"I mean…what makes a man? A real man." Questions only a kid can ask from his heart. Like knowing is all there is to it. I was thinking about how to tell the kid about Michelle, when Virgil met it straight on. "Same thing that makes a real woman, son. After the storm, all you got is the foundation."
53
SOME OF THE bounce was missing from Cyndi as she came up to take my order.
"You have a pay phone somewhere around?" I asked her.
"Maybe you need somebody to show you a phone, huh?"
I took a drag of my cigarette, waiting.
She put her palms on the table, leaned forward. "You never called me."
"No. I'm going to be pulling out soon. Finish my work. You're a fine woman, Cyndi. Not the kind a man plays with. I'm not your ticket out of here. No point throwing beautiful flower seeds on concrete."
"I never asked you for promises."
"You don't have to ask. I respect you too much not to be asking myself."
She slid into the seat across from me. "That's a sweet goodbye."
"It's not goodbye, girl. It's just…a girlfriend's not what I need right now. And I'm sure not what you need anyway. There's something out there for you a lot better than whatever I am, okay?"
"You think I'll get out?"
"I know you will."
"That's what Blossom says. You know what that old girl told me the other day? She said I was smart enough, I should go to college."
"You think that's nuts?"
"I did at first. But, I don't know. I had a boyfriend once. A guy I met at the club. He was an accountant. Told me I had a real head for numbers. And he wasn't playing…I know when a man's playing."
"Then you know I'm not, right?"
Her smile flashed. "Right."
"Friends?"
She slid out of the booth, gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, wiggled off to give Leon the order.
Blossom walked by. Nodded gravely at me. Like I'd done the right thing. I watched the set of her shoulders, the line of her jaw. Knowing I'd seen it before, somewhere.
54
WE BROUGHT Lloyd in that Monday. Bostick met us at the police station. Introduced me as a private investigator from his office. Mitchell Sloane is a versatile man.
They charged Lloyd with bail jumping. Remanded him, set a hearing down for Wednesday.
Sherwood was there. Big man, round face, mostly skull on top. Ham hands, sausage fingers. Khaki suit, clip-on tie, walking shoes. Dumb the way a bear is slow— he wouldn't turn up the flame unless he had something to burn.
Sherwood gravely thanked Virgil for finding Lloyd. Said he did the right thing, his voice neutral, not empty. Pick what you want.
Virgil shook his hand, nodded. Watchful.
We stepped onto the sidewalk. I pulled Bostick aside. "You get what I wanted?" I asked him.
"Hightower. Jefferson James Hightower. Seventeen years old. Honcho'ed a crack posse in Gary. Allegedly shot a chulo from one of the Chicago Latin gangs when they tried to move on his territory. Doing real well for himself, moving up in the organization. Registry shows him owning a Nissan Maxima and a Kawasaki Ninja cycle. Only family is his mother. She lives over in the Delaney Street Projects. Visits him about three times a week."
"Thanks."
"See you in court."
55
VIRGIL DROVE THE Lincoln through the streets parallel to Broadway. He crossed the avenue, approaching from the Garyside. I gave him a look. "Downwind," is all he said.
Big sign dominated the wide street: MONEY TO LOAN � NEED JACK? SEE JACK! The pawnshop was half a city block. I wondered if they sold guns, make it a one-stop shop.
The neighborhood was full of hand-painted signs for locksmiths, bottle clubs, custom car washing— no machines. Black men on the corners, watching like they watch in every city.
The Projects were a series of brick attached one-story homes. We found the number two blocks in from Harrison Street— the Maxima was parked out front.
I left Virgil in the car. Knocked on the door. A solidly built black woman answered.
"Yes, sir?" Eyes wary.
"Mrs. Hightower, my name is Sloane. I'm a private investigator. I work for Mr. Bart Bostick, the criminal defense lawyer…"
She nodded, waiting.
"I'm investigating a case. You know those sniper killings? Those teenagers who got killed over by the dunes, in that lovers' lane?"
"I don't know nothin' about…"
"Oh, I know you don't, ma'am. But I was hoping your son…James…hoping he might be of some help."
"How?"
"Well, we heard a rumor that the boy who did it might be locked up in the same jail as James. And a boy like that, you know he can't be right in the head. So I thought, James, he might have heard something…"
"He never said nothin' to me."
"Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't, ma'am. I'll be going down to the jail to talk with him and I just wanted to show the proper respect…speak to his mother first. See, you need to sign this Consent Form for me to get in"— taking what Bostick had given me out of my attaché case— "your son being a minor and all. It just says I'm working on his case. And I wanted to leave this with you"— holding up a thick white envelope where she could see it— "as a token of our respect."
She felt the outside of the envelope. Took the pen I gave her and signed the form.
"Please tell James I'll be by to see him," I said. Leaving the envelope in her hands.
People watched from their front stoops. Looked away when I watched them.
56
THE NEXT MORNING, I took Maintop Ninety-third, pulled in at the Lake County Juvenile Detention Center. Solid brick, cop cars parked in front. Parking lot half full. High chain link fence around the grounds, loops of razor wire across the top. They all look the same.
I showed the Consent Form to the woman on duty behind a glass wall. She asked for some ID, picked up the phone.
I read the signs while I was waiting. Visiting Hours. Rules and Regulations.
A slim, handsome black man came through a side door.
"Mr. Sloane?"
"Yes."
"You're here to see Hightower, I understand. We're full up here, so we don't have a visiting room. We usually use the cafeteria, but the boys are eating now. Visiting hours aren't until ten. But we always try to accommodate attorneys here. You're working for Mr. Bostick?"
"That's right."
"Didn't know he was handling Hightower's case. I'll have to make a couple of phone calls. Be with you in just a minute."
He left me sitting there. A careful man.
Not ten minutes later, he was back. "I'll let you use my office. You'll have complete privacy. Just open the door when you're done, give a call down the corridor."
"Thank you."
A guard brought Hightower in. I stood up, shook hands with him. He went along like he knew the play, took a seat. The guard left.
His head was elongated, forceps marks visible just past his temples, framing small eyes with a yellowish cast. They were bright and flat, like a lizard's. "Who you?"
"My name is Sloane."
"What you want?"
"I want to do something for you, Mr. Hightower. I heard you were a man who knew how to act."
"What's that mean?"
I leaned forward, lighting a smoke, leaving the pack on the desk between us. "You know how the new kids come in this joint. Scared and all? You being the top man, I guess you get to make your pick."
"Maybe."
"Now, some of these kids, you pick them to be your running buddies. And some you pick to play with, right? The weak ones."
"I ain't into that shit, man."
"Of course you're not. Anyone can see you don't play that way. But there's guys in here that do. And they don't do nothing without an okay from the Man, right?"