Polaroids. When Max got closer he saw that these were nearly all of young black men, none older than their mid-twenties. There were a few exceptions – some women, a couple of children, a baby. A banner above the display read ‘Liberty City (1997–present)’.
On a high round table draped with a black cloth, a bundle of purple incense sticks burned. A soothing smell of lavender filled the gallery space. A big board shaped like a T-shirt stood to the right with details of designs, sizes and prices. Costs ranged from $10 for children to $25 for supersize. He thought of the twins he’d seen up the road.
The adjoining bookstore’s shelves ran four high and covered three walls. They were subdivided into autobiography, fiction, history, race relations, self-help guides, diet and exercise, and conspiracy theories – the last, by far the biggest section. There were framed photographs on the walls – Malcolm X, Marcus Garvey, Martin Luther King, Booker T. Washington, Rosa Parks, Maya Angelou, Angela Davis, Muhammad Ali, Jesse Owens, Barack Obama.
He pulled out a book from the conspiracy theory section called The Melanin Thieves by Alvin Sheen. It claimed that white scientists were harvesting melanin from the bodies of black people, for use in everyday consumer goods – everything from car tyres to sunglasses. There was even a picture of the top-secret laboratory in Africa where the harvesting was supposedly taking place.
Max laughed out loud as he leafed through the book. Then he saw the man who’d been eating standing in the archway.
‘One of my biggest sellers,’ he said.
‘You believe this crap?’ Max held up the book.
‘There’s something in it, for sure.’ The man smiled. ‘But you’re not here to buy books, right?’
The man had a quiet voice and spoke fairly slowly, someone who thought carefully before he opened his mouth.
‘You’re right. Sorry.’ Max put the book back. ‘I’m here about the shooting at the 7th Avenue gym. You hear anything about that?’
‘You a cop?’
‘Not any more. Private detective. I’m helping out a friend.’
‘Must be a good friend, got you coming out here asking questions ’bout a shooting.’
‘He is,’ said Max.
‘All I know is what I saw on TV. They’re saying it’s some kinda gang initiation. That’s bullshit. This ain’t LA. Gangs round here don’t kill old white men on purpose. They’re too busy wipin’ each other out.’
‘You ever meet the victim – man called Eldon Burns?’
‘No. But I heard ’bout him from time to time. I knew a few of the fighters he trained. They all respected him. Some of them became cops ’cause of him.’
‘Sure they did.’ Max smiled wryly.
‘He was killed Tuesday, right? You know what time?’
‘Around midday, I think. Why?’
‘Someone was shot right outside-a-here at 12.30. Out back in the alley,’ the man said. ‘I was in here. Heard a car brake. Then some shouting. Then a shot. Car pulls off quick. I went outside and saw White Flight lying there.’
‘Who?’
‘White Flight. Guy lives in the alley. He was lying there on the ground. Been shot in the neck. He was still alive. I called an ambulance. They took him to Jackson Memorial.’
‘Did he make it?’
‘Yeah. He’s out of intensive care.’
‘Did you see any of it?’
‘No. Just heard it. You know the cops never came to see me? I even told ’em it might be the same guy killed Eldon Burns – given the time.’ The man shook his head. ‘Were you selective like that, when you were a cop?’
‘I followed every lead.’
Max went outside into the alley behind the store. A few feet in he saw a large comma of dried blood. There were two sets of tyre streaks on the ground nearby – short before the blood, long after it.
He searched around the area adjacent to the patch of blood. Spray pattern on the ground, some spatter on the walls. A broken wine bottle close to the wall, sand all around it, blood in the sand and on the glass.
On a high round table draped with a black cloth, a bundle of purple incense sticks burned. A soothing smell of lavender filled the gallery space. A big board shaped like a T-shirt stood to the right with details of designs, sizes and prices. Costs ranged from $10 for children to $25 for supersize. He thought of the twins he’d seen up the road.
The adjoining bookstore’s shelves ran four high and covered three walls. They were subdivided into autobiography, fiction, history, race relations, self-help guides, diet and exercise, and conspiracy theories – the last, by far the biggest section. There were framed photographs on the walls – Malcolm X, Marcus Garvey, Martin Luther King, Booker T. Washington, Rosa Parks, Maya Angelou, Angela Davis, Muhammad Ali, Jesse Owens, Barack Obama.
He pulled out a book from the conspiracy theory section called The Melanin Thieves by Alvin Sheen. It claimed that white scientists were harvesting melanin from the bodies of black people, for use in everyday consumer goods – everything from car tyres to sunglasses. There was even a picture of the top-secret laboratory in Africa where the harvesting was supposedly taking place.
Max laughed out loud as he leafed through the book. Then he saw the man who’d been eating standing in the archway.
‘One of my biggest sellers,’ he said.
‘You believe this crap?’ Max held up the book.
‘There’s something in it, for sure.’ The man smiled. ‘But you’re not here to buy books, right?’
The man had a quiet voice and spoke fairly slowly, someone who thought carefully before he opened his mouth.
‘You’re right. Sorry.’ Max put the book back. ‘I’m here about the shooting at the 7th Avenue gym. You hear anything about that?’
‘You a cop?’
‘Not any more. Private detective. I’m helping out a friend.’
‘Must be a good friend, got you coming out here asking questions ’bout a shooting.’
‘He is,’ said Max.
‘All I know is what I saw on TV. They’re saying it’s some kinda gang initiation. That’s bullshit. This ain’t LA. Gangs round here don’t kill old white men on purpose. They’re too busy wipin’ each other out.’
‘You ever meet the victim – man called Eldon Burns?’
‘No. But I heard ’bout him from time to time. I knew a few of the fighters he trained. They all respected him. Some of them became cops ’cause of him.’
‘Sure they did.’ Max smiled wryly.
‘He was killed Tuesday, right? You know what time?’
‘Around midday, I think. Why?’
‘Someone was shot right outside-a-here at 12.30. Out back in the alley,’ the man said. ‘I was in here. Heard a car brake. Then some shouting. Then a shot. Car pulls off quick. I went outside and saw White Flight lying there.’
‘Who?’
‘White Flight. Guy lives in the alley. He was lying there on the ground. Been shot in the neck. He was still alive. I called an ambulance. They took him to Jackson Memorial.’
‘Did he make it?’
‘Yeah. He’s out of intensive care.’
‘Did you see any of it?’
‘No. Just heard it. You know the cops never came to see me? I even told ’em it might be the same guy killed Eldon Burns – given the time.’ The man shook his head. ‘Were you selective like that, when you were a cop?’
‘I followed every lead.’
Max went outside into the alley behind the store. A few feet in he saw a large comma of dried blood. There were two sets of tyre streaks on the ground nearby – short before the blood, long after it.
He searched around the area adjacent to the patch of blood. Spray pattern on the ground, some spatter on the walls. A broken wine bottle close to the wall, sand all around it, blood in the sand and on the glass.
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