Standing On Busines

Standing On Business Episode 2

Because tomorrow was Tuesday. And Tuesday was the day everything ended.

CHAPTER TWO

The sirens started at 6:47 PM.

Marcus was at the stove, browning ground beef for tacos, when he heard the first wail. It was distant, maybe a few blocks east, and he didn't think much of it. Eastside Boulevard had sirens the way other neighborhoods had birdsong. You learned to filter them out, the same way you learned to sleep through train whistles or thunderstorms.

Keisha was at the kitchen table, homework spread before her. Math worksheet, twenty problems, addition and subtraction with carrying. She worked methodically, tongue poking from the corner of her mouth, erasing when she made a mistake rather than scribbling over it. Marcus had taught her that. *A clean mistake is better than a messy lie.*

"Daddy, what's 47 minus 28?"

"You know that one."

"I know I know it. I just want to double-check."

"Break it down. Forty minus twenty. Seven minus eight."

"Seven minus eight is negative one. So... nineteen?"

"Nineteen."

She wrote it down, checked her work, moved to the next problem. The beef sizzled. Marcus stirred it with a wooden spoon, the same spoon Denise had bought at a yard sale their first summer together. The handle was worn smooth from years of use.

The sirens got closer.

Not one siren. Multiple. Marcus counted at least three distinct tones, overlapping and rising, a discordant symphony that made him turn down the stove and move to the window. He couldn't see much from the kitchen—just the building across the street, the parking lot, the alley that ran behind the complex. But he could hear the sirens stopping, cutting off one by one, somewhere to the east. Close. Maybe two blocks.

"Daddy?"

"It's okay, baby. Just police. Probably a traffic stop."

"Can I see?"

"Finish your math."

But she was already at the window, standing on her toes to see over the sill. Marcus let her. The sirens had stopped. Now there was shouting, distant and muffled, the kind of sound that carried strangely through city blocks, bouncing off brick and concrete until you couldn't tell where it came from.

"I see flashing lights," Keisha said. "Red and blue. Lots of them."

"Probably nothing."

"Can I draw it?"

"Your homework—"

"Just for a minute. I want to remember the colors."

Marcus sighed. "Five minutes. Then back to math."

She grabbed her notebook from the table and settled onto the couch beneath the window, pencil moving fast. Marcus returned to the stove, stirring the beef, listening. The shouting continued, rising and falling. Then a sound he didn't recognize—a sharp c***k, like a board breaking, followed by another, and another.

Not boards. He knew that sound. He'd grown up with it. Fireworks, his mother used to say when he was young. Just fireworks. But he'd learned, by the time he was Keisha's age, to tell the difference between celebration and something else.

"Keisha, away from the window."

"But Daddy—"

"Now."

She moved, but slowly, reluctantly, her eyes still on the scene outside. Marcus turned off the stove and went to the window himself. From the third floor, he could see the tops of police cars three blocks east, near the corner of Eastside and Maple. Flashing lights. Figures moving. And smoke—thin, gray, rising from somewhere he couldn't see.

His phone buzzed. A text from Darnell: *You seeing this?*

Marcus typed back: *What is it?*

*Raid. 442 Eastside. They came back. Heavy this time.*

442 Eastside. Mrs. Green's building. The wrong apartment.

*Stay inside,* Darnell texted. *Don't come out. Don't even look.*

Marcus was about to reply when the sound came again. Louder this time. Closer. A rapid series of cracks that made him duck instinctively, an old reflex from a childhood he'd tried to forget.

"Daddy?"

Keisha's voice was small. She stood in the middle of the living room, notebook clutched to her chest, her face pale in the light from the window.

"It's okay," Marcus said, and he hated himself for saying it, because it wasn't okay, because nothing about this was okay, but it was what you said to children, what you said to make the world hold together for five more minutes. "It's okay. We're inside. We're safe."

He moved toward her, arms open, and she ran to him. He lifted her—she was getting heavy, eight years old and solid, no longer the feather-light child he could carry with one arm—and carried her to the hallway, away from the windows. He sat on the floor with his back against the wall and held her close.

"What's happening?" she whispered.

"I don't know, baby. But we're okay. We're right here."

