Not Long for This World (23 page)

“Gangbangers are children who are born lost, Mr. Gunner. From the very beginning, they’re given nothing to build upon, nothing to hope for. Vermin-infested living quarters, mothers and fathers on crack or booze, run-down schools and indifferent teachers … they leave their mother’s womb not long for this world.

“And yet many of them can be saved. With Darrel’s help, and with experience, I’ve learned to know these children when I see them … just as I’ve learned to know the others, whose bond with Satan is too great for my mortal abilities to ever compromise. In other words, I am not so great a fool as to treat all gangbangers equally. If I treated Rookie like someone who had the potential to turn away from sin and toward a life in Christ, it is only because that potential was there, and not because I imagined it.

“None of this is to say, however, that I assisted Rookie in any way in his flight from the authorities. The fact of the matter is, he never came to me to ask for help. Perhaps that seems odd to you.”

Gunner remained noncommittal. “Perhaps.”

“It shouldn’t. Were you half as well versed in the beliefs of Willie Raines as Rookie, you would understand, as he must have, that I could not possibly have helped him run from the police without violating everything I and the Peace Patrol have ever stood for. Ask anyone who knows me what my feelings are about those who refuse to accept responsibility for their own actions; they’ll tell you. They’ll tell you I have only one word for such people:
cowards
. If a man is willing to reap the rewards of the next world, Mr. Gunner, he has to be willing to bear the just punishments of this one when he falters. Many of the lessons gangbangers need to learn can only be learned through Christ; but the lessons that pertain to consequence—to the concept of paying a fair price to society for one’s assaults against it—are better taught by man.”

He took up his drink again and sat back to enjoy it.

“Quite a philosophy,” Gunner said. “Was it Lovejoy’s as well?”

Raines shrugged. “For the most part.”

“What were the points of dissension?”

“It was more a matter of degrees than actual points of dissension. Darrel’s approach to ’bangers was just softer overall than mine. Perhaps being closer to them on a day-to-day basis had something to do with that, I don’t know.”

“You two never had any real problems getting along, then.”

“No. Never. I loved Darrel like a son, and he never gave me any reason to believe he didn’t feel as warmly about me.” He paused, as if catching himself about to take a bad fall. “But how did we come to be talking about him?”

Gunner shrugged and finished his drink. “Would you rather talk about Whitey Most?”

The Reverend’s face said no—not now, not ever.

“The name does mean something to you, then,” Gunner said.

“He’s a crack dealer,” Raines said.

“Rookie’s crack dealer.”

“Yes.”

“How well do you know him?”

“I don’t know him at all. I’ve simply buried enough of the children he preys upon to know of him. And Rookie’s mentioned his name once of twice, of course. What about him?”

“I was wondering if he and the Patrol had ever had any serious differences of opinion you might be aware of.”

“By the Patrol, whom do you mean? Darrel? Or me?”

“Let’s start with Darrel.”

“First, define ‘differences of opinion.’”

Gunner shrugged again. “Anything that might have led to bad blood between the two. They were two men who worked the same side of the street but had wholly conflicting merchandise to sell. I would think they must have locked horns at one time or another.”

Raines got up to freshen his drink and said, “Darrel was not in the habit of confronting drug pushers directly, Mr. Gunner. He was too smart for that. But there were occasions when he had to exchange words with one, certainly. As you point out, his influence upon the children in this community was constantly at odds with that of men like Most; they used to threaten him all the time.

“Whether Most himself ever did so, however, I can’t say. At least, I don’t recall Darrel ever mentioning it if he did.” He came back to his seat. “As for me, the only experience I’ve ever had with Most, good or bad, was at a public rally the Southern California Alliance of Christian Churches held at George Washington Carver Park last July. I said a few words to the crowd and Most tried to shout me down, created quite a disturbance. The police cited him and he went away. That’s all there was to it.”

“And you never heard from him afterward?”

“No,”

Raines thought he was being helpful, but he was really only making Gunner’s life that much harder to bear. For all his magnanimous cooperation, he had managed neither to shed new light on Darrel Lovejoy’s murder nor implicate himself in it, a rare double play that to all extents and purposes transported Gunner back in time to the moment of his introduction to a pair of imposing rottweilers named Sam and Dave: a moment otherwise known as Square One.

On the outside chance that Raines might slip up and contradict himself in time, assuming he knew more about Rookie Davidson’s whereabouts than he was telling, for instance, Gunner could have asked for a fresh drink of his own and run the minister through a second, more grueling round of inane questions. However, he chose not to do so for one simple reason: He believed every word Raines had said.

Whether it was the power of the truth or just the power of the man to whom he was surrendering, Gunner declared his interview of Raines officially over and agreed to let his three hosts escort him out.

At the door, Raines shook his hand again and said, “You didn’t come here prepared to like me very much, did you, Mr. Gunner?”

His insight took Gunner aback a little. “No. I must confess that I didn’t.”

“Do you mind if I ask why?”

“For all the usual reasons I’m sure you’ve heard before. The way you’ve managed to mix success and piety so seamlessly, for one. Your love of overexposure, for another.”

“The word and will of God can never be overexposed, Mr. Gunner. That is a fallacy. But your mistake is a common one. You’ve confused a need to draw attention to my message with a need to draw attention to myself. I seek a certain amount of fame, certainly. But there’s a reason for that. Who is a sinner most likely to listen to … a poor man shouting from a cardboard pulpit or a rich man speaking into a dozen microphones on the six o’clock news?”

He grinned broadly at the unavoidability of the answer.

It was a grin Gunner might have detested only a short hour ago—but now he wasn’t so sure that it didn’t have a certain, down-to-earth appeal. He decided he had better leave while he still had an ounce of skepticism for the man left.

