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[h3]Harlem[/h3]


“I’m glad Mello's gone!”

That statement from Mo sent the four other men in the barbershop into general pandemonium. Pop’s took time from the plate of food in his hands to call Mo a bum, while the Boykins brothers just booed. Me? I just shook my head and gave him a thumbs down.

“Overrated!” Mo said definitely. “He can score, but he can’t win. Give me five guys like Portakyiv over one Miller any day.”

The mention of the lanky European center sent the Boykins brothers into a frenzy.

Barry Boykins said, “You’re talking out your as—“

Barry stopped short when he saw Pop staring at him over his barbecue, the swear jar right beside his chair and filled to the brim with money. 

“--You’re crazy,” Barry finished with a grin. 

“He’s got a point,” I said with a shrug. “Mello never played hard on D, never passed, never did anything but shoot. You can’t build a team around that.”

“What about Jordan?” Bobby Boykins asked.

“Are you comparing Mello to Jordan?” Mo shook his head. “Get out of here with that sh—stuff. Jordan was way way more than a scorer. He was a centerpiece. Mello ain’t a franchise guy. He’s a ballhog, which is why the Knicks were losing even though he was dropping points.”

“Yeah,” said Pop. “And it’s also why we lose to Sherm’s Body Shop every year in the city tournament. Y'all acting like you're Mello out there.”

“But they all play like Jello," Barry said with a snicker.

That sent the group of men into another round of bickering and arguing. I opted out, looking out the window with a grin on my face and enjoying an evening off. Pop's was one of the very few places I could just hang and be one of the guys. In here, nobody thought of me as Harlem’s hero.

There was a pretty steady rain outside that night. That's usually good news for everyone. Rain means the gangbangers are too scared to go out, lest they get their sneakers dirty, and the cops aren't up to getting out of their cruisers unless they really need to. They avoid banging people up on the small fry stuff that really pisses off communities. My previous observation was contradicted almost at once. Two NYPD patrol cars with rooftop lights flashing sped by the barbershop, basking the small room in an eerie glow before they disappeared further down the street. Like I said, the rain is usually good news but not always.

Suddenly all eyes fell on me and the din from a few moments ago was now a silence that seemed to be just as loud as their yelling. I stood up, held out a fist that Pop tapped with his own, and looked back at Mo and the Boykins twins with a grin.

“Mitchell Robinson is gonna be the next great Knick.”

That sent the four of them into a new round of debate as I walked out into the rain and pulled my yellow hoodie up over my head. There weren't many people on the street, but the few that were all headed in the same direction: down the street and around the corner. The corner blocked the sight, but I could see the blue and red flash of police lights reflecting off the buildings.

A few minutes later I stood in front of police tape. My hood kept my head dry against the slow pitter patter of rain. The crime scene was at the playground just around the corner from Pop’s. Two uniformed cops kept the small crowd gathering back from the scene, but everyone could see through them to the white tarp covering a dead body sprawled out in a sandbox. There were murmurs and talk rippling through the crowd. I didn't take part, but I listened and got the gist. The body under the tarp was Bobbito Garcia, seventeen years old and a nearby resident. This part of Harlem bordered Spanish Harlem, so black and brown did a lot of co-mingling in this area. Someone said he had his girlfriend with him when he got shot, someone said they heard the shots and turned around to see Bobbito falling to the ground and an unknown shooter running from the scene.

A detective in a cheap suit walked through the crowd, flashing a badge. I started to fade back into the crowd to avoid being seen. The less police attention I attracted, the better. From my vantage point I could see the crime scene and the few places the officers had protected from the rain. Bobbito's body was covered, as was a small space I assumed covered up the murder weapon. A plastic baggie lay on the ground with a small card inside. I couldn't make out the words scribbled on the card, but I saw the logo in the middle of the card as clear as day. A bright red crown, dripping blood.

Who murders a seventeen year old kid execution style and leaves a calling card?

I didn't know, but I was going to find out.