“Incorrect?” Jesse said.
“This place is officially liberal,” Simpson said.
“Long as they keep the cha-chas out,” Jesse said.
Simpson smiled.
“Yeah. Molly told me about that.”
“Ms. Fiedler was down at the causeway the other day,” Jesse said. “With a clicker, counting the number of cars.”
“How many kids you say there were?” Simpson said.
“Twelve,” Jesse said. “Preschoolers.”
“Means a minibus probably,” Simpson said. “Once in the morning, and once in the afternoon.”
Jesse nodded. They both looked at the blue ocean for a while. Then Simpson grinned.
“They gotta be stopped,” Simpson said.
10.
Jesse’s ex-wife stuck her head into his office and said, “Hi, Toots, got a minute?”
Jesse felt the small trill of excitement in his belly that he always felt when he saw her.
“I got a minute,” he said.
Jenn came in, dressed to the nines, and gave Jesse a pleasant but passing kiss on the mouth. The trill of excitement tightened into a knot of desire and sadness. The kiss was passionless.
“I am on an investigative assignment,” Jenn said.
“What’s Channel Three investigating this time,” Jesse said. “The resurgence of platform soles?”
Jenn smiled.
“Are you saying that Newsbeat Three is not noted for high seriousness?”
“Yes,” Jesse said.
“This is a good one for me,” Jenn said. “It’s like hard news investigation.”
Jesse nodded. The knot in his stomach held tight. He knew it would be there until well after she left.
“Our sources tell us that Latino gangs are infiltrating Paradise,” Jenn said.
Jesse stared at her.
“Latino gangs,” he said.
“There is gang graffiti on several buildings in Paradise,” Jenn said.
She took some snapshots out of her purse and put them on Jesse’s desk so he could see them.
“Our sources sent us these pictures,” Jenn said.
Jesse recognized a couple. One had been on the side of the commuter rail station for more than a year. One had appeared on the back wall of the food market at the mall. There were two more he hadn’t seen.
“Can you name your sources?”
Jenn shook her head.
“Does the name Miriam Fiedler mean anything to you?”
She smiled.
“Walter Carr?”
Jenn smiled again but she didn’t say anything.
“Jenn,” Jesse said. “There has not been a gang-related crime in this town since I’ve been here.”
“Isn’t that odd?” Jenn said. “I mean, Marshport is right next door. There are gangs there.”
“Several,” Jesse said.
“You don’t think they might want to slip in here, sometimes, where the streets are paved in gold?”
Jesse leaned back a little in his chair. Jenn had her legs crossed. Her pants were tight. He could see the smooth line of her thigh.
“I never lived in a slum, exactly. But I worked in a lot of them in L.A. People who live in suburbia think every slum dweller yearns to live there, too,” Jesse said. “But many people I knew liked the ’hood. Wouldn’t want to leave it. Would die of boredom and conformity if they lived elsewhere.”
“To me,” Jenn said, “that sounds like an excuse to do nothing about slums.”
“That’s probably it,” Jesse said.
“No,” Jenn said. “I didn’t mean that you were like that. But are you saying none of the gangbangers ever cross the line into Paradise?”
“Oh, they come over sometimes. Mostly, I think, to sell dope to high-school kids.”
“Can’t you stop them?”
“Can I stop kids from buying dope?” Jesse said.
Jenn nodded.
“Or selling it?” Jesse said.
Jenn nodded again.
“No,” Jesse said.
“You can’t?”
“No,” Jesse said. “But I don’t feel too bad about that. Nobody else can, either. Anywhere.”
“Are you suggesting we just ignore it?”
Jesse was silent for a moment, looking at her.
Then he said, “Are we on camera?”
“Oh, God, Jesse, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be inquisitorial. I just get so caught up in being Ms. Journalist, you know? Always ask the follow-up question.”
Jesse nodded.
“I would like to investigate the gang thing, though,” Jenn said.
She smiled. The force of her smile was nearly physical. Jesse always felt as if he should grunt from impact.
“Not a good career move,” she said, “to go back and tell the news director that my ex says there’s no story.”
“No,” Jesse said.
“Are you mad ’cause I was, like, cross-examining you?”
“No.”
“I care about my job, you know.”
“I know.”
“It matters to me, just like yours matters to you.”
“I know.”
“I guess it makes me sort of a pill sometimes,” Jenn said.
“Everyone’s job corrupts them a little, I imagine,” Jesse said. “And you could never be a pill.”
Jen smiled at him.
“Even your job?” she said.
Jesse nodded.
“What has your job done to you?” Jenn said.
Jesse was silent for a time.
“I guess,” he said finally, “you could say it has narrowed the circle of my expectations.”
Jenn stared at him and widened her eyes.
“You want to talk about that?” she said.
“Not much,” Jesse said.
“Please,” Jenn said. “I’m not being girl reporter now. I’m being ex-wife who still loves you.”
Jesse felt the tension he always felt with Jenn: trying to control himself, trying to keep what he felt stored carefully away so it wouldn’t spill out all over the place. He flexed his shoulders a little.
“It’s pretty hard,” Jesse said, “to believe in much. You can’t prevent crime. You couldn’t even solve most crimes if the bad guys would simply keep their mouths shut. About all you can aim at is to make your corner peaceful.”
“But you keep at it,” Jenn said.
“Gotta keep at something,” Jesse said.
“You see too much of human emotion, up too close,” Jenn said. “Don’t you? People lie—to you, to themselves. Few people can be counted on. Most people do what they need to do, not what they ought.”
“You know that, too,” Jesse said.
“I work in television, Jesse.”
“Oh,” Jesse said. “Yeah.”
They were quiet.
Outside Jesse’s window a couple of firemen were washing their cars in the broad driveway of the fire station. Jesse could hear the phone ring dimly at the front desk, and Molly’s voice.
“So what do we hang on to?’ Jenn said.
“Each other?” Jesse said.
“I guess,” Jenn said.
“And we’re having a hell of a time doing that,” Jesse said.
11.
The east side of Marshport butted up against the west side of Paradise. Marshport was an elderly mill town with no mills. There was an enclave of Ukrainians in the southwest end of town. The rest of the city was mostly Hispanic. There had been a couple of feeble efforts to reinvigorate parts of the city, but the efforts had simply replaced the old slums with newer ones.
Jesse parked in front of a building that used to house a grammar school and now served as office space for the few enterprises in Marshport that needed offices. He had driven his own car. He was not in uniform. He was wearing jeans and a white shirt, with a blue blazer over his gun.
The door to Nina Pinero’s office had OUTREACH stenciled on it in black. Jesse went in. The office was a former classroom, on the second floor, in back, with a view of a playground where a couple of kids shot desultory baskets on a blacktop court at a hoop with a chain net. The playground was littered with bottles and newspapers and fast-food wrappers and scraps of indeterminate stuff.
The blackboard was still there, and the bulletin board, which was covered with memos tacked up with colored map pins. There were a couple of file cabinets against the near wall, and Nina Pinero’s desk looked like a holdover from the classroom days. There were three telephones on it.