The sounds continued. Shouting. More of the cracking sounds. A helicopter now, distant but growing louder, the thump of rotors that vibrated in Marcus's chest. He thought about calling 911, then realized how absurd that was. The police were already here. The police were the ones making the noise.

His phone buzzed again. Darnell: *They got the wrong apartment AGAIN. 2B instead of 3B. Mrs. Green is screaming. I can hear her from my window.*

Marcus stared at the screen. He thought about Mrs. Green, the ceramic cats, the Jeopardy theme song. He thought about Reverend Cole's meeting, about documenting, about standing on business. He thought about Keisha's drawing of blank-faced police, and the chill returned, stronger now.

*Stay inside,* he texted back. *I'm with Keisha. We're staying put.*

*Good. Don't move. I'll text when it's clear.*

The helicopter was directly overhead now, its searchlight sweeping across the building, a white beam that cut through the blinds and painted stripes across the hallway wall. Keisha buried her face in Marcus's shoulder.

"It's too loud, Daddy."

"I know, baby. I know."

"Make it stop."

"I can't. I'm sorry. I can't make it stop."

He held her tighter. The helicopter circled, the light moving away, then back, then away again. The cracking sounds had stopped, replaced by shouting that was clearer now, individual voices cutting through the noise.

"POLICE! OPEN THE DOOR!"

Not from outside. From the building. From the hallway. Marcus's heart seized. He looked at the front door, solid wood with a deadbolt and a chain, and he felt suddenly that it was made of paper, that nothing between him and whatever was outside would be enough.

"Daddy—"

"Shh. Shh, baby. Don't talk."

Footsteps in the hallway. Heavy boots. More than one set. They passed their door—Marcus heard them clearly, three, maybe four people moving fast—and continued down the hall. A door opened somewhere, distant. More shouting. Then silence.

Marcus didn't move. Keisha didn't move. They sat in the hallway, pressed against the wall, and listened to the world fall apart three blocks away.

It went on for what felt like hours. In reality, it was probably twenty minutes. The helicopter moved off. The shouting faded. The sirens started again, but moving away, dopplering into the distance. Marcus's phone buzzed once more.

Darnell: *It's over. They're leaving. But something happened. Something bad. Don't come out yet. I'll call you.*

Marcus read the text twice. He looked at Keisha, who had fallen asleep against his shoulder, her notebook still clutched in her hand. He carried her to her bedroom, laid her on the bed, pulled the dinosaur blanket up to her chin. She didn't wake. Her face was peaceful, untroubled by the chaos outside.

He went back to the living room. The taco meat had burned, blackened and smoking in the pan. He turned off the stove, opened the window to clear the air. The street below was quiet, almost eerily so. A few people stood on the sidewalk, looking east, talking in low voices. A police cruiser sat at the corner, lights off, a silent sentinel.

His phone rang. Darnell.

"You sitting down?" Darnell's voice was strange, tight, like he was speaking through clenched teeth.

"What happened?"

"They killed someone, Marcus. They went to the wrong apartment again, kicked in the door, and they shot a man. Unarmed. In his own living room."

Marcus felt the floor tilt. He gripped the counter.

"Who?"

"I don't know his name. Young guy. Maybe thirty. Lived in 2B. They were looking for 3B, same as last time. Same goddamn mistake."

"Mrs. Green—"

"She's okay. Shook up, but okay. She's with neighbors. But Marcus..." Darnell paused. "There's more."

"What?"

"The police are saying the man was armed. That he fired first. But I was watching from my window. I saw the whole thing. He didn't have a gun, Marcus. He had his hands up. They shot him with his hands up."

Marcus closed his eyes. He thought about Reverend Cole's words: *Power without accountability becomes occupation.* He thought about Keisha's drawing, the blank-faced police, the featureless ovals that saw everything and nothing.

"What do we do?" he asked.

"We document. We witness. We don't let them write the story alone." Darnell's voice hardened. "I'm going down there. To the street. To see if anyone else saw what I saw."

"Darnell, don't. It's not safe."

"Nothing's safe, Marcus. That's the point." A pause. "You stay with Keisha. Protect your own. I'll call you when I know more."

The line went dead.

