Page 131 of Twisted Knight

He rolls his eyes in response. “Yeah. So?”

“I’ll tell you what. Instead of tagging whatever it is you’re planning on tagging next, why don’t you spray over the shit on those walls,” I say, lifting my chin toward the building.

“What the fuck—” He catches himself. “What would I do that for?”

“Because just like you don’t want dealers out in front of your house—you shouldn’t want that shit where you live.”

“You’re whacked, Three-Piece.”

“I guess you don’t want to get paid then.”

That got his attention. “You gonna pay me to spray over someone’s tag?” He snorts. “You’re outta your mind if you think I’m going to believe you. Why?”

And why do I care if he does believe me?

“I used to live here.”

“You tripping if you think I believe that.”

“I don’t give a fuck if you believe me or not. I did. That corner unit right there.” I look at it and can all but see Mason sitting on the front porch with me, oiling the bearings of his skateboard. His laugh—one thing I can still hear all these years later—rings in my ears.

“You’re trying to tell me you got out of here. That you’re driving that and wearing a Rolly—and you didn’t sell dope to get there?”

“I am.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“The only difference between you and me, Leo, is that luck met determination at the right time.”

“Yeah, well, in case you didn’t notice, the only luck you get around here these days is that the bullet misses you when it’s fired.”

“You get good grades?”

His eyes narrow at me. “Bs mostly.”

I nod. “Do drugs?”

“Nah, man. Not my thing.”

“Play sports?” I ask and see his face fall a fraction before he covers it back up.

“Baseball, but it’s expensive and my mom can’t always get me there because of work.”

I look at Leo and see Mase. See me. I’m not sure why the fuck I do, but I do. He seems to be a good kid in a shitty situation by no fault of his own.

I question myself before I even open my mouth. “Back to my offer.”

“To spray over tags?”

“Yeah. The deal just changed.”

“Of course it fucking did,” he says, clearly used to being let down. “Nice meeting you, man, but you’re just like—”

“Hold up. Hear me out,” I say and reach into the open passenger-side window and grab one of Audrey’s nondescript cards without a company name on it. They often come in handy. She can’t be googled. I can. “I want you to work for me.” He snorts again and I just keep talking. “To make this front building look nice. Repaint the gates. The porches. Paint over the tags.”

“Why? You own this place or something?”

“No.”