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“What I think,” he said, “is that you’re smarter than the other kids playing out here. You’re one step ahead of them.”

I stayed silent.

“Well, in this game it’s good to stay one step ahead, but it’s even better to stay out completely.”

“You out?” I asked him.

“I’m in,” he said. “Deep in.”

That’s the first time I met the man who named me. His name was Arnold Lonly. When I tried calling him Mr. Arnold, like my mama taught me to address my elders, he say, “Just call me Uncle.”

And that was that.

Uncle didn’t live in the neighborhood but he knew the neighborhood. He worked it. He set up shop and had him a thriving business. From Jump Street, he always had an eye for me. Didn’t take long to learn that he really didn’t want anything from me. He was just wanted me to stay clear of trouble. He saw something good in me. And I felt his love. He tried to steer me right, but I was gonna do what I was gonna do.

NINE-MILLIMETER

Death lived on our street.

Me and my boy D used to play in front of the Collins Funeral Home, one block down East Oliver, where we’d watch them bring in the bodies. Mr. Collins was a twisted dude.

One day he said he’d pay us to clean out his basement. We backed off, but the promise of money lured us down there. Next thing we knew, old man Collins locked us in.

The room was filled with corpses. One casket was open. A man was in there, and he was still alive. I know because I saw him stretch out his arm and I heard him take his last breath. Frightened to death, we ran up the basement stairs, banging on the door until our hands turned bloody. But old man Collins wouldn’t let us out. We finally broke a window and crawled out. I felt like I had escaped death.

Few months later death returned. This time death got all over me.

When it happened, D and I were playing in the alley. By then I was in the sixth grade and running wild—going to every house party I could find and holding packs for the most vicious dealers in the game. Mama and Pop were nice folks, but they couldn’t control me. Besides, they had no idea what I was doing.

Me and D weren’t doing much that day when two niggas came running down the alley, one chasing the other. The nigga being chased didn’t see our bike and tripped over it, falling right in front of us. The nigga chasing him had a gun. Just like that, he pumped four shots into the dude’s head.

I watched blood gush out of his skull; I saw his brains splatter out on the concrete.

Never had seen a murder before.

Never had seen anyone shot up right in front of my eyes, inches from where I was standing.

How did I feel?

I can’t remember feeling. Just remember looking.

How did I react?

Can’t remember reacting. Just remember standing there.

Inside my head I was saying, Oh, shit, that nigga just got his brains blown out.

But on the outside I wasn’t crying or screaming. I wasn’t moving. I was cool as a fuckin’ cucumber.

Just stood there.

The killer looked at me, and I looked back at him.

I didn’t know what he was going to do, but I wasn’t moving.

I wasn’t scared ’cause he didn’t look like he wanted to shoot me. He already did what he had to do. I think he also saw that, though I was an eyewitness, I was cool. I didn’t look like no snitch. I wasn’t interested in getting my brains blown out.

So just like that, he tossed the gun at me—a heavy-ass nine-millimeter.

He nodded at me, like it was okay. It was a gift. The gun was mine. I nodded back.

I picked up the joint and put it in the pocket of my baggy jeans.

And that’s when everything kicked off.

BOW AND ARROW

In the world of nine-millimeter handguns and semi-automatic weapons, you don’t think about bows and arrows murdering someone. Bows and arrows are off some old Robin Hood movie. Who knows anything about bows and arrows?

“Miss M was killed by a bow and arrow,” D told me.

“What!” I said. “What you talking about? Miss M is nine months pregnant and about to have her baby.”

“Bow and arrow went right through her stomach and into her baby. Killed ’em both.”

“That’s crazy.