A Visible Darkness - By Jonathon King Page 0,44

who’s killing the elderly women, including Ms. Mary’s mother, is somebody from the neighborhood.”

He again gave me the head tilt.

“I see,” he suddenly said, changing the mannerisms in his voice to a mocking, officious tone. “Once again it is the notorious black- on-black crime pattern.”

I started to think I’d made a mistake in tactics, trying to turn him into a source.

“Look, this guy knows the streets, the layout of the homes, the habits of the people,” I said, trying again. “You know how a stranger would stick out here. You’re the first ones who would see it. Maybe this guy is someone who moved in years ago, started to fit in.”

The leader was staring again at the house, thinking.

“Maybe it’s somebody that flashes money around. Acts like everybody’s friend so no one suspects,” I said.

“He got his needs?” the leader said, catching me off guard. He saw that I didn’t understand.

“You know, habits. Dope, women, gamblin’?”

“Hundred-dollar bills,” I said, dropping the only signature I had.

Now it was his turned to be confused.

“If he’s got habits, he might be paying with hundred-dollar bills,” I said.

The leader looked around at his boys. They shook their heads. He turned back to me.

“You got a cell or somethin’?” he said.

I gave him my cell number. He didn’t write it down but I got the impression he didn’t need to. He stood up and so did I. He was four inches shorter, but the difference didn’t seem to phase him like it did some men.

“We’ll see, G,” he said and then turned and walked away, the others following. Their hands were all back in their pockets, and when they got to the end of the alley they turned left and headed west.

I stayed in the neighborhood, driving, watching, grinding the possibilities. If anyone could get a tip on the hundreds, the local crew trying to keep their pledge to the off-limits zone might. Then again, they could be playing me. I cruised past a dusty playground. The concrete basketball court was empty and unlined, the iron rims bent like the tongues of tired dogs.

I thought of the street games I’d found soon after I’d moved out of South Philly to the town house up near Jefferson Hospital. Down Tenth Street was a one-court park that held a competitive game on the weekend. I’d been playing there for a month, getting into more and more games when the regulars figured out I was willing and able to play defense and could pull a rough rebound as well as anyone on the court. I was often the only white guy there and they started calling me Bobby Jones after the 76ers defensive star.

One Saturday a group of challengers rolled in swaggering. One called game before he was even past the fence and everyone started posturing and trash talking and making their side bets.

When it came time to pick up, the local guy who had next let me sit until his final choice and then made his play: “We take the old white guy make it easy on your ass an’ you buck up the bet another Jackson.” The new man looked at me, snorted and peeled off another twenty-dollar bill.

I had learned over the years that as the minority on the ball courts the best tactic was to stay obscure, keep your mouth shut, and do the quiet things that win games and keep you playing. The real players are not dumb. They like to win. They’ll pick you to play for their own purposes, regardless of color.

We won by six and I had only one basket but more assists and rebounds than anyone else on the court. After the game the local guy winked at me but never said a word. He collected his cash and I assume split it with his boys later. I picked up my ball and went home to get ready for a night shift.

I’d lost my bearings on my trip to the past and looked up at the street sign to realize I was driving east. It was late afternoon, the temperature had crawled up near eighty and I decided to stop in at Kim’s. Maybe I was hoping to run into McCane, find an excuse. But the bar was nearly empty. The same young bartender had an old Don Henley tune turned up on the jukebox and I sat in McCane’s seat. She brought me an ale.

“Good memory,” I said, putting cash on the bar.

“You and the good ’ol boy