Marcus stood in his kitchen, the burned meat smell mixing with the night air from the open window. He thought about going to the street, about joining Darnell, about standing on business the way Reverend Cole had described it. But Keisha was asleep in the next room, and his promise echoed in his head: *Nothing's gonna happen to you. I promise.*

He stayed inside.

He would remember that choice. He would remember it with a clarity that felt like a wound that never closed.

At 8:15, he heard the second wave of sirens. Not police this time. Ambulance. It passed close, stopped somewhere nearby, then started again and faded. Marcus stood at the window, watching. He couldn't see the ambulance, but he could see the crowd gathering at the corner of Eastside and Maple, a growing mass of people lit by streetlights and phone screens.

His phone buzzed. Not Darnell this time. A number he didn't recognize.

"Mr. Littlejohn?" A woman's voice, professional, clipped.

"Who is this?"

"This is Detective Sandra Williams, 14th Precinct. I'm calling about a matter related to this evening's incident. I understand you were in the vicinity?"

"I live here. Three blocks from where it happened."

"I see. And were you home this evening? Between 6:30 and 7:30?"

"I was with my daughter. We stayed inside."

"Good. That's good, Mr. Littlejohn. We're advising residents to remain indoors while we secure the area. There was an officer-involved shooting. The situation is contained, but we want to ensure everyone's safety."

"The man who was shot. Is he...?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation. But I can tell you that no officers were injured, and the suspect has been neutralized."

*Neutralized.* Marcus felt the word like a physical blow. Not "arrested." Not "detained." Neutralized, like a threat, like a problem to be solved.

"His name," Marcus said. "The man who was shot. What was his name?"

"That information will be released pending notification of next of kin. Mr. Littlejohn, I want to assure you that the 14th Precinct is committed to transparency and community safety. We'll be holding a press conference tomorrow morning. In the meantime, if you or your daughter saw anything, I encourage you to come forward."

"We didn't see anything. We stayed inside."

"Of course. Have a good evening, Mr. Littlejohn."

The line went dead. Marcus stared at his phone. *No officers were injured.* As if that were the measure of the evening. As if the man in 2B, the unarmed man with his hands up, was a footnote in a story about police safety.

He went to Keisha's room. She was still asleep, her breathing even and deep. He sat on the edge of her bed and watched her. In the dim light from the hallway, she looked younger than eight, her face smooth and untroubled, her hand curled around the edge of the dinosaur blanket.

He wanted to wake her. He wanted to hold her and tell her that the world was still the world she'd fallen asleep in, that the promise he'd made was still true, that nothing had changed.

But something had changed. He could feel it, a shift in the air like the moment before a storm breaks, when the pressure drops and the birds go silent and you know, without knowing how you know, that everything is about to be different.

He stayed until 9:00, then went to the kitchen and threw away the burned taco meat. He made a peanut butter sandwich instead, though he wasn't hungry. He ate it standing at the window, watching the crowd at the corner grow and shift and murmur.

Darnell didn't call back.

Marcus texted him at 9:30: *You okay?*

No response.

At 10:00: *Darnell, answer me.*

Nothing.

At 10:30, Marcus called. It rang four times, then went to voicemail. Darnell's recorded voice, cheerful and calm: *Hey, you've reached Darnell. I'm either working or avoiding someone. Leave a message and I'll figure out which one it was.*

"Darnell, it's Marcus. Call me. Let me know you're okay."

He hung up and stood in the dark apartment, listening to the city breathe. The crowd at the corner had begun to disperse, people drifting home in ones and twos, their voices low and serious. The police cruiser at the corner was gone. The helicopter had not returned.

At 11:00, Marcus went to bed. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, his phone on the pillow beside him. He thought about Darnell's Camry, still not in the bay. He thought about Mrs. Green's ceramic cats, broken and scattered. He thought about the man in 2B, whose name he didn't know, whose face he'd never seen, whose death was already being called "neutralization."

He fell asleep sometime after midnight, the phone still on the pillow, the city quiet outside, his daughter breathing softly through the wall.

He would remember, later, that the last thing he thought before sleep was: *I should have gone down there. I should have stood on business.*

He would remember that thought with a guilt that never fully left him.

Because tomorrow, he would learn that standing on business meant something different than he'd ever imagined. Something harder. Something that would cost him everything he had left.