BY Coolio BAD TO THE BONE The sound of Simon crying in another room woke me. The baby’s cries were like a little bird’s squawks. Sunlight pressed against the red and green curtains Tanisha had hung over the windows. Still half-asleep, I lay tangled in the deep blue sheets and listened to my son bawl. Simon was three months old. Sometimes I wondered what he would be like. What he would look and act like. Everyone said he would grow up to be good-looking like his parents. If he grew up. Picking up the heavy, gold Rolex from the night table, I saw that it was 3:54 p.m. I took a bath, then checked myself in the mirror. A few hairs were finally starting to sprout from my chin. Back in the bedroom there was a message on my phone. Rance wanted to see me. I was to come alone. I slipped on some clothes and slid my gun into the waistband holster. Out in the living room Tanisha was sitting on the couch giving Simon a bottle. Even without makeup she was a beautiful girl. The flat-panel, HDTV was on, and mother and son seemed transfixed by the rapidly changing colors and images.
