Boy Kills Man by Matt Whyman Read Free Book Online Page B

me. There used to be a time when we would spend what pesos we had on sweets. If we had no money we would often try to steal them. We found that made them taste even nicer. ‘I bought a whole box of them,’ Alberto told me, and ripped off his wrapper. ‘I think we deserve it.’
    I wished I could’ve felt the same kind of buzz, but I wasn’t the one who was packing. I just bit down on my lolly so I didn’t have to hold the stick, and was pleased when he suggested that we track down a game we could both join in.
    Alberto said he’d caught sight of a good one on his way here: a gang we knew from our
barrio
who often found themselves short on numbers.
    Maybe it was the opposition, or just the fact that he had a gun under his shirt, but Alberto played a mean game that day. Every time I passed him the ball, he took it as far as he could. One boy who dared to bring him down found himself marked so hard he never got another touch. Not until Alberto left the pitch, at any rate. I didn’t see him go. I was too busy in the box, but when I looked around I realised we were one man down. When I asked if anyone knew where he went the keeper joked that his boyfriend had showed up in a beat-up muscle car and the big guy had gone running. I didn’t laugh like everyone else, but nor did I defend my friend’s name.

7
    Alberto left me to my own devices another two times that week. The week after, he went off on three occasions, maybe four, and then I stopped counting. The big match was looming, after all, so I began to strike off the days instead.
    Mostly the man with the dead eye and the green Dodge would call him away, but sometimes he’d be gone before the break of day. I’d call round first thing to find nobody home but his sister. Even though I learned to knock, she always found me flustered. She was nice, Beatriz. Most girls her age peered down their noses at a boy like me, but not her. Still, she’d give me a look whenever I asked after her brother. It was a look that told me she knew something was going on with him, but couldn’t make any sense of it. I wanted to tell her it was the same for me, but only once got further than drawing breath.
    â€˜What can I do?’ I blurted at the time. ‘I’m his best friend, not his father!’
    â€˜I know that,’ she had said, sounding calm and kind. ‘But you’re the next best thing to him. Alberto would come to you if he was in trouble, so if there’s something you want to share, Sonny, I’m here.’
    â€˜Sure,’ I said, partly because I’d had no choice but also because it made me feel so special.
    I never mentioned this promise to Alberto. I didn’t even like to tell him that Beatriz and I often chatted when I called round. I was worried that he might start asking why I was so interested and then give me hell because she was his sister and I was a kid and
blah blah blah.
    Besides, whenever Alberto did show up he was rarely in a mood to shoot the breeze. Each time, he seemed to come back a different person: like a clockwork toy that had been wound up a turn too tight. I’d ask him about his day and he’d just bounce me into another conversation about a bootleg tape he’d seen on a stall, or a likely soccer transfer before the season started. It sometimes took him several reefers to calm down, but even then he wasn’t himself. He would become almost too quiet – so lost in thought that I wondered if he would ever find his way out again. It never lasted long, he usually slept it off, and the next day his confidence would return in force. The way Alberto had been built meant he was naturally larger than life, but now that came with a swagger. He walked tall, chin up, in a way that I couldn’t quite match. I tried to copy him but it didn’t feel right. I figured it would take some practice, but only when he wasn’t around.
    All this time the money kept coming