Red Rider's Hood

1 Red as fresh blood

It's a jungle out there. Buildings grow all around you out of the cracking pavement, blocking out the daylight, making you forget the sun's there at all. Those buildings can't block out the moonlight, though. Nothing can block that out. Trust me, I know.

I can't tell you my name, because then you'd be in danger, too. I got enemies, see, and the only reason I'm alive right now is because my Mustang convertible―red as fresh blood, and as powerful as they come―is faster than anyone, or any thing, can run. You can call me Red. Red Rider. It's what they called me back when I had my old Radio Flyer wagon as a kid, and it's what they call me now.

As for the Mustang, I found it in a junkyard when I was thir­teen, and spent three years nursing it back to health. Call it a hobby. By the time I turned sixteen―which was on the last day of the school year―it was ready for me to drive. Little did I know what I'd be driving myself into that hot and horrible summer.

See, when you ride out into these streets, you never know what you're in for. Good or bad; thrilling or dangerous. Some­times it's a little bit of both. It's not that my neighborhood's an awful place, but it's crowded. We got every culture here: His­panic, African-American, white, Vietnamese, Armenian―you name it. We're this big melting pot, but someone turned up the heat too high, and the stew started to burn. Gangs, crime, fights, and fear are now a regular part of our local stew.

It all started the day I had to deliver some "bread" to my grandma. That's what she calls money, because she's still stuck In the sixties, when money was "bread," cops were "fuzz," and everything else was "groovy." Don't even bother telling her it's a whole other millennium. Going to her house, you'd think the sixties never ended. There are love beads hanging in doorways, Jimi Hendrix playing on an old record player, and a big old Afro on her head. It really ticks people off in movie theaters, because when Grandma sits down, there's nothing but hair for the people behind her, And the funny thing is, she's not even black. She married a black man, though, and their daughter married a Korean, and that's how they got me. I guess I'll marry a Puerto Rican girl or something, and fill out that gene pool swimming inside me.

Anyway, Grandma didn't believe in banks, because her father lost all his money in the crash of 1929. Grandma made our whole family swear by cast-iron safes hidden behind paint­ings. For some reason, our house became the main branch.

"You take this bag to your grandma first thing in the morning, and don't stop for anything on the way," my mom instructed me. She knew how much I enjoyed running errands in my Mustang. But she also knew I liked to take the long way to get where I was going. Driving was still new enough to me that I enjoyed every second behind the wheel―even in traffic.

"Promise me you'll go straight there."

"Cross my heart," I told her.

She wanted me to leave at dawn, before she went off to work. If I had, the whole nasty business might have been avoided, but as it was, I slept late. The sun was already high in the sky by the time I hit the street, where the neighborhood girls had been playing hopscotch, probably since the break of dawn.

"Hey, Red Rider, we like your new wheels," the girls said as I passed them on the way to where the Mustang was parked. "Who's gonna get your bicycle now that you got a car?"

"Who says anybody's going to get it?" I told them, "Some days are bicycle days; some days are Mustang days."

I hopped into the car and little Tina Soames took a moment away from her hopscotch game to lean in the window.

"Betcha it gets stolen," she said, and smiled with a broken front tooth that would never be fixed, because her parents didn't care enough. "Betcha it gets stolen real soon."

If anybody was going to steal my car, it would be her brother, Cedric. Cedric Soames: a rich name for such a lowlife―and believe me, life didn't get any lower than him. He was a year older than me. He rarely showed at school, but he got good grades anyway, because even the teachers were afraid of him and his gang.

"So, Tina," I asked, "is that a warning, or a threat?"

She shrugged. "A little bit of both, I guess. I know you built the thing up from a pile of junk, so I would hate to see you lose it. But then again, my brother sure does bring home nice things." Then she skipped away to continue her game of hopscotch.

I started the car, listened to the purr of the engine for a few seconds, then tore out, heading across town toward Forest boulevard, where Grandma lived. I couldn't get the thought of Cedric out of my mind. He wasn't just mean, he was unnatural―definitely one of the burned ingredients in our neighborhood melting pot. And some things are best never scraped from the bottom of the pan.

