The cap screwed on the bottle.
The bottle, filled with sand, had served as a weapon, a club.
Max walked a little further down the alley. A stench hit him like a clear glass wall. He found where White Flight lived – a makeshift tent of blue plastic sheeting, poles and bricks, a patched-up sleeping bag inside and, nearby, a supermarket cart spilling over with filthy rags and bric-a-brac. A bum’s ideal home.
He went back to the tyre tracks and blood. Roughly working out the angles, he guessed the driver had turned into the alley suddenly and almost hit White Flight. The hobo had tried to swing his bottle at the car. The driver had shot him once.
Back in the store, Max gave the man one of his cards.
‘Did you see the car or anything?’
‘No. A few people I talked to say they saw a brown Sierra come out of the alley. Didn’t get the plate.’
‘You know what White Flight’s real name is?’
‘No. Sometimes I’m not sure he does.’ The man looked at the card and frowned. ‘Max Mingus?’
‘Yeah. I know what you’re going to say. And I’m not related to Charles Mingus. My dad was a jazz musician. Played double bass too. He was such a fan he changed his name to Mingus.’
‘My name’s Lamar Swope.’
They shook hands. Max noticed the Obama-Biden button on his shirt: ‘Vote for Change’.
‘You know, I thought I recognised you from some place, when you walked in,’ Lamar said.
Whenever people told Max they recognised him these days, he either got evasive or defensive, depending on the situation. They were usually one of two kinds – internet-prowling creeps who’d read up about the murders that had landed him in prison or journalists looking to write books or make documentaries. He’d been offered plenty of money to tell his story, but he’d never been tempted. Two reasons: he didn’t want to make money that way and he didn’t want anyone digging too hard into his past.
‘You’re still called Pétion-Mingus Investigations.’ Swope tapped his card. ‘I knew Yolande.’
‘Yeah? How?’
‘I helped her out on a couple of community events at the Miami Book Fair. They ever find the guy who killed her?’
‘No.’
No, they never had.
‘I’ve got something for you. Stay there.’ Lamar Swope went back inside and came back with a small glassine bag containing a single .45 casing. ‘I found this right by where I found White Flight. I didn’t touch it at all. Used a pen to pick it up, like they do on TV.’
‘Thanks.’ Max took the bag and slipped it into his shirt pocket. ‘If you think of anything else give me a call or drop me an email.’
‘Sure will. Think you’ll get the guy killed Eldon Burns?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Then why are you doing this? It’s dangerous work, looking for killers. And – no offence – but at your age, man …’
Max chuckled at that. ‘This isn’t really about getting the shooter, Lamar. This is about putting a stop to something Eldon started way back when. Kind of shit that made Liberty City burn in 1980.’
‘I remember that time. I remember the riots,’ Swope said. ‘My grandparents lost their house then. It burned down. My grandpa liked to read. He was always reading. Read in his sleep. Had books everywhere. Someone threw a petrol bomb through their window. Why, I don’t know. I hope it was an accident. Their house went up real quick, all those books, you know.
‘This store? It’s my tribute to him. He taught me to read and to love books. Hardly anyone comes in here to buy books. I make most of my money on those memorial T-shirts – and the restaurant. But I’m keeping the bookstore open here, in memory of my grandpa.’
‘That’s a noble thing to do,’ said Max.
‘Even if I’m just pissing in the wind, right?’
‘Maybe. But at least you’re pissing with a purpose. Unlike most people.’
5
For someone who’d been shot in the throat, lost half his jaw, part of his tongue and would never speak again, the man people in
The bottle, filled with sand, had served as a weapon, a club.
Max walked a little further down the alley. A stench hit him like a clear glass wall. He found where White Flight lived – a makeshift tent of blue plastic sheeting, poles and bricks, a patched-up sleeping bag inside and, nearby, a supermarket cart spilling over with filthy rags and bric-a-brac. A bum’s ideal home.
He went back to the tyre tracks and blood. Roughly working out the angles, he guessed the driver had turned into the alley suddenly and almost hit White Flight. The hobo had tried to swing his bottle at the car. The driver had shot him once.
Back in the store, Max gave the man one of his cards.
‘Did you see the car or anything?’
‘No. A few people I talked to say they saw a brown Sierra come out of the alley. Didn’t get the plate.’
‘You know what White Flight’s real name is?’
‘No. Sometimes I’m not sure he does.’ The man looked at the card and frowned. ‘Max Mingus?’
‘Yeah. I know what you’re going to say. And I’m not related to Charles Mingus. My dad was a jazz musician. Played double bass too. He was such a fan he changed his name to Mingus.’
‘My name’s Lamar Swope.’
They shook hands. Max noticed the Obama-Biden button on his shirt: ‘Vote for Change’.
‘You know, I thought I recognised you from some place, when you walked in,’ Lamar said.
Whenever people told Max they recognised him these days, he either got evasive or defensive, depending on the situation. They were usually one of two kinds – internet-prowling creeps who’d read up about the murders that had landed him in prison or journalists looking to write books or make documentaries. He’d been offered plenty of money to tell his story, but he’d never been tempted. Two reasons: he didn’t want to make money that way and he didn’t want anyone digging too hard into his past.
‘You’re still called Pétion-Mingus Investigations.’ Swope tapped his card. ‘I knew Yolande.’
‘Yeah? How?’
‘I helped her out on a couple of community events at the Miami Book Fair. They ever find the guy who killed her?’
‘No.’
No, they never had.
‘I’ve got something for you. Stay there.’ Lamar Swope went back inside and came back with a small glassine bag containing a single .45 casing. ‘I found this right by where I found White Flight. I didn’t touch it at all. Used a pen to pick it up, like they do on TV.’
‘Thanks.’ Max took the bag and slipped it into his shirt pocket. ‘If you think of anything else give me a call or drop me an email.’
‘Sure will. Think you’ll get the guy killed Eldon Burns?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Then why are you doing this? It’s dangerous work, looking for killers. And – no offence – but at your age, man …’
Max chuckled at that. ‘This isn’t really about getting the shooter, Lamar. This is about putting a stop to something Eldon started way back when. Kind of shit that made Liberty City burn in 1980.’
‘I remember that time. I remember the riots,’ Swope said. ‘My grandparents lost their house then. It burned down. My grandpa liked to read. He was always reading. Read in his sleep. Had books everywhere. Someone threw a petrol bomb through their window. Why, I don’t know. I hope it was an accident. Their house went up real quick, all those books, you know.
‘This store? It’s my tribute to him. He taught me to read and to love books. Hardly anyone comes in here to buy books. I make most of my money on those memorial T-shirts – and the restaurant. But I’m keeping the bookstore open here, in memory of my grandpa.’
‘That’s a noble thing to do,’ said Max.
‘Even if I’m just pissing in the wind, right?’
‘Maybe. But at least you’re pissing with a purpose. Unlike most people.’
5
For someone who’d been shot in the throat, lost half his jaw, part of his tongue and would never speak again, the man people in
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