checked for regular passers-by, gone in when it was quietest. He wouldn’t have drawn attention to himself. People might have noticed him but no one would remember him.
So, Max guessed, that made the hitman black and – from the crime-scene photos of Eldon’s face – slightly over six foot tall.
It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
He crossed the road to look at the gym. A faded mural covered the outside, the faces of all the fighters who’d won titles, most of them local kids. It had been a point of pride for them to come by, years later, and see themselves still up there, a reminder of their achievements. Something to show their kids or impress their girlfriends with. The press said this was why the gym had remained unscathed in the riots of the 1980s, but that wasn’t altogether true. Rage wasn’t big on nostalgia. The main reason it hadn’t been looted and torched was that a lot of people in Liberty City had been scared of Eldon and what he could do. Simple as that. Max searched for his own face on the wall. He found it again quite easily, the only white face there. Not a bad likeness of how he’d once been.
He headed left, determined to talk to the first person he found.
He met no one. Midday, Friday, Halloween, and it was completely deserted. Not the natural stillness of a Sunday or a public holiday, where people stayed home to relax or left town to visit their relatives, but an abiding desolation that had settled on the area, as if it had been hastily abandoned in the face of a plague or other calamity. He passed more rows of empty houses with clusters of boarded-up stores in-between. Nothing was open, nothing was working. He half-expected to see tumbleweed bouncing across the road.
After ten minutes he came across two little girls standing on the sidewalk, identical twins in matching clothes – black T-shirts emblazoned with a picture of a smiling man cradling two babies in his arms. Max noted the family resemblance before noticing what was written around the photograph:
Pookie Brown. 1985–2008. We Will Always Luv U.
The girls stared up at him with the kind of look locals always gave cops, white ones in particular. The cops even had a name for it: the Liberty Clock. The look was one part suspicion, one part hostility, two parts fear, undercut with a resigned weariness. The girls already resembled little adults. He smiled at them and said, ‘Hi’, but they backed away, looks intensifying. It made him sad – for them and for their future – to see in their faces that long history of hatred and resentment, handed down in the DNA and whispered in the wind that blew through these wretched streets. It was said that the sound of gunfire was so common in Liberty City, kids could tell calibre by ear and knew to hit the deck before they could walk and talk.
He continued up the road. He noticed how grass and weeds were growing tall and wild through cracks in the sidewalk, how nature was exploding with abandon around the vacant buildings. It felt like the neighbourhood was gradually being dismantled from below, to be sucked back into the earth.
A little further on he heard the sweet sound of Al Green singing ‘Belle’, and he followed it all the way to the open entrance of a bookstore called Swopes.
He walked in to the smell of cooking and a man in a crisp white shirt sitting at a table by the door eating a plate of country-fried steak, collard greens, grits, yam and white gravy. The man had coppery brown skin, a salt-and-pepper moustache that complimented his greying ’fro, and steady hazel eyes. Max guessed he was the owner or manager because he was trying hard not to give Max the Liberty Clock, in case Max turned out to be a customer.
Max smiled and nodded and the man nodded back.
Inside, the store was a lot bigger than it appeared from the street. And it sold more than books.
Through an arch at the very back was what looked like a photography gallery. The black walls were covered with
So, Max guessed, that made the hitman black and – from the crime-scene photos of Eldon’s face – slightly over six foot tall.
It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
He crossed the road to look at the gym. A faded mural covered the outside, the faces of all the fighters who’d won titles, most of them local kids. It had been a point of pride for them to come by, years later, and see themselves still up there, a reminder of their achievements. Something to show their kids or impress their girlfriends with. The press said this was why the gym had remained unscathed in the riots of the 1980s, but that wasn’t altogether true. Rage wasn’t big on nostalgia. The main reason it hadn’t been looted and torched was that a lot of people in Liberty City had been scared of Eldon and what he could do. Simple as that. Max searched for his own face on the wall. He found it again quite easily, the only white face there. Not a bad likeness of how he’d once been.
He headed left, determined to talk to the first person he found.
He met no one. Midday, Friday, Halloween, and it was completely deserted. Not the natural stillness of a Sunday or a public holiday, where people stayed home to relax or left town to visit their relatives, but an abiding desolation that had settled on the area, as if it had been hastily abandoned in the face of a plague or other calamity. He passed more rows of empty houses with clusters of boarded-up stores in-between. Nothing was open, nothing was working. He half-expected to see tumbleweed bouncing across the road.
After ten minutes he came across two little girls standing on the sidewalk, identical twins in matching clothes – black T-shirts emblazoned with a picture of a smiling man cradling two babies in his arms. Max noted the family resemblance before noticing what was written around the photograph:
Pookie Brown. 1985–2008. We Will Always Luv U.
The girls stared up at him with the kind of look locals always gave cops, white ones in particular. The cops even had a name for it: the Liberty Clock. The look was one part suspicion, one part hostility, two parts fear, undercut with a resigned weariness. The girls already resembled little adults. He smiled at them and said, ‘Hi’, but they backed away, looks intensifying. It made him sad – for them and for their future – to see in their faces that long history of hatred and resentment, handed down in the DNA and whispered in the wind that blew through these wretched streets. It was said that the sound of gunfire was so common in Liberty City, kids could tell calibre by ear and knew to hit the deck before they could walk and talk.
He continued up the road. He noticed how grass and weeds were growing tall and wild through cracks in the sidewalk, how nature was exploding with abandon around the vacant buildings. It felt like the neighbourhood was gradually being dismantled from below, to be sucked back into the earth.
A little further on he heard the sweet sound of Al Green singing ‘Belle’, and he followed it all the way to the open entrance of a bookstore called Swopes.
He walked in to the smell of cooking and a man in a crisp white shirt sitting at a table by the door eating a plate of country-fried steak, collard greens, grits, yam and white gravy. The man had coppery brown skin, a salt-and-pepper moustache that complimented his greying ’fro, and steady hazel eyes. Max guessed he was the owner or manager because he was trying hard not to give Max the Liberty Clock, in case Max turned out to be a customer.
Max smiled and nodded and the man nodded back.
Inside, the store was a lot bigger than it appeared from the street. And it sold more than books.
Through an arch at the very back was what looked like a photography gallery. The black walls were covered with
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