Waiting for Burial

I sat at the wooden table in an interrogation room at the county jail. Beats was on his way down to meet me. I rehearsed what I was going to say. "Beats, my name is Talia. I'm a street worker. I'm here to ask if you would help us with a truce." Beats didn't know me. But I knew of him. I'd heard horrible stories. Beat's was one of the city's most vicious gang members in one of the most violent gangs of 2005 and 2006. His own boys were scared of him. Once he called one of his boys from jail and threatened to kill him. And everyone knew he would. I heard his mother call him a dead man. The door opened. The correctional officer led Beats to his seat. The officer removed his handcuffs, and left the room. Beats didn't say anything. He just stared at me. His eyes were cold; his face looked frostbitten. "Who you?" "My name is Talia. I'm a street worker. We want to bring together your crew and the Noose Set to squash the beef. Can you help us?" "Yeah, I'll help. I'll holla at dem for you." "Will you join us?" "Naw, it's too late for me." He said it without emotion. I wondered if he thought it was too late because he's killed before. "How old are you?" I asked. "I'm twenty." "Twenty," I repeated. "Do you really believe it's too late for you?" "Yes." Usually, I'd say, "It's never too late." But Beats is dead. He's just waiting to be buried.