Untitled (36 page)

  "Hi," she said almost like a child.

  "Hey," said Marshall. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

  Roberta and Marshall walked out of the office to the lobby. Marshall didn't know if Roberta's office was bugged too, and he wasn't taking the chance. The lobby was quiet and peaceful. Outside, the smokers puffed happily away, like criminals banned from their offices.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  "Not really. I didn't sleep last night, and I've been on pins and needles all day."

  "Just try to be cool. I'm on to something, and I think it might pan out. When it does, I'll need you to have a conversation with me on the bug, to flush these assholes out."

  "What?" she said. "No way. I'm not getting into any cloak-and-dagger stuff."

  "But you already have, Roberta," said Marshal. "Think about it."

  She did, and said, "Okay. I'll try."

  "And I want you to start carrying a gun."

  "I can't do that. Guns scare me, Marshall."

  "Getting killed should scare you more. Just do it. If you can't get one, I'll get one for you, but you have to be smart about this. We're playing for big stakes here."

  "I can get a gun from my father. He tried to give me one last year." She looked defeated. This problem was making her do all the things she'd probably sworn she'd never do.

  Marshall went back to his bugged office and worked on his opening statement. He felt exhilarated as he wrote, but he kept thinking of his wife driving away, the secret crawl space, and the ruthless man who had inhabited it.

D
anny pulled up his car by the little store called Brock's. It was what the locals called a party store, a little store by a residential neighborhood that had groceries but mostly sold beer and hard liquor. Many of the stores were owned by Chaldean merchants. The Chaldeans were Iraqi Christians, and many of them had immigrated to Detroit. Brock's store was black owned. Mo Brock had inherited the store from his father, Lucius, who was a community activist and former basketball player. Mo wasn't nearly as talented as his father, but he knew everything that went down in the 'hood.

  Danny got out of his car and walked up to the three young black men standing on the corner. As he got closer, he could see that one of them was a girl, dressed like a boy. Danny smelled trouble. Enough time on the street had taught him to tell if a kid was good or bad, and these were definitely the latter.

  "Wha'sup white boy?" said a tall kid with a green hat. "Hey, I think the hockey rink is thataway." The other two kids laughed.

  "Which way is yo' fat-ass mama?" said Danny. He walked right up to Green Hat, whose friends moved closer to Danny, obviously intending to defend their friend.

  Danny noticed that they made no comment about the way he talked. Within the inner city, he was welcome to be who he was. These kids had probably seen many whites who spoke like him. That made him feel a little better. He was always more comfortable around his own people.

  "You don't need to be comin' 'round here with no bullshit. A muthafucka can get hurt like that," said Green Hat.

  "If I was a muthafucka I guess I'd be scared, but since I'm not, fuck you."

  Green Hat reached behind his back, but Danny already had his revolver out. He held it down in front of him. None of the kids even saw him reach for it. Danny's blood was pumping, and he had to admit he missed the danger of his work. These guys were lightweight, but he was enjoying the confrontation.

  "Whatcha got behind yo' back, my brotha?" asked Danny. "A piece of candy? A college diploma? Take it out so I can see it." Green Hat pulled out a knife. Danny laughed and put his gun away.

  "What the fuck is wrong with you? You gon' slice some bacon or something? How you gonna kill somebody and get locked up in prison if all you gonna do is swing some little pigsticker like that? See, that's where you headed. Right to jail where some lifer who's been eating steak and pumping iron for ten years will drive a hole in your little ass big enough to park a car in."

  "Later for you," said Green Hat. He put the knife away and walked off. The other two joined him. "You better watch yo' back 'round here," he said when he was a safe distance away.

  "Why you fuckin' with them kids?" said Mo Brock from behind Danny.

  Danny turned to see a little man about thirty. Mo had a small frame but a large head, just like his father. The Brocks were good people. Mo had taken over his father's community activism and was already helping to save lives in the neighborhoods.

  "What are those kind of kids doing here?" asked Danny.

  "I know they bad," said Mo, "but you gotta start somewhere with them. I let them come in and help out and in return I let them have soft drinks and food for free. By the time they figure out it's a job, I got them."

  "I can't believe that works," said Danny. "Knocking heads is all they understand."

