At the City's Edge (14 page)

‘How can I?’

‘I know it’s a lot to deal with, but the funeral director will help –’

‘No, I mean, how can I have a service? How do I know a group of gangbangers won’t show up for Billy?’

Cruz opened her mouth, closed it. After a moment, she said, ‘I’ll be there.’

He nodded, eyes panning the room, falling across the cramped desk she shared with another Officer, the good-enough-for-government
fluorescent lighting, the ancient computer. He said, ‘I need your help. We need some sort of police protection.’

‘Police protection?’

‘For Billy.’

She winced. One of those moments when the realities of the job were disappointing. On television, they’d have a safe house
guarded by snipers, a fifty-inch television on the wall and ice cream in the fridge. ‘I can ask patrol cars to spin down the
block more often. The Crenwood rotation is pretty heavy, so you’d see a lot of them. Once or twice an hour, maybe more.’

‘Once an
hour?
’

She raised her shoulders, held her hands in front of
her. ‘There’s not much else I can do. You’re welcome to stay here until this is settled.’

‘Here.’

‘Yes.’

‘In the police station.’

She shrugged.

‘Unbelievable.’ He shook his head. ‘He’s eight. You know that? Eight.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He stood up. ‘If you’re not going to protect Billy, then I will.’

‘Mr. Palmer.’ She stood, too, put steel in her voice. ‘Don’t do anything stupid. Leave the criminals to us.’

‘You think I’m out to solve a crime, lady?’ He looked ragged and tired, but his eyes blazed. ‘I’m trying to protect my family.
That’s all I care about.’

‘Jason.’ She said it softly, hoping to defuse this, to keep him compliant. She could stuff him in a holding cell, but didn’t
want to. ‘I care about that, too.’

His hands squeezed into fists, and his lips went white. He stared at her for a long moment. ‘Terrific,’ he said.

Then he turned on his heel and stormed away, back straight and shoulders clenched. She thought about calling after him, telling
him to stay. Ordering it. Instead, she flopped down in her chair. The star on her belt felt heavy.

‘You know what I blame?’ Tom Galway rocked his chair back on two legs. Between the neat suit and the
salt-and-pepper hair, her partner looked more like an orthodontist than a Gang Intel Sergeant. ‘
CSI
.’

‘Huh?’ Cruz looked up from her laptop.

‘All these cop shows with elaborate plots. You know, the vic is killed with a potato masher, fashion models with badges talk
to twelve people, shine that mysterious blue light all over, it turns out it was the guy’s scoutmaster he hadn’t seen in ten
years.’

She laughed. ‘So you don’t buy it?’ Cruz had filled him in on all the weird vibes from the case. ‘You were there, you heard
what Michael Palmer had to say.’

He snorted. ‘Yeah, and I liked him, too. More polite than most crazies.’

‘All that stuff about the gangs being part of a larger problem, his claim there was evidence. You think he was making that
up?’

‘No, he was one hundred percent correct. The gangs
are
part of a larger problem. It’s called being dead-ass broke. Evidence of that ain’t hard to see.’ Galway shrugged. ‘Look,
your victim spoke against the gangs. He lived in a gang neighborhood, and died in a bar in gang territory. A Gangster Disciple
went after his brother and his son. And not just any Disciple, but Playboy, a shithead we
know
has dropped bodies. Why make this complicated?’

He had a point. But still. ‘What about the kid’s description?’

‘A day late and a dollar short. What is he, eight? He’s scared out of his mind, probably remembering something from TV. And
you can’t put an eight-year-old on
the stand. Public defender would tear you a new orifice. Besides,’ Galway looked around, then leaned forward. ‘I was talking
to the lieutenant earlier.’

She set down her pen, prepared herself.

‘Palmer was an activist,’ Galway continued. ‘The press hasn’t picked up the story yet, but they will. The chief, the superintendent,
they’re getting crazy pressure. Hell, Alderman Owens called to say he wants a gangbanger in cuffs on the evening news.’

‘
Alderman Owens
is involved?’ This case just got better and better.

Galway nodded. ‘He won on a promise to fight gang violence. This doesn’t make him look good.’ He gave her a look that wasn’t
hard to read. It said,
Danger.
It said,
Cover your ass.
She flashed back to breakfast with Donlan, his none-too-subtle warning. Telling her that this was a heater, not to mess it
up on some half-ass theory. Telling her she’d regret it if she did.

