A Visible Darkness - By Jonathon King Page 0,77
named Walker jumped into the other squad car. “The initial report was that he could be armed. Right?” said the sergeant, again asking Richards.
She nodded and watched both cars spin U-turns and head north, their blue and red lights still throwing color on the building fronts, their sirens silent.
“Let’s go, Max,” Richards said.
I was looking down the street, watching the corner of a fence that led to an alley about a block down. I raised my hand and heard her footsteps behind me.
“What is it?”
“Wait a second,” I said, not turning.
The block stayed quiet. Windows stayed dark. I watched the alley entrance.
“We need to go, Max. If they corner Baines we need to be there.”
“Yeah, I know, just give me a minute.”
She didn’t sigh in resignation, or huff in exasperation. There was an element of trust going on.
We were standing in the swale, just behind my truck. I crouched down and sat on my heels and Richards followed. In less than a minute there was movement at the fence. I could pick up the light- colored material of clothing, then watched someone moving our way. There was a stumble, and a girl’s quiet curse.
When we stood up she yipped in surprise, her hand to her mouth, and then started to spin away on her blocky shoes. Richards snapped, “Hold it.” The girl was experienced enough to freeze.
We flanked her and she was looking defiantly at me when Richards flashed her badge.
“We’re police officers,” she said. “Where not going to hurt you.”
“No shit,” the girl said.
She was the young woman I had seen before, the one who the Brown Man had slapped across the face, the one who had spat at the feet of the junk man. She was wearing the same summer skirt but had changed her shirt.
“Have you been around all night?” I asked.
“No, I been at church all night with my girlfriends workin’ the brownie sale,” she said, folding her arms over her skinny chest, challenging me with her eyes.
“You didn’t see your friend the Brown Man tonight?” I tried again.
“Carlyle? That fool ain’t no friend of mine,” she spat. “Juss a punk think he all high and mighty cause he got the franchise on the block.”
She had raised her voice but then looked past us both, nervous at her own words thrown out in the dark. I reached out and grabbed her upper arm and spun her around to face me and her eyes went big.
“Ditch the attitude,” I said. “You were here when Carlyle shot the junk man. What happened?”
She looked down at my hand and winced and I tightened the grip.
“She’s the cop, I’m not,” I said. “I don’t need to worry about how I get my answers. What the fuck happened?”
The girl tried to catch Richards’s eyes for some kind of protection, but she had turned away.
“Wasn’t no shootin’. Not like a real one anyways,” she finally said. “The junk man got in Carlyle’s face an’ when Carlyle got his gun out to scare him this nigger goes an’ grabs it and they was both standin’ there when it goes off. Then Carlyle goes down on the ground whinin’ and cryin’ ’bout how his damn hand was busted.”
“And the junk man has the gun?” Richards said, now moving in to team up on the girl.
“No,” the girl said. “He throwed it in the street an’ one of Carlyle’s boys went an’ snatched it up.”
“Where did the junk man go?”
She hesitated, looking down the street.
“He was draggin’ hisself that way,” she said, nodding south.
“He was wounded?” Richards asked.
“Mighta been,” she said, gaining back some bravado in her voice. I squeezed the arm tighter.
“Where did he go?” I shouted.
“I didn’t follow him,” she said defensively. “He probably go where he always go.” Tears were now coming to her eyes. “He probably go down the blockhouse where he always go.”
Richards looked up at me and I eased off my grip on the girl’s arm.
“Are you sure?” Richards asked the girl quietly. “Are you positive? Did he push his cart down there?”
“He didn’t have no cart with him this time. He was draggin’ his leg an’ he saw me lookin’ and axed me would I help him and he had a hundred-dollar bill so I helped him down at the blockhouse an’ ran out of that place,” she said, unable to remember her own lies.
“This is the old concrete utility room down off Thirteenth?” Richards asked.
“Yeah, where all them girls always be gettin’ hurt,” she said, her voice