Gone ’Til November (5 page)

He watched the big black Chevy Suburban come down the street slow. Tinted windows, silver rims and spinners. He stepped out of the doorway, and the Suburban swung to the curb, the rear passenger door opening. He got in, and C-Love pulled the door shut behind him.

The Suburban had been customized with two facing bench seats. Mikey-Mike sat in the rear one, arms up on the seatback. Morgan slid onto the other, facing him. C-Love settled in beside him, close to the door. They pulled away from the curb, hip-hop throbbing low from hidden speakers.

Mikey wore a Michael Jordan jersey, an Adidas headband, and warm-up pants and jacket, but he was pushing three fifty, and Morgan doubted if he’d seen a basketball court in twenty years. There was a thick rope of gold around his neck. To Morgan, it was all foolish gangsta bling that said
Drug dealer. Lock my ass up.

Morgan wore his leather, the Beretta tucked into his belt in back. He looked behind him, saw the Coleman twins, Dante at
the wheel, DeWayne riding shotgun, a hundred pounds heavier than his brother, with a lazy left eye. He was a month out of Rahway at most. He looked at Morgan without expression.

“Yo, DeWayne,” Mikey said. “Turn that shit down.”

The music faded to a dull thumping Morgan could feel through the seat. He looked out the window. They drove past City Hall with its gold-leaf dome, marble steps, barricades in front.

“That was good work you put in,” Mikey said.

“True that,” C-Love said. “Showed those niggas the error of their ways.”

“But I heard some things,” Mikey said.

“Like what?” Morgan said.

“Like maybe that bitch had a stash there.”

Morgan reached into his pockets. He felt C-Love stiffen, turn toward him. Morgan took out banded stacks of cash, tossed them onto the seat beside Mikey.

“There was shit there, too,” Morgan said. “I left it.”

“Why?”

“Too much trouble. A whole G-pack. I wasn’t going to carry it around.”

Mikey looked at the stacks, then at C-Love. “Count that shit,” he said. C-Love leaned over, picked up the bills.

“There’s seven there,” Morgan said. “I found fourteen, kept half.”

C-Love finished counting, nodded. Mikey leaned forward, took one of the banded thousand-dollar stacks, tossed it into Morgan’s lap.

“Don’t ever trust anyone who’s not taking his share,” Mikey
said. He looked at C-Love. “If a nigga ain’t stealing a little, he’s stealing a lot.”

Morgan left the stack where it was.

“Maybe you need it more than me,” he said.

“Nah,” Mikey said. “What those lawyers are charging, that wouldn’t buy them lunch. Take it, ’cause we got something else to talk about, too.”

Morgan put the money away. “What?”

“That deal down south,” Mikey said. “Some shit happened. Ain’t gotten to the bottom of it yet.”

“Maybe you should back off it.”

“It’s not that easy. I need that connect, the money it’s gonna bring in, to pay those motherfuckers working my case. They got another delay, but first of the year, man, they can’t put that shit off anymore.”

“What happened?”

“Don’t know. I sent someone down there, prime the pump, get things moving, but he never made it. People he was supposed to meet called, said ‘What the fuck?’ I didn’t know what to tell them.”

“What was he carrying?”

“We’ll talk about that shit someplace else. But I may need you to go down there soon.”

“Why?”

“Find out what the fuck happened. And who’s responsible. And settle that shit before it gets out of hand.”

Morgan thought about Kinzler, what he’d said.

“I got some things going on,” he said, “I need to take care of. Up here.”

“Ain’t no shit that can’t wait. I’m waiting to hear back on something. When I do, might be I’m gonna holler at you. And you need to be ready to go.”

Morgan looked out the window, felt them watching him. The Suburban rolled past a block-long housing project.

“What?” Mikey said. “You actually need to think on this? Whatever it is, I’ll make it worth your while. You know me.”

“Yeah,” Morgan said. “I know you.”

“Besides, being gone for a while might be a good thing, case someone’s thinking payback for that work you done, you feel me?”

“I’ll handle it if they do.”

“I know you will. Just sayin’.”

“Up at the corner’s fine.”

“Dante,” Mikey said, “pull up over there by the playground.”

The Suburban rolled to a stop.

