“I just demeaned her a little, didn’t I,” he said.
Dix didn’t answer.
“I must be madder at her than I know,” Jesse said.
“Almost certainly,” Dix said.
“You think she’s after redemption?” Jesse said.
Dix looked at his watch, as he always did before closing the session.
“We’ll have time to think about that on our own,” Dix said. “Until next time. Time’s up for today.”
“Hell,” Jesse said. “Just when it was getting good.”
18.
Crow stood in front of a three-decker on an unpaved street that was little more than old wheel ruts overgrown with stiff, gray-green weeds. There were tenements on either side of the rutted street, the paint long peeled, the clapboards gray and warped with weather. A street sign nailed to one of the tenements read HORN STREET. Crow walked down to a sagging three-decker that blocked the end of the street. Over the skewed front door was a number 12.
A small path that might once have been a driveway ran around the tenement and Crow followed it, walking carefully to avoid the beer cans, fast-food cartons, dog droppings, used condoms, discarded tires, bottles, rusted bicycle parts, and odd bits of clothing and bedding that were strewn outside the building. Behind the tenement was a metal garage, which had been repainted without being scraped. The bright yellow finish was lumpy and uneven. The maroon trim, Crow noticed, had been applied freehand and not very precisely. A window in the side of the garage had a window box haphazardly affixed below it. The box was filled with artificial flowers. The garage door was ajar. Above the garage door was the number 12A.
Crow went through the half-open door into the garage.
Inside, there were six young men and a huge rear-projection television set. The young men were drinking beer and watching a soap opera. When Crow stepped into the garage they all came to their feet.
“Who the fuck are you,” one of them said.
“I’m looking for Esteban Carty,” Crow said.
“And I said who the fuck are you?”
“My name is Wilson Cromartie,” Crow said. “You Carty?”
“You ain’t a cop.”
The speaker was short, with shoulder-length black hair and a full beard. He was wearing a tank top and there were gang tattoos up each arm.
“Cops don’t come in here alone,” he said.
“I’m still looking for Esteban Carty,” Crow said. “And I’m getting tired of asking.”
“Hey, Puerco,” the long-haired kid said. “Wilson getting tired of asking.”
Puerco was big, with a shaved head, weight-lifter muscles, no shirt, and a round, hard belly. His upper body was covered with tattoos, including one across his forehead: PUERCO.
Puerco stared at Crow. He had very small eyes for so large a man. There was something else peculiar about his eyes, Crow thought. Then he realized that Puerco had no eyebrows. Crow wondered if it was a defect of nature, or if Puerco had shaved them so