  "That's cop talk. And if I didn't know you better, I'd say it was white man talk. Look at what banging heads got you, Danny. If I read the papers right, you shouldn't have those guns on you. You ain't a cop anymore."

  "Not true," said Danny. "I just don't have a license to kick ass anymore. Now I gotta do it for free."

  "There are better ways, you know."

  "I haven't found those yet, but for you, Mo, I'll keep looking."

  Mo laughed a little. "So, what can I do for you? I know you didn't come here to buy a forty."

  "No, I'm looking for somebody. You probably know him. Moses. Moses Jackson."

  "He's probably long gone by now, man. Be a fool to stick around here after bustin' out of jail."

  Danny smiled a little. This was why he'd come to Mo. He knew everything that happened in the neighborhoods. The criminal's life was under those of normal people, a city within the city, and Mo was one of the many keepers of information.

  "Yeah, but have you seen him?" Mo knew something, but even a good guy like him didn't like to talk to the cops. Danny would have to coax what he wanted out of him. He hated doing that. It was much easier to just slam his ass. But Mo was a good man, and you never messed with someone who was righteous.

  "Nope, I ain't seen him," said Mo.

  "Okay, Mo. I know you can't ruin your rep by giving up somebody, but Moses is bad news all the way around. Just give me a hint about what you know."

  Mo thought it over carefully. He'd obviously spent a lot of time making sure the local kids would trust him. He didn't want to blow it by talking to a cop and having a finger pointed at him as the person who gave up a brother.

  "I don't know much," said Mo. "Just that somebody who was selling guns was talking about him, about how he seen him in the city."

  "His name," said Danny. There weren't many gunrunners in the city.

"Can't do that," said Mo. "That's all I know."

  "I see. Just nod if you hear his name," said Danny. "Blue Jack?"

  "Look, I told you, I'm not talking."

  "Milton, Quince—"

  "Sorry," he said. "Don't know 'em."

  "Come on, Brock, cut me some slack."

  "Sorry."

  "Okay, what can I do for the name?" said Danny. "I know you have a price, what is it?"

  Brock didn't have to think long. "I got a local kid named Eroy, Eroy Wilson. Bad customer. He's only eighteen, but he's already towering over the kids his age. He's into dope, thievin', extortion, all of that. And he's the real deal, a hardass muthafucka who'd cut you and watch the sun turn your blood brown while you died."

  "So, he's giving you trouble?" asked Danny.

  "No, he pretty much leaves me alone, but he's got something that belongs to me. Eroy is a basketball fan. I had this ball signed by the Piston championship team. Thomas, Dumars, Rodman, Salley, Mahorn, even the coach, Daly. The bastard stole it, but I can't prove it. Get it back, and I'll give you the name and a hundred bucks."

  "Is that all?" said Danny. "Where is he?"

  "Where he always is, on the basketball court 'round the corner."

  "I'll be right back," said Danny. Then he headed up the block.

  It was good to be back on the street, he thought. Even as a cop, he mostly rode around in a car, his feet not touching the hard concrete of the 'hood. This was better than riding shotgun with Vinny. This was real.

  The neighborhood was a nice one. The houses were well kept, and there were not many cars on the streets, a sure sign that many of the people had jobs. It was a shame that even such a good place could be home to someone like Eroy Wilson.

  Danny rounded a corner and saw the playground. Even though it was cold out, it was filled with kids playing, gam bling, or just hanging out in big coats. A rap tune blasted from a nearby car.

  In the middle of the action was Eroy, a muscular kid with a shaved head and dark glasses. He was fair-skinned and probably had a grandparent who was white, thought Danny.

  All eyes were on the white man as he approached. Danny stopped short as Green Hat and his friends walked up. Green Hat had his hand in his coat. Danny kept walking.

  Green Hat pulled a gun. "You still here," he said. "You must be a fool."

  "Ray, put that shit away," said Eroy. "You know I don't allow that here."

  "Eroy, he rode up on me waving his shit," said Ray. "Well, now I got mine." To Danny, he said, "You ain't so bad now, is you?"

