black guy; the woman white, one hand cocked back to hold a cigarette, swinging tight, a nervous metronome. She followed behind, taking mincing steps like someone wearing high heels for the first time, though she wore sneakers.
“Why’s he called T?”
“He likes to drink tea? Thinks he’s Mister T? Who the hell knows?”
Janelle wore vinyl toreador pants and a low-cut orange top. Her body said thirty, her smoke-and-liquor-ravaged face sixty. She stopped to take off a shoe and shake it out.
They were a couple—Jack knew they’d been together for ages. He wondered what it must be like for them walking into the Luray, the black guys inside thinking, What’s this brother doing with that white skank? the Caucasian customers asking the opposite question. There was a bravery there worthy of at least some small admiration.
“Wait up, T!” she called out, voice like a garbage compactor.
Jack chuckled. “She turns tricks now and then, if you can believe that. Mostly, they just wander around working lame street cons. She tells people she needs a train ticket to go visit her kid in the hospital. Or he does a brown-bag drop.” It wasn’t a brilliant scam—the perp put an empty bottle in a bag and then walked around a corner and got somebody to bump into him. He dropped the bag, the bottle broke. He told them it was expensive booze; tried to shake them down for five or ten bucks.
“Cute. Can you trust their info?”
Jack shrugged. “Sometimes. They’re boozers.”
As the couple came near, he leaned out the window. “How’s it going, T?”
The man spun around to scope out the avenue, checking for friends or foes. “All right. How’re you, Detective?”
“I can’t complain.”
The man leaned in, but pulled back when he saw Daskivitch. “Who’s he?”
“My partner. It’s okay.”
The woman came up behind her mate and perched her cigarette hand on her hip.
“You’re looking good today,” Jack told her. She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t suppress a grin. “Listen, I need some help. Do you two know a guy in the neighborhood, name of Tomas Berrios?”
“Shit” said T, disgusted. “He got killed yesterday and we don’t know nothing about it.”
“How did you know he was killed, then?”
T snorted. “If I didn’t know what was going on around here, you wouldn’t come looking for me.”
“You’re absolutely right. So can you help me?”
T pinched the sides of his mouth. “I could use a little help, myself.”
Jack reached into his wallet and pulled out a twenty, which immediately disappeared into the man’s back pocket.
“He hangs out with a bunch of kids. They got bicycles.” T stopped and scanned the avenue again.
“I gave you twenty bucks for that?”
“What else you wanna know?”
“You know anybody might have a thing against him?”
T shook his head.
“How about drugs? Was he buying?”
T squinted. “Could be.”
“Like what? Blow? Crack? Pills?”
The man shrugged. Jack reached into his wallet and pulled out another twenty, held it up out of reach.
“Uh, yeah. Blow, I think.”
“Who does he buy from?”
T shrugged again.
“Forget it,” Jack said. “Forty is plenty.”
T pinched the sides of his mouth again. “I dunno, Detective…” He seemed to make a decision, closed down. Maybe forty bucks wasn’t worth crossing a murderous dealer.
Jack watched Janelle behind him as she imagined sitting down in the Luray, setting a fresh pack of smokes on the bar, ordering that first cold drink.
She pushed T out of the way, leaned into the window, and mumbled into Jack’s ear.
She grabbed the twenty and her man and they were gone.
The detectives sat in the car near Tomas Berrios’s house, watching a building down at the far end of the block for the subtle undertow of street action that would mark a drug set. Jack picked up the radio and made a call to BCI, the Bureau of Criminal Information. After he gave the color of the day, the ever-changing code that
“Why’s he called T?”
“He likes to drink tea? Thinks he’s Mister T? Who the hell knows?”
Janelle wore vinyl toreador pants and a low-cut orange top. Her body said thirty, her smoke-and-liquor-ravaged face sixty. She stopped to take off a shoe and shake it out.
They were a couple—Jack knew they’d been together for ages. He wondered what it must be like for them walking into the Luray, the black guys inside thinking, What’s this brother doing with that white skank? the Caucasian customers asking the opposite question. There was a bravery there worthy of at least some small admiration.
“Wait up, T!” she called out, voice like a garbage compactor.
Jack chuckled. “She turns tricks now and then, if you can believe that. Mostly, they just wander around working lame street cons. She tells people she needs a train ticket to go visit her kid in the hospital. Or he does a brown-bag drop.” It wasn’t a brilliant scam—the perp put an empty bottle in a bag and then walked around a corner and got somebody to bump into him. He dropped the bag, the bottle broke. He told them it was expensive booze; tried to shake them down for five or ten bucks.
“Cute. Can you trust their info?”
Jack shrugged. “Sometimes. They’re boozers.”
As the couple came near, he leaned out the window. “How’s it going, T?”
The man spun around to scope out the avenue, checking for friends or foes. “All right. How’re you, Detective?”
“I can’t complain.”
The man leaned in, but pulled back when he saw Daskivitch. “Who’s he?”
“My partner. It’s okay.”
The woman came up behind her mate and perched her cigarette hand on her hip.
“You’re looking good today,” Jack told her. She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t suppress a grin. “Listen, I need some help. Do you two know a guy in the neighborhood, name of Tomas Berrios?”
“Shit” said T, disgusted. “He got killed yesterday and we don’t know nothing about it.”
“How did you know he was killed, then?”
T snorted. “If I didn’t know what was going on around here, you wouldn’t come looking for me.”
“You’re absolutely right. So can you help me?”
T pinched the sides of his mouth. “I could use a little help, myself.”
Jack reached into his wallet and pulled out a twenty, which immediately disappeared into the man’s back pocket.
“He hangs out with a bunch of kids. They got bicycles.” T stopped and scanned the avenue again.
“I gave you twenty bucks for that?”
“What else you wanna know?”
“You know anybody might have a thing against him?”
T shook his head.
“How about drugs? Was he buying?”
T squinted. “Could be.”
“Like what? Blow? Crack? Pills?”
The man shrugged. Jack reached into his wallet and pulled out another twenty, held it up out of reach.
“Uh, yeah. Blow, I think.”
“Who does he buy from?”
T shrugged again.
“Forget it,” Jack said. “Forty is plenty.”
T pinched the sides of his mouth again. “I dunno, Detective…” He seemed to make a decision, closed down. Maybe forty bucks wasn’t worth crossing a murderous dealer.
Jack watched Janelle behind him as she imagined sitting down in the Luray, setting a fresh pack of smokes on the bar, ordering that first cold drink.
She pushed T out of the way, leaned into the window, and mumbled into Jack’s ear.
She grabbed the twenty and her man and they were gone.
The detectives sat in the car near Tomas Berrios’s house, watching a building down at the far end of the block for the subtle undertow of street action that would mark a drug set. Jack picked up the radio and made a call to BCI, the Bureau of Criminal Information. After he gave the color of the day, the ever-changing code that
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