“That was just a tiny shadow,” said James, forcing a smile. “That was the little man Gavin walking into the garage to give me hell. Man throws dark on all of our worlds, doesn’t he, Ray?”
Raymond Monroe did not respond.
“That’s what I thought, too,” said Alex, “at the time. But then I got thinking further. I’m talking way back, to when I was a teenager. In the seventies, you couldn’t buy replica jerseys like you can today. Maybe upper-class kids could, but I don’t recall seeing any. We used to make our own, with Magic Markers. Put the name and numbers of our favorite players on the front and back of our white T-shirts, go to the courts, and play ball like we were those players. I know you guys did the same thing. I had one I made with Gail Goodrich’s name on it. Small shooting guard for the Lakers.”
“White boy out of UCLA,” said James. “They called him Stumpy. Had a nice jumper, too.”
“Yeah,” said Alex. “Goodrich wore number twenty-five. I also made an Earl Monroe jersey. He was number fifteen when he played for the Knicks.”
“We know that,” said Raymond. “Why don’t you tell us where this is going?”
“I got hold of the partial court transcripts from the trial,” said Alex. “The transcript said that the shooter was wearing a T-shirt at the time of the murder.”
“So?” said James. “I was wearing the shirt when I got arrested. That’s no secret.”
“I’m not finished,” said Alex. “Miss Elaine told me that the boy with the gun was wearing a T-shirt had a number that was hand-printed across it. She has very good long-term memory, despite her stroke. She said that the number on the shirt was the number ten.”
“Say what’s on your mind,” said Raymond.
“You might have been wearing that shirt when you were arrested, James. But there wasn’t any way you would have put on a Clyde Frazier T-shirt when you got up that morning. You were an Earl Monroe man all the way. You still call him Jesus. I’m talking about Earl when he played for the Knicks and wore the number fifteen.”
“Make your point,” said James.
“You didn’t shoot Billy Cachoris,” said Alex. His eyes went to Raymond. “ You did.”
“That’s right,” said Raymond Monroe evenly. “It was me who killed your friend.”
Twenty-Nine
Everything happened quick,” said James Monroe.
“James had this gun he’d bought hot,” said Raymond. “I had just found it the night before. Charles tipped me off. That morning, I had put it in my dip, with the Frazier T-shirt hanging over the butt. A boy finds a gun, he’s got to hold it. My father never kept one in the house for that very reason. He knew.”
“When y’all came back up the block,” said James, “and Charles knocked your friend’s teeth out and then stomped you on the ground, Raymond’s fever got up.”
“I was young and hotheaded,” said Raymond. “And being young, and a boy, I looked up to Baker. He was dangerous and slick, everything I wanted to be at that point in time. I pulled the gun out and pointed it at your friend. James didn’t even know I had it. He pleaded for me to stop. But Charles kept pushing me, man. He won out, and I shot your boy in the back.” Raymond chewed on his lower lip to stem the tears that had come to his eyes. “When I saw what I’d done, I got sick inside. James took the gun out of my hand and pulled me away. We ran back to my parents’ house’cause they were at work. We got ourselves into our bedroom, and that’s where we made a plan. I was outta my mind…”
“ I wasn’t,” said James. “I knew what had to be done. Raymond was too young to go to prison. I knew he couldn’t jail, not even juvie hall. My father had charged me with looking after him, and I did. I wiped that gun down good and made sure my own prints were on it before I put it back in my drawer. I took that bloody T-shirt from Raymond and I put it on my own self. That’s how the police found me when they came through the door.”
“Charles Baker was in on it, too,” said Alex.
“Sure,” said James. “It turned out good for him. He flipped on me and made a deal with the prosecutors. Because of that, he only drew a year.”
“That’s why he thinks you owe him,” said Alex. “That’s why he keeps coming back.”
“Like a penny you can’t spend,” said James.
“You went along with it,” said Alex, looking at Raymond.
Raymond nodded, his eyes wet in the light.
“I was persuasive,” said James. “The way an older brother can be.”
“How did you all keep the secret?” said Alex.
“Wasn’t hard,” said James. “Miss Elaine was the only one who had seen Raymond holding the gun. But she couldn’t say under oath who it was specifically. ‘It was one of the Monroe brothers’ is what she said on the stand. Back then, even with our three-year age difference, we damn near looked like twins. Same height. Even wore our hair in the same kind of blowout. She testified that the shooter’s T-shirt had a number on it, but no one knew what the number meant except us.”
“And your parents,” said Alex.
“Yeah, they knew,” said James. “When I was in holding, my father and I discussed it deep. It hurt him to let it go to trial like that, but I convinced him that it was for the best.” James looked at Raymond. “And it was, Ray. It was. I mean, look how you turned out.”
“And look how it turned out for you,” said Raymond.
“Don’t put that on yourself,” said James. “If I had handled my incarceration better, it might have been all right. I thought I’d do a couple of years and get bounced for good behavior. But prison, it even makes a clean man dirty. Those hard boys tried to take me for bad in there, and I felt I had to defend myself or die. One awful decision followed another, and when I came out I got mixed up with Baker again. I just made some real bad choices, I guess. Anyway, here I am. I can’t change those things now.”
“You’re talking like it’s over,” said Alex.
“Not all the way,” said James. “But I sure can see the finish line.”
“Before all this happened,” said Alex. “I’m sayin, when you were eighteen years old. Isn’t there something you wanted to accomplish up the road?”
“You mean, like a goal?” said James. “There were things I had my sights on. But there ain’t no point in talking about that now.”
“So you got all this information,” said Raymond. “What do you plan to do with it?”
“Nothing,” said Alex. “We’ve all suffered enough.”
A long-haired cat crossed through the shadows of the alley. James watched it as he drank off more of his beer.
“That’s it?” said Raymond.
“Not quite,” said Alex, turning to the big man in the chair. “You feel like going for a ride, James?”
“Where to?”
“I’ll show you when we get there.”
“A girl gonna jump out a birthday cake, somethin?”
“Better,” said Alex. “Come on.”
They stood in the empty space of the brick building off Piney Branch Road. Alex had turned on all the fluorescents inside and the spots out in the parking area. He was making comments and gesturing, talking more to James, letting James think on it, letting him see it.
“Here you go,” said Alex, removing the Craftsman measuring tape that he had clipped to his belt, handing it to James. “Check it out yourself. It’s wide enough to fit two cars with space for two guys to move around them and work.”
“Two guys?” said James, taking the tape and going to the left wall, limping a little as he made his way. Raymond followed him, then held the end of the tape to where the concrete floor met the cinder blocks, so that James could walk the tape to the right wall.
“Right,” said Alex. “You’re gonna need help. An apprentice, like. You can’t work on two cars at a time.”
“Okay,” said James to Raymond, after James had noted the width of the space. Raymond released the tape and joined his brother in the center of the room.