A Visible Darkness - By Jonathon King Page 0,54

partner believes your theory about a local acting as a hit man for the insurance companies is marginal,” Richards said.

“How is some moke from in here going to hook up with that kind of scam anyway?” Diaz broke in again. “These are not your rocket scientists of crime out here. Even if your motive is right, Freeman, the two cases are in no way linked. Your guy is too smart. Maybe out-of-town work. Carlyle there would call up and spill on anybody who was out here fuckin’ with his territory by bringing in more scrutiny by us,” he said, pointing to the empty stool the dealer had abandoned.

“Carlyle?”

“Yeah,” Diaz grinned. “The dealer. His momma probably named him so he’d grow up tough. Instead he grows up and takes on the illustrious street name Brown Man and makes it as a drug peddler just to get her back.”

“You ever have a conversation with Carlyle?” I said.

“One-sided,” Diaz said.

“So he’s not real forthcoming with information?”

“But he’d still give up some cheap local out snuffing old ladies just to keep his trade moving.”

“And nobody’s got a C.I. who’s close to him?”

Diaz looked around again. Some of the neighbors had wandered back into their homes, some had pulled out lawn chairs as if an early evening show was only minutes away.

“What can I say, amigo? You see these people out when the drug shop is open? No. They’re afraid,” he said. “Carlyle got his territory set, for now. And believe me, the last thing he wants is local trouble.”

As we talked I kept cutting my eyes to Richards, caught her watching. The sun was well down but the air was still warm.

“You two done tilting at windmills for now?” she said.

Diaz shook his head.

“Hard as nails and literate too, man,” he said. “You ever have a partner like this, Max?”

Richards was silent, listening for my answer.

“Hey,” I finally said. “Cervantes was Hispanic. What do I know?”

The radios on both of their belts ran a simultaneous string of static and then squawked, “Fourteen, Echo One.”

Diaz snatched the call, lowered the volume and walked around to the front of the truck. Richards and I stood in a quiet that seemed oddly uncomfortable.

“The skeptic,” she finally said. “He only wishes he didn’t care.”

I grinned and looked at her. Even in the dark her eyes were showing color.

“You got something going?” she said.

“I got a long shot out,” I said.

“No. I mean tonight.”

“Uh, no,” I said. “I mean no, not really.”

“Come by later?”

“Sure,” I managed.

“I’ll make some coffee,” she said.

“Okay partner,” Diaz interrupted. “We got to hit the road.”

Richards turned away and started toward the SUV and Diaz shook my hand.

“I hate to say it, Freeman, but I’ll see you,” he said with a grin. “Be careful, man.”

Eddie slipped between two buildings and into the alley, running from the cold spot on the back of his neck.

He rounded the corner of Twenty-seventh Avenue and pushed the cart east, the loose wheel spinning maniacally, his shadow cast out in front from the last light pole. Who was the white man in the truck? And how could he see him?

Eddie liked routine, and his routine was going to hell. Mr. Harold didn’t show. He couldn’t get his dope. Momma wasn’t talking and now a white man’s eyes had looked into him and Eddie was wondering if his invisibility was also gone.

He shrugged up into his coat. A car rolled past, the bass from its stereo rippling through him. He pushed on to Second Street and then cruised the back alley of the row, stopping at Louise’s Kitchen where he found a plastic bag of bread heels hung up on a hook above the dumpster. Louise put it out there because she knew the bums would root through her garbage if she didn’t make it easy for them. So she hung the bread up away from the rats. Eddie knew when the bag came out and he was surprised to see it still there. He sat on the bottom of the steps leading up into the back of the restaurant, chewing through several pieces of the bread. The smell of the alley did not register. His own odor, rising up from his collar all warm and ripe from the body heat trapped under his coat did not register. Mr. Harold, Eddie thought, an idea pulling at him.

23

When Eddie crossed over the railroad tracks, he had officially crossed over to the east side, and he knew enough to be careful on the