see some antibacterial hand wipes, one of those pre-toothpasted toothbrushes, travel-size bottles of soap and shampoo, a water bottle.
What’s sustained me over the past twenty-four hours, even more than my determination to catch the bomber, are the acts of goodness I’ve seen, big as well as small—people risking their lives rushing into blasting-hot wreckage to save people they’ve never met, cops hugging and crying with the victims’ friends and loved ones, neighbors in the area bringing cases of bottled water or food for the rescue teams and even us.
“You hand these out?” I ask of the care package in her hand.
“My kids put them together at Sunday school. I see more homeless people than your average person, so…”
At first I don’t even notice the homeless man seated against the brick wall of the bagel shop. He is African-American and young, though his eyes are droopy and unfocused. He lights up with a smile of bad teeth when he sees Officer Ciomek.
“Sperry!” Ciomek says in her upbeat way. She squats down and hands him the granola bars and the care package. He takes them without comment and stuffs them into a grocery bag resting next to the ratty plaid coat that serves as his blanket. “How you doin’, kiddo?” she asks.
“Girl, know’m sayin’, it’s bad, girl, bad,” he says, his head lolling. He can’t be more than twenty-five. The sides of his head are shaved and the hair on top has a scarecrow look to it. His face is marked by acne, and his skin is weathered well beyond what his years on this earth should have done. He’s wearing a T-shirt with no sleeves and a filthy pair of beige slacks that don’t reach his ankles.
“When’s the last time you scored?” Ciomek asks.
My eyes instinctively go to his skinny arms, which are tattooed up and down but have track marks too.
He bursts into laughter and then starts coughing. He settles down and shakes his head, a smile flitting across his face.
She nudges him gently. “When? I need your help, Sperry.”
“Brother gots to get his amp on, know’m sayin’?”
She isn’t getting anywhere, so she nods and keeps going. “You heard about Mayday?”
“Fuuuuuuck.” He turns his head away from her, not that he was focusing on her to begin with. He looks up at me, standing next to the squatting officer, his eyes large and bloodshot, but there’s a small trace of youthful innocence in his hardened, drugged-out gaze.
“Who the biddy?” he says.
“This is my friend Emmy.”
I squat down alongside Ciomek. He looks at me and nods.
“Mayday,” Ciomek repeats. “You heard about him?”
“Yeah, man, everybody heard ’bout Mayday.” Sperry’s eyes fill; his mouth turns downward. He crosses his outstretched legs and bows his head. I can only imagine what a kid like this sees and how he’s learned to process it. But the death of Mayday has affected him. Ciomek chose this guy for a reason.
“Do you know what happened to him, Sperry? Any idea?”
“Last I saw.” He flips a hand, sniffs. “He got his gwop, girl. He’s all into cranberry and all like, ‘I got me a rental, I got me a rental.’”
He’s imitating Mayday’s voice, I suppose, deep and husky. He raises his head again, tears on his face, but he licks his lips and gestures with his hands. “He all ’bout this white-boy astro-naut, know’m sayin’? Says he got his sorry-ass self a rental. I say let a muthafucka eat his beans and rice in peace, know’m sayin’, but he all about his rental.”
“He showed up at Cranston with some money,” says Ciomek, translating for me, then she turns back to Sperry. “What’s this about a rental?”
“That’s what the brother said, know’m sayin’? Says this is how the rich folk do it. Ain’t gotta hustle if you the muthafuckin’ landlord, see. You be gettin that gwop for nothin’.”
I think it through—the video, Sperry’s words. “Are you saying he was renting the space where he worked on Broadway?”
“Broadway Cat,” he says.
“Broadway and Catalpa,” says Ciomek. “Mayday was renting his block to another person?”
He points at her.
“When was this?” I ask.
“Woman.” He tilts his head up to me. “I look like a damn calendar? Last time I saw’m.” He gives a conclusive nod.
“It was Friday night,” Ciomek says. “You said you were eating beans and rice, right, Sperry? That’s Friday-night dinner at Cranston.” She looks at me. That was the night we saw Mayday leave his post on Broadway early. The last time anyone saw him.
What the camera missed during those