It was a hot July day. You could see steam from the morning's rain rising from the asphalt. The humidity made you feel like you were breathing bathwater, and my shirt stuck to my skin like it was painted there. I was still thinking about Cedric Soames when I came to the intersection of Andersen and Grimm – one of the busiest corners in my neighborhood, with a traffic light that always took too long to change. I sat at the intersection, waiting for a green light, when some guy dressed in rags put a squeegee to my windshield and started to wipe it clean, even though it was clean to begin with.

"Hey, man," I said through my open window. "I don't have change for you, so you might as well forget it."

"So pay me next time," he said. "For now, just consider it a public service."

The light changed, but he was still leaning over the wind­shield, so I couldn't pull away. Cars behind me started honking.

"Hey, what are you doing?" I yelled at him. "Can't you see the light's green?" I honked the horn. "C'mon! Out of the way!"

He leaned even farther over the hood like he was trying to look into my car, but I figured maybe he was just studying the glass, because he said, "Look at that―some bird did its busi­ness right in the middle of your windshield."

He was right―I hadn't seen it before. Must have been an owl or something big like that. Meanwhile, the cars behind me were honking like this was my fault, but what was I supposed to do, run the dude over? He finished and I looked up. The light changed from yellow to red.

"You owe me big next time, you hear?" says the beggar. And then he flashes me a smile I recognize. He had a single gold tooth―not one of the front ones, but the sharp one. His canine tooth. The one on the left.

"Marvin Flowers?" I said.

"In the flesh," he answered.

"But. . . but. . . what are you doing here?"

Marvin Flowers, or "Marvelous Marvin," as he was better known, was the best high school quarterback Madison-Manfred High had ever seen. He had left town a year before, with a col­lege scholarship and a winning gold-toothed smile, waving good-bye to all of his friends at Mad-Man. He said he was going places.

"What are you doing here washing windows for spare change?" I asked.

"Had to drop out of college," he told me. "Family prob­lems." The sun disappeared behind a cloud, casting a shadow over Marvin's already dark expression.

"You know," he said, his voice making me feel cold in spite of the heat, "this city can get ahold of you and pull you back no matter how hard you try to climb out. Like a grave."

It was such a weird thing to say, I laughed nervously and looked to the traffic light, which was still stuck on red, almost as if it was was waiting for Marvin's signal.

What am I afraid of? I said to myself. This guy is just a street beggar now. Feel bad for him, sure, but don't fear him.

Then Marvin smiled again and the sun returned to its nor­mal glare. Maybe it was just to get rid of him, or maybe I really did fell sorry for him, but whatever the reason, I reached over to the little sack next to me on the seat and pulled out a bill from my grandma's stash of "bread." To my surprise, it was a fifty. I look in the sack and couldn't find anything smaller. There had to be thousands of dollars in there. I took a deep breath. I wasn't just bringing Grandma the bread, I was bringing her the butter, and a golden knife to spread it!

Marvin leaned into the window raised his eyebrows. He had seen what was in the bag, too. I wanted to peel away, but still the light stayed red.

"Just something for my grandma," I told him, tossing the bag to the floor of the car.

"Very nice."

"Here." I handed him the fifty. "Great job on the window."

"Thank you very much." He pocketed it. Then, I figured out of appreciation for the fifty, he said, "You know . . . my sister likes you."

This was news to me. Marissa Flowers was in my grade, but she never looked at me twice. I, on the other hand, had looked at her a lot more than twice.

"She's got a summer job over at Stiltskin's Antiques. In fact, she's there right now, bored out of her mind, I'll bet. A visit from you would brighten up her day, I think."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

"My grandma is expecting me."

"Old people are patient," he said. "What difference is half an hour going to make? Or even an hour, for that matter?"

I guess he was right. After all, my father always said you gotta make time for the finer things in life, and Marissa Flow­ers was definitely one of those finer things.

"Maybe I will," I told him.

He smiled and nodded―and with his nod the light turned green. "See you around, Red."