She felt a vein pulse in her forehead. ‘So what you’re saying is we’re in the middle of a shitstorm.’

‘What do you mean, “we”, white girl? It’s your case.’ Galway winked as he stood up. He took his vest from the back of the
chair and put it on. ‘Look, jokes aside, can I give you some advice, partner-to-partner? The powers that be want to clear
this quick. This is a chance to earn their gratitude. And Playboy would look awfully good in handcuffs. Maybe,’ he said, tightening
the straps on his Kevlar, ‘good enough to get you off database duty.’

As he walked out, she fought an urge to sweep the
stack of folders off her desk. Instead, she leaned back, stared at the ceiling tiles. Picked up a pen and clicked it open,
closed, openclosed. When had things gotten so complicated? Criminals were usually stupid, generally arrogant, often drunk
or high. They loaded their weapons barehanded, leaving casings with fingerprints. They smoked two seams of dust and shotgunned
a liquor store owner to get money for a third. They murdered each other for spray painting on the wrong wall.

What they didn’t do was operate in elaborate plots.

Still, something was going on. Michael Palmer killed after talking to her about a gang. Apparently, killed by white guys,
even though black gangbangers had later gone after his kid. And add to that the warnings from Donlan and Galway, the political
pressure.

Cruz opened her bottom desk drawer, took out her vest. Put it on, checked her pistol, her star. Hesitated, then dug out her
backup piece, a ‘mini-Glock’ in an ankle holster. Going through the motions, preparing herself to hit the street and look
for Playboy. All the while inhabited by a weird nervousness, a sense that things were moving beyond her control. It was starting
to feel like she was on a train that had derailed, left the tracks to hurtle through space.

True, she hadn’t felt an impact yet.

But that didn’t mean it wasn’t coming.

They were on their own.

Goddammit.

Outside the police station the sun beat on Jason’s back. Cars hummed by on the Dan Ryan. Billy looked up, his eyes wide, and
in them Jason saw that fear was only barely restrained, and felt the weight of that.

The cops couldn’t help. He was all that stood between his nephew and the men who wanted to kill him.

First things first, soldier. You need a place to go.
Where, though? If the bangers had found Michael’s home, they might be able to find his apartment. He needed a place where
no one would look for them. But what were they supposed to do, live out of hotels for the rest of their lives?

The answer came like a smile. ‘Billy,’ he said, ‘let’s go see an old friend.’

The drive was short, but rife with weird milestones. Jason hadn’t been back to the street where he’d grown up in years. He
passed his old house, still leaning like a drunk about to fall off his stool. Siding spotted yellow, concrete crumbling, but
the flowers tended. He was glad to see that. Someone making a go of it.

‘You’ll like this guy,’ he said, glancing over at Billy. ‘He was really important to me when I was growing up. To your dad,
too. His name is Washington.’

His nephew looked at him like he was crazy, said, ‘I know Uncle Washington.’

Somehow that made things worse. Michael had been gone a day, and Jason was already realizing that as well as he’d known his
brother, he hadn’t known him at all.

Washington’s house was as he remembered it, a three-flat with a fading wrought iron fence and tired curtains in the windows.
But beside the steps to the porch there now hung a sign that read ‘The Lantern Bearers’, and under that:

He led Billy up the steps, feeling like he was walking through an old dream. A stringy kid with pocked cheeks answered the
door, listened dubiously, and then told them to hang on. Jason ruffled Billy’s hair. The screen door dimmed the view into
the house. He saw a figure moving, and his head went light. It hadn’t hit him until this moment who he was about to see, or
how long it had been.

Then the door flew open. ‘Oh, thank God.’ Washington dropped to a knee to wrap Billy in an embrace. ‘I was worried.’

‘I’m okay,’ Billy’s voice was muffled by Washington’s shoulder. ‘Uncle Jason has been taking care of me.’

Jason shifted on his feet, strangely nervous. It had been years. And the moment felt awkward; he hadn’t expected Washington
to go straight for Billy. He hesitated, then smiled. ‘Hello, old man.’

Washington straightened, squared himself off in front of Jason. ‘So.’ He wore a beard now, and the lines around his eyes were
a little deeper. ‘The prodigal son returns.’