“I’m sorry we never got around to talking about the upcoming peace summit,” he said. “I’d wanted to ask you how it was going.”

Raines threw another log onto the fire of his grin and said, “It’s going magnificently. Thank you.”

“I don’t suppose I have to tell you that there are a lot of people out there in need of a miracle who will be expecting nothing less.”

“I know,” Raines said, nodding. “I know. They won’t be disappointed.”

“How can you be so sure?”

It was a stupid question to ask a Baptist minister, and they both realized it. Raines just smiled and said, “The secret is
faith
, Mr. Gunner. Faith in the Lord’s almighty power to heal the hearts of men. These ’bangers attending the summit will all be young men who have accepted Christ Jesus as their Lord and Savior, kids who are committed to making peace with one another, and through prayer and open discussion of their grievances, that’s exactly what they’re going to do. For Proverbs Sixteen, seven says, ‘When a man’s ways are pleasing to the Lord, he makes even his enemies live at peace with him.’ Amen!”

“Amen,” Gunner heard himself say.

Choosing not to chime in, Sam and Dave just stood there.

chapter
thirteen

T
he voice on the phone said, “Somebody seen Rookie.”

It was Smalltime Seivers.

Gunner had just sat down with a cold one an hour after seeing Willie Raines when the phone rang. “Where?”

“I gotta show you. You busy?”

Gunner said, “I’ll pick you up in ten minutes,” and put his beer back in the refrigerator.

“You sure you gotta go in? Donnell and I could prob’ly go in an’ get ’im, if you want.”

It was the third time in fifteen minutes that Smalltime Seivers had made the same offer, and the third time Gunner had just shaken his head no. Once again, the big Blue was playing navigator from the passenger seat of Gunner’s Hyundai, this time directing the detective to the Blues’s former place of hiding for weapons and other assorted items of vice gangbangers always preferred held from prying eyes. Donnell Henderson, the latest Blue to make Gunner’s acquaintance, was in the backseat, keeping quiet.

Henderson looked as if keeping quiet was something he did a lot of. He was a short sixteen-year-old with a headful of hair and an expressionless, cherubic face. Kelly DeCharme’s dossier described him as the Blue with the least impressive police record, a highly intelligent kid who did surprisingly well in school and who liked to talk about being an automotive designer someday.

He was a classic example of the ultimate inner-city tragedy: a gangbanger with both potential
and
ambition.

Though this trip had been Smalltime’s idea in the first place, he was nevertheless squirming around in his seat like somebody sitting on a live eel, clearly regretting ever having agreed to come along for the ride. Invading the Blues’s private domain—abandoned or otherwise—was supposed to be Gunner’s last resort, Smalltime had reminded him. Absolutely the final request he could make of the Blues after all his other options had run out.

Gunner had assured him that such was indeed the case, thinking to himself that the big Blue didn’t know the half of it. Henderson’s tip regarding Rookie’s whereabouts hadn’t come a moment too soon.

This was desperation time.

For what DeCharme had predicted eight days ago, Gunner had only managed to prove in the time since: Rookie was the key to everything. Everyone else the investigator had seen fit to talk to in reference to Darrel Lovejoy’s murder was capable of providing only mere fragments of the truth, or so it seemed. The total picture of Lovejoy’s death—the names, faces, and myriad motives involved—was apparently Rookie’s alone to know, and Gunner was finally ready to concede that he had to turn the fugitive Blue up again, alive and conversant, if he ever hoped to share the boy’s invaluable insight.

He had let Rookie slip through his fingers once; he wasn’t going to let it happen again.

The site Smalltime had in mind turned out to be the skeletal husk of a small abandoned house sitting along what used to be the 1700 block of 117th Street, just south of Imperial, before construction of the new 105 Freeway had advanced this far east to flatten everything in its path. The house was the only one of nine on the block still standing, a final tribute to the impoverished men and women who had held on to the only real estate they were ever likely to own right up to the last, but it was easy to see that it wouldn’t be standing much longer. A chain-link fence surrounding the block kept Gunner and the Hyundai a full seventy yards away, but even from that distance, with the late afternoon sky going dark overhead, the house looked like something held together with spit and a handful of nails.

“We used to use the garage,” Smalltime said. “The house is all fucked up; it wouldn’ta been safe to put nothin’ in there, but the garage is cool. Cube put a lock on it and everything. We’d probably still be usin’ it, ’cept whoever it was broke in and took our shit, they fucked up the door bustin’ the lock off. Ain’t no way to lock nothin’ up in there now.”

They were still sitting in the car, pulled over at the curb on Holmes Avenue. Gunner killed the engine and looked back at Donnell Henderson, who still hadn’t said a word to anyone since they’d stopped to pick him up.

“This where you saw Rookie?” Gunner asked him.

Henderson nodded. “Yeah.”

“Was he alone?”

Another nod. The kid had a definite gift for gab.

Gunner turned around again, thinking he was finished, but Henderson surprised him by elaborating.

“He called me up. Said he had to talk to somebody.”

Gunner looked at him again.

“One of the homeboys, I mean. He called me this mornin’, ’fore I went to school, an’ said if he didn’t talk to one of his homies, man, he was gonna go crazy.” He shrugged. “So I asked him where he was at, an’ he told me he was chillin’ out here, an’ asked me to come see ’im, an’ shit. You know. To bring ’im a taste.” Apparently,
rock
was a word he was not going to use in front of Gunner. “So I did.”

“When?”

“When what?”

“When did you see him?”

“I don’t know. ’Bout three o’clock, I guess. Soon as I got outta school.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Did you talk to him?”

He gave Gunner another nod, identical to the first two. “Yeah. I talked to ’im.”

“What did he say, Donnell?”