X: A Novel

Friends tell me trouble’s coming. I ease out of the restaurant onto the sidewalk, gun in my pocket. Hand in there, too, keeping it close for good measure. I gotta get back to my pad, and quick now. One foot in front of the other. Keep my head down, hope no one sees me.
“Hey, Red,” someone says, out of the shadows. I flinch, flick my fingers on the metal. Detroit Red, they call me, though Michigan seems far behind me now. “Hey, Red, I heard Archie’s looking for you.”
West Indian Archie. The numbers runner I work for. My pulse beats firmer under my skin. “Oh, yeah?” I play it cool. Keep moving.
Half strangers know? Hell. Rumors don’t lie. West Indian Archie’s mad. He says I wronged him, but I didn’t. You’d have to be out of your mind to try to cheat a guy like Archie.
A door slams somewhere along the block, and I jump about a mile. A voice calls out, but not to me. I clutch the gun in my coat and scurry on.
How did it all go so wrong? When I first set foot in Harlem, I was a step ahead of everything. I could blend in with the jive cats, swirl the Lindy ladies, let my feet groove, think of nothing but the now. I could close my eyes, and in closing them not be seen. Slip into the seams of the streets and let them swallow me. It was a glorious fit, so seemingly warm.
The slick, savvy streets of Harlem welcomed me. I’ve made friends here, a life here, a whole world opening up.
But now I’ve messed it all up, in a big-time way. No going back.