The Innocents

him only if he saw a plain wall. He went inside. The interior was spacious enough to house a private jet. Janky generators were lined up near the walls. A dozen bulbs lit up the space and loud beats rocked the floor. It was packed with people connected to the YBI. Members, benefactors, and like Ryatt, exploiters.
The YBI was like any other gang that plagued Detroit, except for one significant detail: The oldest active member of the YBI was seventeen. The gang was employed mainly by other gangs to commit major crimes without serious repercussions, as the YBI were tried as juveniles. However, it had also gained notoriety for unpredictable violence because the components were reckless, had no proper leadership, so no rules.
The person Ryatt needed to meet usually loafed on the other side of the party crowd. He squeezed his way past little islands of teenagers who were wearing frilly clothes and jumping to hip-hop. When he stepped on someone’s toe, he blurted, “excuse me” and earned a smug look. He chided himself. You didn’t proffer apologies here. You yelled, ‘Move, motherfucker.’
At a dark corner, a boy was injecting something into a vessel on his ankle. He was black, his unnaturally straight hair dyed blond, with streaks of blue and red. His pierced nose, ears, and eyebrows all glinted with silver.
A black emo?
The kid looked like he had aimed for goth but landed on gay.
Ryatt stopped judging and concentrated on what he had set out to do. One quick look around, he found his supervisor, so to speak, who called himself Congo. Ryatt was sure that if Congo was asked to point that country on the world map, he would most probably touch somewhere on Antarctica.
Congo leaned back on the hood of a Mustang GTX he was not tall enough to drive, downing a beer he was not old enough to buy, fondling a hooker who was not safe enough to even provide him a BJ. Congo caught Ryatt’s eyes and smiled. “Wanna join?”
Ryatt felt his face flush. “Hell, no. Something’s happened.”
Congo let go of the mature woman and came towards Ryatt, his welcoming smile shrinking. “Where’s my money?”
“I was arrested today. The pigs got it,” Ryatt said nonchalantly. No point in mincing words.
Congo frowned. “You pulling a fast one on me?”
“No. It’s the truth.”
“Then that ain’t my problem, is it?”
“It kinda is.”
“Yeah?” Congo’s frown deepened. “How come?”
“I own nothing worthy you can take from me. So you have to learn a very important lesson today.”
“Is that right?”
“Yup.”
“What is it?”
“Count your losses and move on,” Ryatt said.
“The music!” Congo’s shout got everyone’s attention and the song was cut off.
Congo rushed to his car. Diving into the passenger side window, he pulled out a sawn-off. He walked to Ryatt, casually slinging the gun. “Wisecrack now.”
Ryatt found a smile stretching his lips.
“You laughing at me?” Congo lifted the gun and cocked it, the metallic click-clack echoing in the large arena. “Want some?”
A strange calm inside urged Ryatt to fear nothing, whispering him to just push it. “Sure, why not?”
Congo tilted his head slightly in confusion. “What’s that? I thought you said—”
“Why not? Yup.”
A pair of veins on Congo’s forehead twitched. He screamed and pulled the trigger; debris and dust flew up from the ground. Everyone jerked, and a wave of clamor rose and subsided. But Ryatt neither flinched nor broke eye contact with the puerile brat.
Embarrassed, Congo brought the gun up to his face and took aim. Ryatt noticed the arm holding the gun shook as Congo wet his lips. Maybe it was all bark.
“Don’t be shooting the floors. Let me help you.” Ryatt moved forward, grabbed the hot barrel, and put the muzzle inches away from his right eye. “Now this is more like it.”
“Don’t, man. I’ll really—”
“My ass, you’ll really,” Ryatt pushed. “I don’t think you have the stones. Do it, you pus—”
A blurry figure whizzed towards Ryatt from the side. In a fleeting moment, it tackled him to the floor. They both landed hard, and Ryatt heard something grate inside his torso.
Short of breath, Ryatt grunted and wriggled out of the hold. The figure’s steely arms loosened, and Ryatt looked at the man slowly getting up to his feet. He had the physique of a professional bodybuilder; his mere presence would rattle anyone. It was Thomas, one of Ryatt’s lieutenants.
Thomas extended his arm and Ryatt took the help.
“I was handling it—”
“Just shut.” Thomas put his finger on his lips. He then turned to Congo and promised him that he would take responsibility for Ryatt ‘losing’ his dope and Congo would get his money the next day.
Congo shrugged and looked at Ryatt. “We cool, bro?”
Ryatt spat down, his eye burning a hole through Congo who gave an icy smile before going back to the woman.
Someone yelled, “Cue the music,” and the beats filled the room once again.
Thomas grabbed Ryatt’s upper arm and led him away like an angry mom. “You suicidal?”
Was it that apparent? As his stomach churned from all the adrenaline-pumping activity and acidic bile rose up to his throat, Ryatt took out a lollipop and sucked at the candy.
Arm still in his grip, Thomas directed Ryatt to a flight of stairs at the back. That was their usual spot in the haunt. Ryatt’s other lieutenant, Leo, was sitting on the third step. The smallest among the three, tiny actually, Leo was also the most vicious.
Leo was raised the way Ryatt had read most serial killers were raised. His mom, an addict who got pregnant by one of her Johns, used Leo as a punching bag to vent her bitterness at life. And drunk Johns, being drunk Johns, beat Leo around just for the hell of it. Most times, Leo was left free to