between the entrance to the zoo and the golf course. Officers were stationed there, blocking the park’s entrance. Something big had happened and he needed to find out what.
Luther was in a dicey spot. On the one hand, he was one of the mayor’s Street Saviors, a youth worker helping gang members choose a better path. Not the one he’d chosen, the one that led straight to prison. Saviors were city employees, like the police. But there was no love lost between the cops and the Saviors. Most of the cops looked at him and his partner Richard Zardino as ex-cons who couldn’t be trusted.
If he was going to get the 4-1-1 on what went down in the park, it wouldn’t be because he was a Street Savior, it would be because he was street. He continued down Blue Hill Avenue, avoiding the police, skirting the perimeter of the park. He turned right onto American Legion Parkway and saw a group gathered across from the Franklin Hill Projects.
This was the second time Luther had come to this section of the park today. The body of George Wheeler—that was his government name, his street name was G-Wheel—had been found by some golfers. God rest his soul. Luther had been working with Wheeler for months. Trying to sign him up to get his GED so he could take college classes. Trying to get him to go legit. But G-Wheel wasn’t likely to give up the life. Too entrenched. One of the leaders of the Mavericks. They’d met in prison when Wheeler was doing a deuce on a gun. Luther tried to use their relationship to squash some beefs before they got blown out of whack and people got shot. Things had been cool. Until this morning.
Luther recognized the faces of some of the dudes. They were part of George Wheeler’s crew. Maybe they had already retaliated for G-Wheel’s death. That would only bring more heat on them from the police and more drama from their enemies.
Luther approached one of the familiar faces.
“What’s up, Luther? You back already? You worried we stuck on stupid?”
Luther gave him some dap. “I know you’re not stupid.” The face in front of him was shiny with excitement. Eager, almost.
“We didn’t do nothing. Yet. We’re gonna chill for a while. Make sure we know who did G. Let them think about when we coming for them.”
“Why’s everything shut down?”
“Why you think? Po-po don’t shut everything down cuz some nigga got shot.”
He was right. This wasn’t the response for a dead brother. That morning, police had closed off a small area while they investigated Wheeler’s death. There’d been a couple of detectives and a kid from the crime lab working the case. All around them, the golfers continued their games like Wheeler’s body was a squirrel dead in the street, making their way around the inconvenience of the crime scene tape as if it were another sand trap. Luther had recognized the sergeant in charge of the scene earlier. Ray Figgs from Homicide. Luther knew him from the neighborhood. Sergeant Figgs grew up in Roxbury and knew everyone on the street. At one time he was one of the top homicide investigators. Now, word was, he was more interested in Johnnie Walker than George Wheeler.
“What happened?” Luther asked.
“White boy and his woman. Dead. Now you see po-po try to catch the dude that did the shit. Already closed the park. Brought in the dogs. Next be the Feds trying to squeeze everyone.”
Luther felt the heat of anger rise in his chest. He had seen this before. Feeling like this was what got him his prison time. Ten years ago, Marcus was murdered and the police did nothing. Luther had stood by, the helpless kid brother, watching his mother come to see that her oldest son’s life meant nothing to anybody but the two of them. Before Marcus got shot, Luther had never been in any trouble. Never arrested for trespassing or disorderly. And, back then, everybody in Roxbury was stopped by the police and questioned. If you talked back, you had a disorderly charge for your record. Stand on school property and you got yourself a trespassing. But when Marcus died, Luther had to square things.
Marcus was not dead and buried a month when the white kid-couples first started getting themselves killed. The newspapers were all over the police to catch the killer. Prom Night this and that killer. Now, ten years later, it was as though it was