Despite the intervening years, Dorsey recognized the man as soon as he entered. He had a few inches of height on Dorsey, but it was the shoulders that told the tale. Twice Dorsey’s width, Outlaw walked with a minor shuffle and Dorsey figured he hadn’t forgotten how that came to be. Even worse, there was a Louisville Slugger, brightly shellacked and the grain jumping out, in his hands.
“Hank Aaron model?” Dorsey asked, hoping to throw off the big man. “Better get this straight, we got a sick kid on our hands, not-breathing-so-well sick. I’m calling for paramedics. Whatever you want to do with me can keep for later.”
Outlaw grinned, pushed back his long black hair with his left hand, then dragged himself across the room and took his first swing. Dorsey ducked and fell back to the wall, surprised that he was more concerned with protecting the cell than his own body. The swing was wild and Outlaw lost his balance for a moment, but just that. While he righted himself, Dorsey got to the Glock at his hip.
“Hold on,” he told Outlaw, pointing the gun to the floor. “I’ll shoot you. Just to be a prick, I’ll shoot you in your other foot. Okay?”
Outlaw hesitated for a moment, then went at him. Dorsey straightened his elbow and fired. He looked down at Outlaw, checked out Catherine and the Lunchbox guy. “Now,” Dorsey told them all, punching numbers into the cell, “I’m making a phone call. All right with everybody?”
“Not the same foot?” Uncle Danny asked. “You shot him in the other foot?”
They were back at the table, a ginger ale each.
“The other foot,” Dorsey told him. “Just like you asked.”
Overheard
by Reginald McKnight
Homewood
That’s the thing about this town, Merce: you cross one street — the right side of the street — and you’ve crossed over to a whole other world. Do I have to tell you this? You know. You own property everywhere your dad was allowed to buy. So-called Homewood One and so-called Homewood Two are separate planets, no closer than Earth and Pluto.
I told you what that dude Matt said to me the first week Colleen and the boy and I moved into our place on Lang—
Yes I did, man—
I did, Merce. You never—
All right, so he walks up to me while I’m out front sweeping the walk, and he says, “Welcome to the neighborhood,” and he says his name is Matt, and he lives right over there across the street. Points with his rake.
I had a broom. Him, he’d been raking. Sweeping, raking, very neighborhoody behavior, right?
Yes! He was white. Of course he was white. That’s my—
Merce, just listen to me, okay? Follow along, man, and I’ll tell you all this stuff about the girl getting beaten, and what I think happened upstairs, and what this has to do with my rent.
Man, I have never in my life missed rent. I been late once or twice, but...
So this guy Matt points with his rake and squints at me like he’s got battery acid in his eyes, and smiles like it hurts, and he shrugs at me and goes... How does he put it? “So we were just wondering why you all chose Point Breeze instead of the actual Homewood for a place to settle.” Something like that, see? And by “we,” he means the people up and down Lang, dig?
It took me a couple beats to gather this. At first I thought he was talking about just him and his own brood, but when he starts talking about what the DelGrossos had to say, and the Millers, and so forth, I see he’s talking about person-to-person, house-to-house, what the whole village — idiots included, apparently — thought about us moving in next to them. Instead of the proper one.
Dude, listen to me. I’m not from here. I grew up on military bases. We been a-integratin’ since before I was born: ’47, ’48. What the fuck do I know about living on the right side of the street?
Actually, no. He said about eighty percent of them were cool with us living there. I mean, yeah, it creeped me out that they actually clustered their heads together and practically voted on it, but yeah, they did vote us in, I guess you could say.
Where? Dancing Goats.
Dancing Goats? The place on Ellsworth, near—
Yeah, that’s the one. I don’t know. Coffee’s coffee, right?
No, it wasn’t that. Lang Avenue didn’t help the marriage, but that wasn’t the reason. I told you the reason.
Yeah.
And for your information, I didn’t move into the real Homewood because I’ve learned to agree with guys like Matt. I took your place because it’s huge and beautifuclass="underline" lots of wood, full of light, high ceilings. It’s nice and quiet, except for, you know... But I’ll get to that in a minute.
Three bedrooms. Three, for seven-fifty, and manageable utilities. I’m like six blocks from the Lang place but I feel far enough away from Colleen and Brian not to hurt all the time.
I know, I know, you don’t keep tabs on old girlfriends without paying the price. I know what I did. Half the puddles I wept into your nice carpet and wood were from shame and embarrassment. The other half were because I missed Brian so much.
Yeah, yeah, I know you guys did too. You know it’s complicated, yeah. That’s why I guess I hardly noticed the people upstairs, at first. It’s the usual thing with couples who live above you. You hear their bedsprings, you hear him raise his voice or punch a wall; sometimes the music is a bit too loud, but she keeps it down. You hear them shower and flush, and hang pictures, stack dishes. Pretty soon you know the difference between his footfall and hers. Everybody’s pretty much the same.
No-no-no, that’s not my point. The thing is, they weren’t all that noisy. I used to live below a couple of opera singers in Colorado Springs. That was much worse.
I’m serious. No, they made normal noises, for the most part, and when Brian isn’t with me, it kind of made me feel a little less alone. Besides, I have this big-ass air filter in my bedroom... Of course, you’ve seen it. Duh. Anyway, I usually run it all night, and it whites out the universe.
No, I hardly ever thought about Tamara and that guy, but like this one night? Brian was with me? And we’d had a very cool weekend. We’d watched The Lion King for like the eight millionth time. He spent all day in that ridiculous lion costume, roaring at people in the mall, at The Strip, Frick Park. But anyway, the weekend’s almost done, so of course I’m depressed. The filter’s on, cause I don’t want to hear them having sex; I don’t want to hear sirens, nothing. Brian’s in his room long asleep, and I’m tipped that way myself. It’s, like, two.
Brian taps on my door. “Papa.” Barely hear him, but I’m up. “There’s a loud noise,” he says. He points to the ceiling. I shut off the filter and we listen. I hear thumping out in the stairway. I walk Brian back to his room, go out into the hallway, and see them both at the bottom of the stairs at the entrance. Tamara’s sitting on the last step, with her arms over her head, and boyfriend’s standing over her, trying to whale on her, but he’s being patient, like a boxer. He wants her face, not her arms. First time I’d seen him, actually. He’s got the tan Timberland boots, the baggy pants, hoodie, watch cap. He’s beating a woman. Very disappointing.
He’s in midswing, and she’s swollen under the eye and bleeding from the nose. I say, “Tamara, you all right?” And asshole turns around and says, “What you need, bitch?” But I look past him and repeat myself. Tamara says, “Can you call the cops?”