For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Then Washington broke into a wide grin, his eyes bright. He spread his
arms, and Jason stepped into them, the two of them grinning and clapping each other on the back.

‘Welcome home.’

Jason closed his eyes and hugged him harder. Then stepped away, one hand on the shoulder of the closest thing he had to a
father. His lips pinched in a solemn frown. ‘You’ve heard?’

Washington nodded. ‘Word on the street goes faster than light. You all right?’

‘Yeah. I don’t know. I should have been there.’ He paused. ‘We need to talk.’

‘Yes.’ Washington cut his eyes to Billy. ‘Later, though.’

They stood silent for a moment. Jason wanting to ask for something, but not sure what. Help? Forgiveness? For Washington to
make it better? He looked away. Then he felt something warm tugging at his arm.

Billy looked up at him. ‘Can I go inside and see Ronald?’

‘Who’s Ronald?’

‘He’s my friend. He can pick me up with one hand.’

Jason looked at Washington, saw the nod, said, ‘Sure thing, kiddo.’ Billy grinned and dashed inside, his heels flashing. It
stabbed Jason’s chest. For a moment, Billy had looked just like any normal kid.

‘So,’ Washington made the word sound like a grunt as he settled back in his chair and put his feet up on the porch railing.

They’d arrived in late afternoon, but now, nearly eight o’clock, was the first chance to really talk. Jason hadn’t seen the
old man in years, and in that time Washington had transformed himself from a librarian who tutored local kids into a full-fledged
activist. The house Jason remembered visiting as a teenager had become a cross between an afterschool center and a club house,
with former gangbangers washing dishes in the kitchen and studying for the GED in the living room. Washington seemed to be
everywhere at once, talking to ‘his boys’, taking meetings, spending hours on the phone.

The delay had turned out to be a good thing. It gave Jason a chance to hang with Billy, to distract the boy from the rest
of the world. He’d taught his nephew all the jokes he knew, the clean ones at least, and the two of them had spent the afternoon
getting schooled in basketball by teenaged killers.

Now though, with Billy tucked in early and the sky fading to purple, Jason couldn’t avoid his own mind anymore. ‘So.’

‘Are you okay?’

Jason shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘He was a good man.’

‘Yes.’ Jason felt a buildup of electricity. He still hadn’t cried for his brother, and he was starting to hate himself for
it. He took a belt of gin, watched bugs loop the streetlights. Tried to think of something to say. ‘You still working at the
library?’

‘Not much longer.’

‘Better job?’

‘This one, actually.’ Washington took a sip of his gin. ‘You heard of a man called Adam Kent?’

‘Nope.’

‘Started an import business out of his garage twenty years ago, now he’s a multimillionaire. Night after tomorrow he’s hosting
a benefit dinner for us, and he’s giving half a million dollars from his own pocket.’

‘Half a million?’ Jason whistled. ‘Jesus.’

Washington nodded. ‘Going to make a world of difference. Right now, we’re running on scraps and prayers. I lose a lot of boys
could be helped.’

Jason took another sip of the liquor. Felt that male discomfort, wanting to say something but the words weird. ‘You helped
me.’

‘You didn’t need much. Just a little direction.’

‘Still. I was sliding. I mean rebellion is one thing,
but stealing televisions?’ He shook his head. ‘If you hadn’t kicked my ass, I might have gone the wrong way.’

Washington leaned forward with the bottle and refilled both their glasses. Somewhere a siren screamed.

‘I should have come before,’ Jason said.

‘I was wondering if you would. Your brother told me you were out of the service.’

Jason grimaced, stood, walked to the porch railing. Opposite the house was an abandoned lot. When he’d lived down the block
there used to be an old playground carousel out there, a rusty metal circle that spun on a central point. He and Michael would
grab hold and run as fast as they could, then jump on, watch the world blur around them. ‘I thought about it.’ He closed his
eyes, saw Martinez, opened them fast. ‘Just that things… haven’t worked out so well for me.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I didn’t
leave
the Army. I was discharged.’ The sky had grown too dark to show whether the carousel still sat amidst the weeds. Jason tried
not to think about the words. ‘“Other than honorable”, they call it. For “patterns of misconduct”. It’s a pretty common way
to drum somebody out. They do it to a lot of guys who admit to having PTSD. Not the same as dishonorable, but not good.’