Shades of Black: Crime and Mystery Stories by African-American Authors by Eleanor Taylor Bland Page B

I’m a condemned man. So, what, you going to deny me a last smoke?”
    I took another hit off the cigarette, watched as the medical examiner bent over Ant’s body. Looked like the bullet had torn through the back of his head, exploding on impact. Couldn’t tell exactly from where I stood, but it looked like the shot was fired point blank, like somebody just ran up behind him, held the gun straight up, knowing one shot would do it. I wondered if Ant had suffered. If he knew what hit him. If he even knew it was coming. His words came back to me: “When it comes to danger, yo, I got eyes in the back of my head.” Guess this time he blinked. Right away, these thoughts were pushed aside by another one. I looked down at Carver, still leaning up against my gate. Did he or anybody else know that Ant was on his way to my place when he got capped? What would happen if they started piecing it all together, found a reason to search my place, found all the rocks I was holding?
    I hesitated at the door, checked him through the peephole. He was alone. I thought about what he had seen the day before. The envelope. Considered what he might have figured out, what he might have come back to myplace to carry out. Thought about that nine millimeter tucked down in his waistband. Thought about Jennings and his warning earlier that day. Finally, I realized that in The Root, death doesn’t knock first. So, deep sigh, twist of the locks, I opened up, let Ant in.
    â€œDamn, Dog.” He walked in like he owned the place, carrying some rolled up papers. “Took you long enough. You scared of something?” He held the deadpan for a heartbeat. Then there was that fresh-faced smile again. But I wasn’t about to let him disarm me. Not yet.
    â€œGot anything to drink . . . David Steven Hunter?”
    I checked him, knowing now that he must have known more than just my full name. “Okay, cool, you got a little information on me.” I pulled a Coke out of the refrigerator. “So, what does it tell you?”
    He grabbed the Coke, laughed, plopped down on the living room couch. “Oh, I got more than just a little information on you.” He popped the can, and it sounded more like a gunshot in his hand. “But we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves, yo. You’re not asking the right questions. I mean, like, damn, I thought you were a re-fucking-porter, man. Don’t all the best stories start with the right questions?”
    â€œOkay,” I said, backing the shit up, wondering where all this was coming from, where it was going. “Sounds like there’s something you want, like there’s something you’re looking for.”
    He nodded, pursed his lips. “That’s better. Now you’re getting there.”
    â€œWell, thanks for the reporting lesson . . . yo. ”
    He turned real serious. “That’s one of the things I want to talk to you about.”
    â€œReporting?”
    â€œRipping the covers off the shit.”
    I sat in the chair facing him. “Bad day in The Root, Ant?”
    He smiled again. “Fact is, this was a pretty good day.”
    â€œNo shit?”
    He nodded. “Yeah, good day. Sold a few rocks. Went down to Springer’s.”
    â€œThe funeral parlor?”
    â€œRight. Picked out my box.”
    â€œYour casket.”
    â€œMahogany, yo.” He waved his hand across the air, conjuring up the image. His fantasy funeral. “Satin lining, whole nine, Dog.”
    â€œAnd that made it a good day?”
    He checked me, ditched the little boy demeanor. “Hey, gots to be ready for wha’ever.”
    That was it. Self-determination in Little Beirut. You lived without options, but at least you could choose the way you went out.
    â€œThen,” he went on, “day got even better. When I got to school, I went straight to the library. Computer room.”
    I don’t know why I had figured