Reheema opened the door. "Make this fast. Stay with me."
"You my passport?"
"No, your bodyguard."
They entered the store, and the older salesclerk looked up. He was about sixty, with deep wrinkles, small dark eyes behind crooked bifocals, and a dour down tilt to his mouth. He wore a quilted vest in army green and a black sweatshirt, and he'd been reading the sports page of the Daily News, spread open on a grimy white counter that was almost engulfed by stacked cartons of cigarettes on the top, and on the sides by multicolored bags of Cheetos, Doritos, Snyder's Hard Pretzels, Rold Gold pretzels, Beef Jerky, and Fritos. The store was small, dusty, and smelled of the Newport he'd been smoking, resting in a filthy metallic astray with a beanbag bottom in incongruous tartan.
"Help you?" the salesclerk asked warily, eyeing them.
"We need to buy some food and use the bathroom, too."
"It's only for employees."
"Great, I need a job." Reheema slid off her knit cap like a hip-hop Joan of Arc and flashed him a beautiful smile. "When do I start?"
The salesclerk laughed, which ended in a single cough. "Oh, okay, young lady, it's in the back, past the cleaning supplies. Hurry up now, almost closin' time."
"Thanks," Reheema said, and the salesclerk waved her down the single aisle between a wall of Friskies and Tide detergent.
"Turn off the light when you're done," the salesclerk called after her, too late. "Don't nobody ever turn off the light."
"I bet," Vicki said, just to make conversation, feeling like she did at home, when her mother left her alone with her father. She pulled two crinkly bags of Lay's chips from the rack and set them on the counter. "You got any sandwiches?"
"No."
"Okay."
"If it's okay with you or not don't matter, 'cause we got no sandwiches. It's not like a 7-Eleven here, we don't got everything. It's just me here, I don't even own the place. Koreans own it."
"I see," Vicki said pleasantly, and continued buying stuff in hopes that the salesclerk would like her and, by extension, white people in general. She stacked Doritos, Fritos, and Cheetos on the counter in a pile of saturated fats, then went into the aisle for Chips Ahoy and Pecan Sandies, stalling until Reheema finally returned and the salesclerk brightened.
"You live around here?" he asked Reheema, as Vicki traded places with her and went down the cramped aisle to the employee bathroom. It turned out that the bathroom was just as lovely as she'd expected, and she got out of there quickly, hurrying back into the store, where she froze on the spot.
Buying a carton of Winstons, pushing two twenties across the counter next to Reheema, stood the teenager who'd almost shot her the night Morty was killed. He wore his Iversons and a black jacket instead of the satin Sixers jacket, but she would never forget that face.
"Reheema, grab him!" Vicki shouted, lunging for the teenager, who reacted instantly and ran for the door, banging it open and getting away.
"Wha?" Reheema turned to Vicki, her mouth open.
"That's him! The kid from that night!" Vicki ran past the startled salesclerk and out the door with Reheema right behind her.
The teenager sprinted across Getson Street in the dark, running straight, his big sneakers two white blurs. Vicki darted after him, almost on his heels. Her heart pumped frantically, her legs churned, and her red boots skidded on icy spots, but she managed to keep up the pace. She felt the anger and pain she had been suppressing take over, powering her forward. The teenager had almost killed her. He knew who had killed Morty. Vicki reached into her coat pocket as she ran, holding the gun so it wouldn't fly out. It felt heavy and right, even in her mitten. The teenager might have a gun, but there was no stopping her. She couldn't let him get away.
Vicki flashed on the night Morty was gunned down. The sight of the kid brought it all back. The sound of the bullets. The way Morty fell. The smell. The watery blood on his lips. Morty's last words. Rage coursed through Vicki's body. She picked up the pace.
"Move over!" Reheema shouted, passing Vicki on the right and taking off like a missile after the teenager.
Go, go, go! Astounded, Vicki kept running, her lungs about to burst. She had never seen anyone run so fast. She thought of the race times on Reheema's old bulletin board. Willowbrook Lady Tigers.
The teenager bolted across the next street, his jacket catching the wind like a dark spinnaker, and Vicki and Reheema pounded after him. The three of them barreled past abandoned cars, vacant row houses, and dumped car tires, heedless as the neighborhood worsened. Vicki kept running, and ahead of her, Reheema's trajectory was the purest of straight lines, a laser on target.
Vicki's breath came in ragged bursts, one block then the next, cold air filling her lungs and her boots slipping on the slick ice. Her legs ached, but emotion supercharged her.
The teenager veered left down the side streets, his arms pinwheeling to keep himself from falling. Reheema took the curve like a sports car, hugging it tight despite the snow and ice cold. They both disappeared around the corner, and Vicki marshaled her strength and put on the afterburners. She couldn't fall behind. She had to get this kid.
She hit the corner and saw Reheema ahead, closing in on the teenager. The gap between them shrank from six row houses to five, then to four. Reheema almost had him! Vicki sped up and prayed he didn't have a gun.
Reheema was reaching out to grab his flying coat. The teenager glanced back in fear. Vicki held her breath, hoping he didn't draw.
Reheema lunged forward, grabbing him by the coat with one long arm and tackling him to the snowy sidewalk. They went down together, sliding into the wall of a vacant row house.
Vicki's heart leaped to her throat, fearing for Reheema. Hoping she caught the kid. It was too dark to see what was happening. Reheema and the teenager appeared to be tussling in the snow, and in the next minute they both vanished inside the alley, out of sight.
"Reheema, watch out!" Vicki shouted, out of breath. "He could have a knife!" Her heart felt like it was jumping out of her coat. She tore to the mouth of the alley and was confronted by an unlikely scene.
Reheema was standing off to the side, her chest heaving and her hands on her hips, and the teenager was holding his hands up high, his dark eyes panicky and wide, his Iversons planted, and his back against a snow-covered Dumpster.
"Please, lady!" The teenager appealed to Vicki, his voice choked with panic. "I'm no cop killer! I didn't kill no cops! I didn't shoot you, remember? I'm Teeg, Teeg Brumley, you know me? I'm the one told Jay not to shoot you, that you were a cop! I saved your life! Please, don't hurt me!"
"Wait, calm down!" Vicki said, stunned. Her chest formed a knot of fury and pain. She couldn't catch her breath.
"I didn't know Jay was gonna kill nobody, I swear! I didn't know cops were gonna be there! Or the pregnant girl or the white cop!"
Morty. Vicki still couldn't catch her breath, and it wasn't from exertion. The teenager was giving her a full statement. She didn't know if she could even listen without Miranda warnings, but she couldn't not listen. She had to know the truth.
"Tha's all I know, I swear! I didn't shoot nobody! Jay did it all! Jay Steptoe's the cop killer, not me! He works for the boss, too! He's on Getson right now, at the meetin'!"
Vicki gasped. So Jay Steptoe was the name of the man who had murdered Morty. He was only a few blocks away, right now. For a minute, she couldn't speak, then she got her bearings. She couldn't compromise the indictment against Steptoe. "Listen, wait, Teeg, you don't have to say any of this, you have the right to remain silent-"