Hunting in Harlem by Mat Johnson Read Free Book Online

character. Maybe he was just bad, like
     there are some people who are just good in this life.
    "You can't stay out here like this, somebody's going to trip over you and fall down the stairs, break their neck."
    "Somebody did fall once, right before you moved here. The woman who used to live where you do, she jumped right down," Jifar
     said, staring at the stairs beside him. "She was lonely. And mean."
    "You want to go back downstairs and get back in your bed? He's probably passed out by now." Jifar pulled his blanket over
     his head again, its cartoon pattern faded and dotted with fabric pills instead of pixels. Snowden looked at his watch, thought
     of Lester doing the same in front of the office, pulled his keys out and into Jifar's hand.
    "Now listen. These are yours. Anybody gives you trouble, you ever need to get away, you use these. This apartment is your
     safe place, OK?" Snowden told him, wishing there was someone he could call instead, wishing that he hadn't been through the
     foster care ring himself and could believe it was that simple. That this was a world in which you could pick up the phone
     and then find yourself in a better situation than the one you were already trapped in.
    Jifar glanced down at the keys before pulling them within the blanket without comment. If he'd bothered to shrug, even that
     message of ambivalence was lost in the folds of the cloth. Lester and Wendell paced in circles in front of the lodge, the
     man absentminded and heavy footed, the dog intense and intent on finding a square foot of concrete good enough to poop on.
     The dog was surrounded by young admirers, children in maroon blazers with gray shorts and skirts who called Wendell by name
     as he ignored them. Lester shooed them off as Snowden approached, and the children shot up the lodge's steps, the last boy
     making a great effort to close its towering door without slamming it.
    The lodge was also Cyrus Marks's home, in addition to being Lester's and the property the Horizon storefront was connected
     to, so Lester made sure to get his newspaper down before Wendell's feces landed so as not to leave the slightest stain behind.
    "Who are those kids? Are they visiting from a Catholic school or something?" Snowden asked, but Lester ignored him, focused
     instead on the dog crap being excreted, carefully bagging and removing it when Wendell was done. The storm grate on Horizon's
     facade was still down, locked. Compared to the other buildings on the block the lodge was not only much larger but also immaculate,
     as if some local superstition protected it from vandalism.
    In the truck, Wendell sat on the floor beside the stick shift, staring at Snowden. Snowden couldn't figure out if the dog
     was looking to be entertained or was considering lunging at him. Lester began making a series of sudden, fast turns that forced
     Wendell to lie down, his paws outstretched for balance. After ten minutes of driving, Lester had managed to put only six blocks
     between them and the office, and Snowden was about to ask if they were lost when, before a red light at Adam Clayton Powell,
     Lester pulled the gear into park.
    "We're being followed." Lester's hand shot in front of Snowden to reach in the glove compartment. Even Wendell was surprised
     by the action, bouncing to his feet to get away. Removing a heavily rumpled brown paper bag, Lester slammed the little door
     shut again.
    "Listen, when I jump out this car, you get in the driver's seat. As soon as I get back in, you pull off." Then Lester jumped
     out, slammed the door behind him.
    Snowden scooted over, looked out the side mirror. Lester was talking to the second car that was stuck on the narrow street
     behind them, the passenger responding with motions of misunderstanding and denial. Snowden watched as Lester lifted the brown
     paper bag and pointed it right up against the driver's head.
    There was no job on earth, no dream Snowden could imagine, that would keep him from hitting the