“Well?” Mikey said.

Morgan reached across for the door latch, popped it.

“Call me,” he said and got out.

He walked home down Washington Street, past boarded-up tenements, vacant lots between them like missing teeth. At the corner of West Kinney, he stopped in front of an empty brownstone, windows bricked up, the facade darkened with smoke damage. A sign in the yard promised new condominiums to come, gave a phone number.

He’d lived there for six years, from the time his grandmother died until he’d turned fifteen and taken to the streets.
A group home, him and ten other boys. Back in 1967, on the second day of the riots, he’d snuck up to the roof, watched smoke and flames bloom from the corner of Springfield and Bergen. Sirens everywhere, and the crack of gunfire blocks away. Gray ash had fallen from the sky like snow, covering the city. A lifetime ago.

He walked on.

The hill. It was always the hill that killed her.

Sara ran hard, her legs like lead, eyes on the road ahead, the top of the hill. She was waiting for the pain to stop, for the bliss of oxygenated blood to take over, but it hadn’t. Just more pain and more hill, the sound of her breathing and the noise of her sneakers on the blacktop.

Counting the paces now, distracting herself from the pain, and then she was up, at the top, the road long and straight in front of her. She resisted the temptation to slow. Engine noise behind her. She moved farther up on the shoulder, kicking up pine needles as she ran. An empty flatbed truck went past, Howie Twelvetrees from the municipal garage at the wheel. He blew the horn, and she waved to him without breaking stride.

Ahead was the creek, the wooden bridge, her turnaround point. She crossed it, sneakers thumping on the wood, then
circled to the other side of the road, started back. One mile up, one mile back.

Downhill she had to watch her speed or risk taking a header onto the pavement. When she reached the bottom, she slowed, breathing hard but knowing the worst was over.

She thought about her interview with Elwood and Boone that morning. It had been shorter than she’d expected, less than a half hour. No, she hadn’t heard the shots. Yes, Billy had told her what had happened. No, she had no reason to believe it had gone any other way.

The questions touched only briefly on their relationship, and Boone had seemed almost embarrassed about it. Still, the sheriff had been right. In Hopedale everyone knew your business.

She slowed when the house came in sight, breathing deeper, filling her lungs. She saw the front door open and Danny come out on the steps to meet her, JoBeth behind him. Sara felt the smile come to her face unbidden. She lifted her arm in a weary wave.

A half hour later she was showered, dressed in jeans and sweatshirt, Danny on her lap. After JoBeth had left, they’d filled the bird feeders in the backyard, fed and watered the rabbits.

There were four of them, kept in a hutch she’d made from scrap lumber and chicken wire. He’d named them after cartoon characters—Bugs, Wile E., Daffy, Yosemite. It pleased and worried her. He’d grown close to them, and she knew someday they’d go out to feed them and there would be only
three, or fewer if a dog got into the hutch. It would be his first experience with death, something she wanted to postpone as long as possible.

Now they were reading a book of Aesop’s fables, one they’d read a half-dozen times before. He knew it by heart. She was always surprised how fast he learned, how he forgot nothing.

She felt warm, relaxed, had tried to put last night’s awkwardness with Billy out of her mind. She felt centered here, in her house, Danny’s reassuring weight on her lap. This was where she belonged. This was where she was strong.

She saw the fresh mark on his forearm then, hoped it was juice, Magic Marker maybe. She brushed at it. It was another bruise.

“How’d you get this?”

“I don’t know. I bumped into something. Can I watch TV now?”

“Only for a little while, while I’m making dinner. It goes off when we sit down at the table. You know the rules.”

“Okay,” he said and tumbled off her lap, got the remote from the coffee table. He flicked it on, and the TV glowed into life. He stretched out on the carpet, legs kicked up behind him.

She got up, set the book on the table.

“Halloween’s coming soon,” he said.

“I know.” They’d had this discussion before.

“I’m not sure what I want to be yet.”

She looked at him. He didn’t turn.

“Danny, we talked about this, remember? I know you
want to go trick-or-treating, but I don’t think it’s such a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because of how tired you get. Because you’re sick, and being outside that long isn’t good. All those reasons and more.”

“All the other kids are going.”

“Well, you’re not all the other kids.”

