron’s stomach is suddenly burning, like he’s been stabbed, some unseen force slamming him backwards into the stack of plastic bottles of soda behind him. Then he’s on the floor, and tries scrambling to his feet but the pain is so blinding, ripping through his guts, his chest. And there’s blood everywhere, on his hands, his gray hoodie…

…Billy’s yelling in his face but it’s hard to hear, to breathe. The chink’s still behind the counter. He’s pointing a silver gun at them, a six shooter like in old movies, and screaming about something, but Tyron can’t hear what with the burning in his guts. Then Billy has the toy Beretta, holds it by the barrel waving it around, his voice suddenly blasting.

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“—it’s FAKE! It’s fuckin plastic!” Billy yells at the chink, then throws the toy gun at the old foinky, but Tyron can’t see if he nailed him.

Then Billy’s pulling on him to get up, helps him to his feet but he can’t feel them and his legs fold. Billy practically drags him outta the liquor store to the Charger, opens the back door and drops Tyron on the back seat, stuffs his legs in and slams the door, then gets behind the wheel and hauls ass outta there.

“How bad you hit, Ty?” Billy glances back at Tyron, then watches him in the rear view as he moves with the traffic on Fruitvale, hoping to blend. “Talk to me, blud.”

Tyron slumps in the middle of the back seat, hands numbing now, watching tagged houses of west Oakland pass in slow motion. “He shot me. Why’d he do that?” He looks down at his hoddie soaking with blood. “Oh God, I’m bleedin bad.” Tyron curls on his side. He holds his stomach with both hands trying to hold in his blood. “I’m gonna fuckin bleed to death. I don’t wanna die, man. I’m only 17. I don’t wanna fuckin die.”

“You ain’t gonna die, Ty.” Billy’s blowing smoke up Ty’s ass. Even in the rear view he can see blood all over the beige bench seat. Chris is gonna split his skull open this time. “I’ll take you to the 12th Street Clinic—”

“NO! They have to report gun shots. I can’t get 5-0’d. It’d kill my mama.” Tyron starts crying then. He can’t help it. “God, it hurts. My stomach’s on fire, man.” He groans, curled on the back seat shivering. “I’m cold…I’m scared, Billy. Whata we gonna do?”

Billy cruises at the speed limit, but his mind is racing. He continues across the short bridge onto Alameda Island, where chedda and green rules. He and Ty used to bike to Crown beach all the time when they was kids just to screw with the natives and popos, since they don’t take kindly to Oakland teens invading their slice of paradise.

“Oh Christ, I’m bleedin all over the place. I’m gonna be sick. I swear to God I’m gonna puke.” Tyron’s talking to himself, but it’s making Billy crazy. “It fuckin hurts, man. You gotta help me, Billy.”

“What the fuck do you want me to do, Ty? You don’t wanna go to 12th Street then you gotta tell me what to do, man.” Billy yells into the rear view mirror.

“I don’t know. I don’t fuckin know!” Tyron manages to yell back.

Fast turns into slow motion as Billy cruises at 25mph along tree-lined streets, passing big green lawns of luxury cribs. Even the apartments are nicer than anything in or even near their hood just over the little bridge. He drives toward the beach, as if moving to the past, wishing like hell he could go back there, to when they was kids, or at least to before they came up with this fool plan.

Billy notices the stop sign when he’s less than two feet from it and slams on his brakes. Tyron moans as the Charger lurches forward and halts a few feet over the crosswalk. No other cars at the intersection. No curtains or shades move in the windows of the houses on three of the four corners, and no one is outside the big white buildings across the street on the right.

“Yo, Ty! Ya with me, blud?” Billy moves slowly through the intersection, trying to see Tyron in his rear view, but it’s almost dark out and dim inside the car. “Ty!” No response. “Tyron! Talk to me, man!” Still no response. “Fuck!” He pulls the Dodge to the curb alongside the parking lot in back of the white buildings, kills the engine and turns around.

Tyron’s usual dark chocolate skin looks almost… milky, the red surrounding his black eyes sinking them even more. A strobe of headlights and Billy spins back forward. He slides low as a white Beemer pulls out of the gated lot then passes by the Charger. Only then does Billy see the ‘Doctors Only’ sign on the parking lot entrance, and realizes where he is.

Deserve it or not, Jesus must be watching out for them. And down or not, if Ty’s hit bad enough, Billy’s taking him inside the hospital he’s just parked on the side of.