Fake It Till You Ace It

The Blackwater District looked like a war zone that the city had forgotten to clean up. Iverson walked out of the subway station and into the gray afternoon light. The street was lined with boarded-up windows and flickering streetlamps that buzzed even in the daytime. A police siren wailed two blocks over. Iverson didn't even turn his head. His heart rate stayed perfectly steady. He walked past a homeless man sitting on a milk crate. The man held out a greasy paper cup, his hands shaking from withdrawal. Iverson didn't break his stride. He pulled his right hand out of his pocket, flicked a crumpled five-dollar bill between his fingers, and dropped it perfectly into the cup as he passed. He took a sharp right, ducking into a narrow alleyway. The brick walls were covered in overlapping layers of gang graffiti. It was a shortcut to Arthur's thrift store. Halfway down the alley, two junkies were huddled together, passing a small plastic baggie back and forth. They heard his footsteps and froze, their eyes wide and paranoid. Iverson kept his eyes locked straight ahead. His face was a blank, emotionless mask. He didn't slow down. He didn't speed up. The junkies felt the heavy, suffocating aura radiating off him. It was the energy of someone who had nothing to lose and was hoping for a reason to snap. They scrambled backward, pressing their thin bodies against the dirty brick wall to give him the entire path. He emerged from the alley and saw the faded, buzzing neon sign of Arthur's General Goods. Iverson pushed the heavy glass door open. The brass bell attached to the top clanged with a dull, heavy thud. The inside of the store smelled like dust, old pennies, and mothballs. The lighting was terrible, casting long, yellowish shadows across the cluttered aisles. Arthur, a heavy-set man with a thick gray beard, was sitting behind the counter. He was squinting at a horse racing newspaper. He glanced up over his reading glasses. "Well, look who it is," Arthur chuckled, his voice rough from cigars. "The rich boy. What are you doing back in the slums, Ivy?" "Just passing through, Artie," Iverson replied, his voice flat. He didn't stop to chat. He walked straight past the counter and headed deep into the aisles. Two young white clerks were restocking shelves in the back. They both stopped moving the second Iverson walked into their aisle. Their eyes darted to his pulled-up hood, his baggy clothes, and the dark scuff marks on his shoes. "Look at this guy," the first clerk whispered to the other. "Baggy clothes, hood up. He's definitely here for a five-finger discount." The second clerk nodded slowly. His right hand drifted down to his belt, resting nervously on a canister of bear mace. Iverson heard every word. A dark, mocking smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. He turned toward the metal shelving unit. Instead of looking quietly, he started shoving boxes aside. He dragged metal objects across the wire racks, intentionally making as much noise as humanly possible. Clang. Screech. Bang. The clerk with the bear mace flinched, taking a quick step backward. His heel caught the edge of a cardboard box, and he knocked it over, spilling cheap plastic toys all over the floor. Iverson ignored them. He crouched down and pulled a bulky object from the bottom shelf. It was a used, red-and-white plastic megaphone. He held it up, flipped the power switch on the side, and squeezed the trigger. A loud, piercing burst of static feedback shrieked through the quiet store. Iverson smiled. He clicked it off. Perfect. He walked back to the front counter, completely ignoring the two clerks who were still frozen in the aisle. He pulled a crisp twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and slapped it flat on the glass counter. Arthur picked up the bill, holding it up to the light. "What the hell do you need that piece of junk for?" "I need to send a message to someone," Iverson said. The dangerous glint in his eye returned. He grabbed the megaphone by the handle and turned toward the door. The memory of the police sirens and the chaotic noise in the background of Brenda's phone call flashed through his mind. His stomach tightened again. The anxiety was a physical weight pressing down on his lungs. He pushed the glass door open much harder than necessary. The brass bell clanged violently against the glass. Iverson stepped out onto the sidewalk, blending instantly into the fading yellow light of the streetlamps. A cold wind whipped down the avenue. Iverson reached up, pulled the drawstrings of his hoodie tight against his neck, and started walking fast toward Brenda's shop.