He was silent then, staring rapt at the cartoon blaring from the television. As she entered the kitchen he said, “Mom?”

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“How did I get sick?”

She stopped in the doorway, looked back at him. He hadn’t looked away from the TV.

“I don’t know, Danny. No one knows. It just happens.”

“I’m tired of it.”

“I know.” She came back into the living room, sat cross-legged beside him, touched his thinning hair. He didn’t respond. She leaned close, kissed the top of his head. “We’ll get you well,” she said. “I promise.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, baby, I do.”

She got up then, turned away, not wanting him to see her cry.

In the kitchen she got a pan down from the cabinet, hamburger meat from the refrigerator. The sound of cartoons filled the kitchen as she busied herself, set the pan on the stove, got the heat on. Focusing on what she was doing, shutting everything else out of her mind. The patties sizzled as they met the pan.

“Mom?” he called from the living room.

“Yeah, hon?”

“I’m not a baby, you know. Not anymore.”

She laughed, used the back of her hand to wipe her eyes.

“I know, Danny,” she said. “I know.”

Monday at noon, she drove out to Billy’s house. For no reason she could name, she took the long way, across the freight tracks and into the Libertyville section of town. Big Victorian houses, most in disrepair, some boarded up. She passed tree-shrouded overgrown yards, a street-corner Baptist church.

The neighborhood had been founded by freed slaves after the Civil War and had once boasted a flourishing black business district, a response to the segregation in the rest of Hopedale. But neither history nor architecture had been enough to keep people here. Most of the houses she saw were condemned or for sale. No gentrification here, just a neighborhood left to die, families moving out the first chance they got. Driving through now, she couldn’t blame them.

She caught the county road, took it southwest. Once she passed the old drive-in, there was nothing but farms and fields. Ten minutes later, she turned down Billy’s driveway, pulled the cruiser up behind his truck in the front yard. Lee-Anne’s old Camaro was parked in the carport. Sara sat there for a moment, wondering if she should turn around, go back.
Since when have you let that bitch scare you off?

She got out of the cruiser, switched on the handheld radio
at her belt, plugged in the shoulder mike. No calls yet today.
Finally catching a break.

She went up the steps, knocked on the screen door. She could hear music inside, reggae. She knocked again, heard noises, then the inside door opened. Lee-Anne looked at her through the screen.

“It’s you,” she said.

“I came to check on Billy. See how he was doing. It’s my lunch break.”

Lee-Anne looked past her to where the cruiser was parked. She wore a sleeveless black Jack Daniel’s T-shirt, breasts loose under it, nipples visible through the material. Her long blond hair was braided and beaded on one side, and she wore low-slung jeans that showed an inch of skin, a navel ring. A barbed-wire tattoo circled her left upper arm.

“This police business?” she said.

“No.”

“Billy,” she said without turning, “that woman’s here.”

Sara looked past her into the living room, saw clothes on the floor, smelled the sweet tang of marijuana. Lee-Anne didn’t move.

“You’re looking butch these days,” Lee-Anne said. “That uniform and all. That ain’t no way to get a man, pretending to be one. Though I guess there’s some might like that.”

Sara felt the heat in her face.

“I’ll be outside,” she said and went back down the steps.

She was standing by the cruiser when Billy came down, tucking a white T-shirt into jeans. He looked happy to see her.

“Hey, girl. I thought you were staying home today.”

“Sheriff offered, but I turned him down.”

“Why in hell would you do that?”

You wouldn’t understand, Billy. You never did.

“People would talk,” she said. “Say I was getting special treatment.”

“Bullshit. Nobody’s ever given you any special treatment. If they did you wouldn’t take it anyway.”

He got a pack of gum from his pocket, offered her a stick. She shook her head. He took a piece, rolled the wrapper up, and flicked it away.

“You drop a specimen?” she said.

“What, for Elwood? Yeah, soon as Boone got there. Why?”

“Was it clean?”

“Sure. Why do you ask?”

She lifted her chin at the house.

“That’s just Lee-Anne,” he said. “Can’t get her to stop. She doesn’t do it too much these days, though.”

“Secondhand smoke can make you test positive, too.”

“It’s not a problem, Sara. What’s up?”