Midnight on Linwood

6654 words

The engine of the ‘68 Dodge Charger growled low, a beast crouched in the shadows of Linwood Avenue, its black paint swallowing the faint glow of a streetlight two blocks down. Inside, Leon Mercer’s hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles tight, the cracked leather creaking under his fingers. The air in the car was thick, stale with the scent of old cigarette smoke and the sharp tang of Reggie’s nervous sweat. The heater hummed, barely pushing back the November chill seeping through the windows, frost spiderwebbing the edges of the glass. Outside, the vacant lot near Booker T. Washington Middle School sat quiet, a stretch of gravel and weeds under a sky too heavy with clouds to let the moon through. “Man, I’m tellin’ you, we shoulda stayed back at Carver’s,” Reggie muttered, slumped in the passenger seat, his breath fogging a small circle on the window. His fingers fidgeted with the zipper of his corduroy jacket, up and down, the sound scraping at Leon’s nerves. “This sittin’ and watchin’—it’s gonna get us clipped. You saw them cats last night. They ain’t playin’. That duffel? That’s weight. We ain’t got no heat, no nothin’.” Leon didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed locked on the lot, scanning the darkness for movement, for the glint of a car’s chrome or the...