generally being nosy. This didn’t please Al.
“AHOOOO… hmmmm… woof… woof… AHOOO… grrrr
… grrrrrr… grrrrrrrr,” Al said. The extra “grrrrr’s” concerned me.
Apparently, they concerned Larry Bird too, because he pulled a can of mace out of his suit jacket and aimed it at Al.
I broke away from my conversation with Morris.
“Whoa, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I said, with my neck tendons dancing.
“Your dog needs to-”
He didn’t get to finish. As Bird turned to yell at me, Al pounced and went after his shin like it was a TV remote. Larry yelped, Al increased the intensity of his bite, which made Bird sing in pain, and then everyone’s favorite white hooper dropped the can of mace. Al scooped it up and ran into the bathroom.
While the all-time greatest shooting guard was jumping up and down on one foot, holding his bloody pant leg, I went to the head, grabbed the mace from Al, and closed him in.
“Now, what was it you were saying, detective Morris?” I said.
“You son-of-,” Bird said.
“That’ll be enough, Mullings. Go out to the car and put something on that,” Morris said.
Larry gave me a menacing look behind his bright-red face and limped out of the Blue.
“We’re going to have to take the tape out of your machine. I’m sure you understand,” Morris said. He directed the crime scene guys to dust a few things and poke around here and they all left soon after that. Mullings never came back in. I let Al out of the bathroom and fixed him his dinner, treated with a few extra sardines.
I met Billy in the aerobics room, and I was glad to see he made it on time, or, more accurately, his customary thirty minutes early. Today he had a zit on one ear lobe, which in some ways made him look a little hip, like he got it pierced or something. Billy was warming up by practicing his flying kicks, and each and every time he landed on his back. I decided to just not mention anything about Sofco.
“Billy, what was up with the class president over at McDonough?” I asked.
“Sir, he was a jerk-I mean, I’m sorry he’s dead, sort of, anyway, but he wasn’t real nice,” Billy said.
“How so?”
“He made fun of people a lot, sir.”
“Did he make fun of you?”
“Yes, sir.” Billy tried to put his energy into a technique, but I could see he was uncomfortable.
“What did he say?”
“Sir, he said it looked like my mom put out a fire on my face with my dad’s golf shoe… then, he once nominated me for some award just to tease me. He was a jerk, sir.”
I guess the more things change the more things stay the same. Teenagers can be real a-holes. When I was Billy’s age, my pizza face had gotten me into my share of fights, which at the time led me to my share of getting my ass kicked. In turn that got me into karate and then ultimately into boxing.
“Was he known to be into drugs?” I asked.
“I didn’t hang with him but he was in the crowd that thinks they’re cool, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Are there a lot of drugs at McDonough?”
“Yes, sir. I know I hear about the dealer ‘the Caretaker’ and the guys they call ‘the Caretaker’s men.’”
“Have you ever seen this guy they call the Caretaker?”
“No, sir. I’ve just heard about him.”
“What about this fan club for the serial killer?”
“They’re really weird and, if you ask me, sir, very disturbed.”
“How so?”
“There’s rumors about them torturing stray animals and doing things to little kids.”
“Damn, Billy, high school has gotten pretty weird, hasn’t it?”
“Compared to what, sir?” I didn’t have an answer for that, so I decided it was time for a workout.
I put Billy through his paces, trying my best to disguise fundamental boxing technique as karate. It wasn’t easy; there isn’t anything complex or fancy about throwing good punches. You could spend a lifetime learning the nuances of the most fundamental techniques; it was simple and complex at the same time.
I got to thinking of the Caretaker and his involvement at McDonough. I didn’t know a lot about him, but dealing at the high school didn’t seem like it was his game. The risk was too high, the penalties too great for a guy known for being in total control to take. It’s not that he necessarily had any honor, it was more like he just didn’t want to go to prison.
I dropped Billy off and headed to the DJ store to get another audience with my new bleached-out friend. I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for, but I wanted to see if I could get some answers. There was a different kid up front, and his boom box was blasting an angry rap song that referred to my sister and my mother and a series of unnatural acts that the singer desired to do to them. It took a while to get the kid’s attention, but he made the call and motioned for me to go back.
Mr. Caretaker was wearing a blue blazer, lightweight cuffed gray pants, and a red-striped shirt. He had his reddish hair awkwardly parted and he had on horn-rimmed glasses.
“My pugilistic ami. Bonjour,” he said when I came through the curtain.
“Hey, how you doing?” I said. With this cartoon character, having anything near a normal conversation seemed bizarre.
“What are you in search for?”
“Today, just some information.”
He laughed, sat, and crossed his legs in that affected way that talk show guests do.
“I don’t handle information,” he said.
“Word is you’re dealing at McDonough High. That kid who OD’ed was yours,” I said.
“Mr. Duffy, do not be a provocateur. You do not know me well enough.”
“Then I am right?”
“No.”
“Who then?”
“Why the fuck should I tell you?” For an instant he lost the preppy, Zen, Bond-villain facade. This was all street.
“Kids are dying.”
“Kids are always dying, my man.” He sat back and went back into his character.
“If not you, why are you letting it be said that it is you?”
“Hmmm… first of all I’m not letting anything. The microwaves from that have yet to hit my radar. Second, I choose to keep my profile low.”
He rubbed his chin and looked at the ceiling. I let the silence happen.
“Duffy, I am telling you the following not because you asked or because you intimidated me, but rather because it will serve my interests.” He had his fingertips lightly touching in front of his face. “It is my feeling that it is the Sky Pilot’s doing, and I am not at all pleased that he would bring my name into it.”
“Who the hell is the Sky Pilot?” I said.
“I never deal in surnames. Do your homework.” He stopped doing that thing with his fingertips and just stared at me. It wasn’t exactly an intimidating stare, it was more a stare of absence. It was like the Caretaker was there but not really. At least, not for me.
I got out of the Caretaker’s storefront and headed around the corner to see if I could find Carlisle and the boys. It had started to drizzle a bit and that meant the guys would be under the pavilion in the park next to the basketball court. It was just four blocks, and as I walked up the street I could see the guys there.
Carlisle was there with Chipper but his cousin wasn’t with them today. I exchanged pleasantries and before long they asked me what I was looking for. Being accepted in the ghetto wasn’t the same as being expected and we all knew I wasn’t just walking through Jefferson Hill because I enjoyed the scenery.
“What you need, D?” Carlisle said. He didn’t look good-his skin was ashing and he had dried saliva on the corners of his mouth. The salt in crack has brutal drying effects on the skin.
“You all right? You’re into that shit, aren’t you?” I said.
His eyes got shifty and he started to stutter. Chipper put his head down.