  Danny walked toward Ray. Ray raised the gun. Danny kept walking, not reaching for his weapons. Most of the kids in the street were just scared children at heart. He'd seen the cold-blooded type, but this kid was not one of them.

  "You'd better stop," said Ray.

  "He's crazy," said the girl who had been with Ray.

  Danny kept walking, never taking his eyes off Ray's face. Danny got to Ray and walked right up on the barrel of the gun. His stomach pressed against the barrel. He could see Eroy better. Mo was right, he had the look of a killer in his eyes. He was a man who'd seen a lot of pain in his short life and had already accepted his fate on the street.

  The weapon shook in Ray's hand slightly. It was hard to shoot a man. If he were still a cop, Danny would snatch the gun and beat the kid with it. But that kind of behavior had already gotten him into a lot of trouble. Maybe there were better ways, like Mo said.

  "Go on, Ray," said Danny. "Buy your ticket to the penitentiary."

  Eroy reached over and pulled Ray's gun down. "Get your ass back, Ray," he said. "Ain't nobody going to the joint." To Danny, he said, "Get on, before I change my mind."

  "I got business with you," said Danny. "You got some

thing that belongs to Mo. He wants it back, and I came to get it."

  Eroy and his crew laughed. "You are? Well, I'll just give the shit to you."

  "I'm not asking you to do that," said Danny. "I hear you like basketball. I'll play you for Mo's championship basketball."

  More laughter from the crew. "Didn't you hear?" said Eroy. "White men can't jump."

  "Then I guess you down then, right?" asked Danny.

  "Okay, but what if I win? What do I get?"

  Danny took out his guns. "These," he said.

  "Nice," said Eroy, looking at the weapons. "Cool. Let's do it."

  "I need to see the ball," said Danny.

  Eroy nodded to Ray, who ran off and came back with the basketball. It was wrapped in plastic.

  Danny and Eroy went to the court as the rest of the men on the playground made bets. Danny was nostalgic. This reminded him of so many days as a kid, not a care in the world. It was cold out and the court had frost on it, but it didn't matter. Basketball was a year-round sport in the city.

  "Fifteen game," said Eroy. "Your ball."

  Danny took the ball and drove to the basket. He went up for a shot and Eroy pushed him. Danny fell down hard on the concrete. Eroy took the ball and easily made the basket.

  "I forgot to tell you, these are street rules, big baby," said Eroy. His crew laughed and slapped five in the background.

  Danny smiled. He had hoped that Eroy would do that. It was a long tradition on the street that the game could be played unfairly. It was called "hardball" when he was a kid. Whatever name it had now, Eroy had just made a mistake.

  Danny got up and got on defense. Eroy drove in, his elbow out. He was slow, Danny thought, but strong. It would be hard to take him. He hit Danny with a shoulder and tried to drive around him. Danny stripped the ball from him, and as Eroy came back for it, he met Danny's shoulder. It caught him in the chest. Eroy fell on his ass. Danny drove around his opponent and easily made a layup.

  Eroy smiled and tried to look amused. But Danny could tell he was pissed off. Eroy had probably been beating up on smaller kids all his life. He was not used to losing.

  Danny took the ball and dribbled in. Eroy waited, his fists clenched. Danny stopped and took a shot, making it from long distance. There were no nets on the rim, so what would have been a "swish" was the ball soundlessly going through the rim.

  Danny made two more shots, knowing that Eroy would have to play a closer defense. He did. Eroy went up to Danny and shoved him hard as he inbounded the ball. Danny kept his footing, then Eroy threw an elbow that caused Danny to lose the ball. Eroy grabbed it and drove to the basket, slamming the ball in.

  The game continued as the two men beat each other down. Danny knew beating him was only half the battle. If he won, then he'd have to stop Eroy from reneging on the bet. But first things first, he thought.

  After a while, Danny was one point away from winning. Both men were bruised and hurting, but they showed no sign of giving up. Danny took the ball and drove in. Eroy stuck out a foot and tripped him. Danny hit the ground hard. Eroy took the ball and tried to do a fancy slam dunk. He missed, and the ball flew into the air. Eroy grabbed it and tried to make a layup, but Danny had recovered. He blocked the shot, knocking it off the court. Eroy's crew reacted, cheering for Danny.