running down skips for Nig Rosewater and Wee Willie
Bimstine. Nig went bail for a couple of chippies who work a regular
Murphy game in the Quarter. They're both junkies, runny noses, scabs on
their thighs, mainlining six and seven balloons a day, sound familiar,
scared shitless of detoxing in City Prison, except they're even more
scared of their pimp, who's the guy they have to give up if they're
going to beat the Murphy beef.
"So they ask Nig if they should go to the prosecutor's office
with this story they got off a couple of Johns who acted like
over-the-hill cops. These guys were talking to each other about capping
some brothers out in the Basin. One of the chippies asks if they're
talking about black guys. One duffer laughs and says, 'No, just some
boys who should have kept practicing on colored girls and left white
bread alone.'"
"Where are these guys out of?"
"They said San Antone. But Johns usually lie."
"What else do the girls know?"
"They're airheads, Dave. The intellectual one reads the
shopping guide on the toilet. Besides, they're not interested in
dealing anymore. Their pimp decided to plea out, so they're off the
hook."
"Write down their names, will you?"
He took a piece of folded paper from his pants pocket, with
the names of the two women and their addresses already written on it,
and set it on the plank table. He started eating again, his green eyes
smiling at nothing.
"Old lesson from the First District, big mon. When somebody
wastes a couple of shit bags…" He realized I wasn't
listening, that my gaze was focused over his shoulder on the swimming
pool. He turned and stared through the tree trunks, his gaze roving
across the swimmers in the pool, the parents who were walking their
children by the hand to an instruction class a female lifeguard was
putting together in the shallow end. Then his eyes focused on a man who
stood between the wire enclosure and the bathhouse.
The man had a peroxided flattop, a large cranium, like a
person with water on the brain, cheekbones that tapered in an inverted
triangle to his chin, a small mouth full of teeth. He wore white shoes
and pale orange slacks and a beige shirt with the short sleeves rolled
in neat cuffs and the collar turned up on the neck. He pumped a blue
rubber ball in his right palm.
"You know that dude?" Clete said.
"His name's Swede Boxleiter."
"A graduate?"
"Canon City, Colorado. The FBI showed me some photos of a yard
job he did on a guy."
"What's he doing around here?"
Boxleiter wore shades instead of the granny glasses I had seen
in the photos. But there was no doubt about the object of his
attention. The children taking swim lessons were lined up along the
edge of the pool, their swimsuits clinging wetly to their bodies.
Boxleiter snapped the rubber ball off the pavement, ricocheting it
against the bathhouse wall, retrieving it back into his palm as though
it were attached to a magic string.
"Excuse me a minute," I said to Clete.
I walked through the oaks to the pool. The air smelled of
leaves and chlorine and the rain that was sprinkling on the heated
cement. I stood two feet behind Boxleiter, who hung on to the wire mesh
of the fence with one hand while the other kneaded the rubber ball. The
green veins in his forearm were pumped with blood. He chewed gum, and a
lump of cartilage expanded and contracted against the bright slickness
of his jaw.
He felt my eyes on the back of his neck.
"You want something?" he asked.
"We thought we'd welcome you to town. Have you drop by the
department. Maybe meet the sheriff."
He grinned at the corner of his mouth.
"You think you seen me somewhere?"
I continued to stare into his face, not speaking. He removed
his shades, his eyes askance.
"Soooo, what kind of gig are we trying to build here?" he
asked.
"I don't like the way you look at children."
"I'm looking at a swimming pool. But I'll move."
"We nail you on a short-eyes here, we'll flag your jacket and
put you in lockdown with some
Bimstine. Nig went bail for a couple of chippies who work a regular
Murphy game in the Quarter. They're both junkies, runny noses, scabs on
their thighs, mainlining six and seven balloons a day, sound familiar,
scared shitless of detoxing in City Prison, except they're even more
scared of their pimp, who's the guy they have to give up if they're
going to beat the Murphy beef.
"So they ask Nig if they should go to the prosecutor's office
with this story they got off a couple of Johns who acted like
over-the-hill cops. These guys were talking to each other about capping
some brothers out in the Basin. One of the chippies asks if they're
talking about black guys. One duffer laughs and says, 'No, just some
boys who should have kept practicing on colored girls and left white
bread alone.'"
"Where are these guys out of?"
"They said San Antone. But Johns usually lie."
"What else do the girls know?"
"They're airheads, Dave. The intellectual one reads the
shopping guide on the toilet. Besides, they're not interested in
dealing anymore. Their pimp decided to plea out, so they're off the
hook."
"Write down their names, will you?"
He took a piece of folded paper from his pants pocket, with
the names of the two women and their addresses already written on it,
and set it on the plank table. He started eating again, his green eyes
smiling at nothing.
"Old lesson from the First District, big mon. When somebody
wastes a couple of shit bags…" He realized I wasn't
listening, that my gaze was focused over his shoulder on the swimming
pool. He turned and stared through the tree trunks, his gaze roving
across the swimmers in the pool, the parents who were walking their
children by the hand to an instruction class a female lifeguard was
putting together in the shallow end. Then his eyes focused on a man who
stood between the wire enclosure and the bathhouse.
The man had a peroxided flattop, a large cranium, like a
person with water on the brain, cheekbones that tapered in an inverted
triangle to his chin, a small mouth full of teeth. He wore white shoes
and pale orange slacks and a beige shirt with the short sleeves rolled
in neat cuffs and the collar turned up on the neck. He pumped a blue
rubber ball in his right palm.
"You know that dude?" Clete said.
"His name's Swede Boxleiter."
"A graduate?"
"Canon City, Colorado. The FBI showed me some photos of a yard
job he did on a guy."
"What's he doing around here?"
Boxleiter wore shades instead of the granny glasses I had seen
in the photos. But there was no doubt about the object of his
attention. The children taking swim lessons were lined up along the
edge of the pool, their swimsuits clinging wetly to their bodies.
Boxleiter snapped the rubber ball off the pavement, ricocheting it
against the bathhouse wall, retrieving it back into his palm as though
it were attached to a magic string.
"Excuse me a minute," I said to Clete.
I walked through the oaks to the pool. The air smelled of
leaves and chlorine and the rain that was sprinkling on the heated
cement. I stood two feet behind Boxleiter, who hung on to the wire mesh
of the fence with one hand while the other kneaded the rubber ball. The
green veins in his forearm were pumped with blood. He chewed gum, and a
lump of cartilage expanded and contracted against the bright slickness
of his jaw.
He felt my eyes on the back of his neck.
"You want something?" he asked.
"We thought we'd welcome you to town. Have you drop by the
department. Maybe meet the sheriff."
He grinned at the corner of his mouth.
"You think you seen me somewhere?"
I continued to stare into his face, not speaking. He removed
his shades, his eyes askance.
"Soooo, what kind of gig are we trying to build here?" he
asked.
"I don't like the way you look at children."
"I'm looking at a swimming pool. But I'll move."
"We nail you on a short-eyes here, we'll flag your jacket and
put you in lockdown with some
Similar Books
