ZerOes Read Free Page A

mailbox. The house is all shot up. Windows broken. Bullet holes in moldy siding. A gutter hangs loose. He hurries over, calling, “Miss Livinia, hey.”
    The old woman lifts her head—a small act that seems to take a lot ofeffort. Her pinched eyes search him up and down. Finally she adjusts her glasses and laughs. “That you, Stringbean?”
    â€œYeah. It’s DeAndre, Miss Livinia.”
    â€œAll right, all right, I’m sure I got some candy in the house for you. Got some M&Ms, the kind with the peanuts in ’em—but they’re getting harder to find, you believe that? Those chocolates are a classic and nobody seems to want ’em anymore. But that’s the way with old, good things—”
    He laughs and stops her from going inside the house. “No, Miss Livinia, I don’t need any candy. I’m good.”
    She looks him up and down behind the lenses of her bug-out spectacles. “You need to eat something, boy. You skinnier than a cat’s tail. I’ll make you some chicken and rice.”
    â€œI gotta get to my moms,” he says. “But yo, what happened to your house?”
    â€œThose dopeheads came by and shot it up. They musta thought Demetrius was back in town, but he ain’t even out of jail yet, those donkeys.”
    â€œDamn! You okay?” Demetrius, her grandson. Always used to push DeAndre around, beat him up after school, steal his shit.
    She waves him on. “I’m fine, Stringbean. I’m fine. God ain’t seen fit to take me yet and no dopeheads spraying my gutters with bullets are gonna be the ones who do it.” She sighs and hmm s. “Guess I do need a new mailbox, though.”
    He grabs Livinia’s hand. It’s dry and papery, like the pages of a Bible. DeAndre makes sure to turn his back to the slingers across the street. He presses a handful of money into her palm: just shy of five hundred bucks. She peers down at it like she’s trying to read the fine print on a newspaper ad—then her eyes go big enough to match those glasses of hers. “This what I think it is?”
    â€œTake it, Miss Livinia. Buy what you need.”
    â€œBoy, whatchoo been up to lately?”
    â€œI got a job.”
    â€œIt a good job?”
    â€œIt’s a real good job.”

    His moms answers the door. She looks him up and down with an eyebrow cocked so high he thinks it might float up above her head and take off like a spaceship. Then she laughs and gives him a big hug and tells him to come inside, get something to eat, he’s too skinny. She turns and sways those big hips, sashaying to the kitchen.
    But DeAndre doesn’t go inside. Instead he calls after her.
    â€œMoms,” he says. “Let’s take a ride. I got something to show you.”
    â€œWhat are you gonna show me ?” she says with a wry smile.
    He winks and waves her on.
    ----
    MILL VALLEY, CALIFORNIA
    ----
    â€œWhose house is this?” his moms asks, again with the arched eyebrow. “This is a richie-rich house. You got business here?”
    The house is—what did the real estate agent call it? Mission style. Three bed, two bath. Couple of palm trees out front. Privacy fence with pretty flowers climbing all over it. Little fountain burbling and gurgling. Pool in the back. Golf course across the street.
    â€œThis ain’t business, Moms,” DeAndre says, laughing. Then he fishes into his pocket, past his phone, and fetches a set of keys. He dangles them in front of her.
    â€œWhat the hell is this?”
    â€œThey’re keys.”
    â€œYou’re a smart-ass, you know that?”
    It’s a familiar refrain, and DeAndre has a familiar response: “Smart-ass is better than a dumb-ass.”
    â€œYeah, yeah. You still didn’t answer the question. Why you dangling a set of keys in front of my eyes like I’m a little kitty cat? I don’t care much for shiny things.”
    â€œYou oughta