Soul Patch

“Is she home?”

“No, thank the lord. She’s out doing who knows what with God knows who. Good riddance!”

“Melvin had trouble with the law.”

“Son, every young black man on these streets has trouble with the law. Some of it deserving. Some not.”

“Okay, Mable, you got a point. But Melvin had a lot of drug arrests and petty thievery and all.”

“Like I say, Mr. Prager, he was easily swayed. He hungered to be accepted, so he did stupid things.”

“Did you know he was arrested a few weeks back for half a kilo of cocaine?”

“When was this?” She screwed up her face and twisted her head to one side as if trying to avoid a punch and failing.

“I’m not sure exactly. Two, three weeks ago, maybe.”

“He never said word one about it, but it does explain some things.”

“Like what, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“That other police.”

“No offense, Mable, but when a family member is murdered, the cops have to come ask about-”

“Not those police!” she cut me off. “I know they had to come. I’m talking about that pretty chiquita.”

“Detective Melendez?”

Mable twisted her head to one side again. This time to stare at me, cold and hard, to see if she had been right to trust me.

“I thought you said you weren’t from the police.”

“I’m not. I swear.”

“Then how would you know about this woman, this Detective Melendez?”

“We’ve met. Was she with a skinny, older, white guy?”

“She came alone. Why? Who is she?” Mable’s voice trembled slightly.

“She was the detective who arrested Mal-Melvin for the cocaine.”

“I keep telling you, he didn’t say anything about such an arrest to me. And besides, where would Melvin get the kind of money it would take to buy a half kilogram of cocaine? I may be just an frumpy old church lady, but I am not a naive nor ignorant soul, Mr. Prager. I know that drugs cost lots of money and I know money was something that my son never had much of.”

She had a point. “Did Melvin know a man named Dexter Mayweather? He used to be called D Rex around this area.”

“There’s not a person over the age of twenty-one who lived on these streets who didn’t know of Dexter Mayweather. To hear the fools talk about him, you’d think he was Robin Hood.”

“Yes, but did Melvin know him, not just of him?”

“I doubt it.”

“Why’s that? I know there would have been a big age difference, but your son would have been thirteen or fourteen years old when D Rex was killed in the spring of ’72.”

“Because after he got into his first serious trouble as a boy of eleven, when he got out of Spofford, we sent him down to Georgia to live with his aunt, my sister, Fiona. He didn’t come back home till the fall of 1972 to go back to school.”

“You’re sure?”

“A mother remembers when her child comes back to her.”

“I suppose it’s still possible they knew each other, but I guess you’re right.”

“Of course, I’m right.”

“Do you have any idea who would have wanted to kill Melvin?”

“I’m no policeman, Mr. Prager, sir, but I would think maybe I would start with the people who had the money for half a kilo of cocaine.”

“Could be.”

“And like I say, Melvin knew some ungodly people.”

“As you say.”

She stood to signal her time and patience had run out. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have to get back to my house chores.”

“Not at all, Mable. Thank you for your time. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Do you have children, Mr. Prager?”

“A little girl. She’s eleven.”

“Same age as Melvin when. . You hold on tight to that little girl.”

“I promise.”

“No parent should outlive her child.”

I agreed. “Just one last thing before I go. Do you have a ballpark figure of when Kalisha will get back home?”

“When the alley cats are finished screeching in heat is usually when she crawls back in.”

“Thanks again.”

There was a grieving woman, but a woman with dignity. You needed a lot of that in order to survive in such a hard place, with a son in trouble with the law. In a way, she reminded me of my old friend Israel Roth. Mr. Roth was a camp survivor who had made a meaningful life for himself, a man who had literally breathed in the ashes of his dead family and come out the other side mostly intact. I’d met him in the Catskills in 1981 when I was working an old arson case. He had pretty much adopted my family as his own and had tried, with some success, to have me meet God halfway. I’d have to call him. I pulled away from the house and decided that I’d come back and talk to Malik’s girl, Kalisha. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but sooner rather than later. In the meanwhile, I decided to kill some time at the local park. I knew there’d be some games to watch and information to be had. There’s always information floating around the park-you just have to know how to listen.

The courts in the shadows of the big housing project built at the west end of Coney Island were the best kept outdoor courts I’d ever seen anywhere. We’re talking glass backboards, padded support poles, unblemished court lines, and not a piece of litter on the playing surface and surrounding area that wasn’t windblown. There were two full-court runs in progress, but it was a little quieter than I expected. Only a few guys waiting “winners,” spying their likely competition and contemplating who they could pick up from the losers to give them the best shot at staying on. Some of the guys on the sidelines were no

My appearance caused about as much commotion as a passing cloud. Mostly, the players just shook their heads. My guess was their assessment of me fell into one of three categories:

I was a cop come to bust their balls.

I was an old, washed-up white guy come to tell war stories about how I had played against Lew Alcindor, Connie “The Hawk” Hawkins, and Preacher “The Creature” Simmons when I was younger.

I was some recruiter or street agent come to spot and exploit young talent.

I just sat down on one of the benches and watched. If there was information to be had, my announcing my interest in it was not the way to go. Curiosity would eventually take hold, and then I might have a shot at learning something.

The games were typical Brooklyn street fare-a lot of tough, one-on-one defense and hardass rebounding. Shit, even the guys I grew up playing with believed in the No Autopsy, No Foul rules of the street. But there was a whole lot of trash talk, too. Way too much dribbling, very few picks, not enough distribution or movement without the ball. Almost every trip down court featured a hesitation move, a crossover dribble, a drive to the rack, and a dish. Now and then there’d be a steal in the backcourt and someone would fly down the other end for a showy jam.

There was a big range in talent level and size, but the best player on either court was a fifteen-year-old kid with a close-cropped do on a too-big head atop a stumpy body. Everyone called him Nugget-for the size of his head, I guess. Nugget didn’t have the body, but he had game. He saw the whole court, could handle the ball, had range on his shot, fast hands, and was deceptively quick to the hole. His defensive footwork left a lot to be desired, but a good coach and an ounce of desire could fix that. Nugget had the gift. What Nugget didn’t have was the best squad.