I nodded.
“Any progress today?” Susan said.
“Some,” I said. “We got the name of Devona’s boyfriend.”
“Can you find him?” Susan said.
“He can run,” I said. “But he can’t hide.”
“Isn’t that a sports saying of some sort?”
“Yeah. Joe Louis said it about Billy Conn.”
“Do you think he had to do with killing her?”
“We find him,” I said, “we’ll ask.”
Susan nodded. She looked at my supper. “That looks good,” she said. “Well, I’ve got to get moving. I still have my revolting workout.”
“I know this is silly,” I said, “but if you find it revolting, why do you do it?”
“That’s silly,” Susan said.
“I knew it was when I said it. Well, it’s working great, anyway.”
“Thank you,” she said and hurried off to change.
As I ate my supper with the first round of the playoffs on the tube, I thought about how I had almost never seen Susan when she wasn’t in a hurry. I didn’t mind it exactly, but I had noticed it less when we lived apart.
CHAPTER 32
We were on Hafford Avenue, with the enduring rain coming steadily against the windshield and the wipers barely holding their own.
“I thought posses were Jamaican,” I said.
“Language changes very fast here. Now it just means a small gang. There are gangs with five or six kids in them if that’s all there are in the neighborhood,” Erin said.
We turned onto McCrory Street, a block from Double Deuce, and left onto Dillard Street and pulled up into the apron of an abandoned gas station. The pumps were gone, and the place where they had been torn out of the island looked like an open wound. The station windows had been replaced with plywood; and the plywood, and the walls of the station itself, were covered completely with fluorescent graffiti. The overhead door to the service bay was up and half a dozen kids sat in the bay on recycled furniture and looked at the rain. There was a thunderous rap group on at peak volume, and the kids were passing around a jug of white Concord grape wine.
“The one with the wispy goatee is Tallboy,” Erin said.
He was sprawled on a broken chaise lounge: plumpish, and not very tall, wearing a red sweatshirt with the hood up.
“Tallboy?” I said.
“He usually drinks beer in the twenty-four-ounce cans,” Erin said. She rolled down the window and called to him.
“Tallboy, I need to talk with you.”
“Who you with, Miss Macklin?” Tallboy said.
He hadn’t moved but he’d tightened up. All of them had, and they gazed out at me in dark silence from their cave.
“A friend,” she said. “I need to talk. Can you come sit in the car?”
Tallboy got up slowly and came even more slowly toward the car. He walked with a kind of wide-legged swagger. He might have been a little drunk. When he was in the back he left the door open.
“What you need, Miss Macklin?”
“You knew Devona Jefferson,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“I know you did, Tallboy. She was your girlfriend.”
“So?”
“And she was killed.”
“Don’t know nothing about that,” he said. He looked hard at me. “Who you?” he said.
“Guy looking for the people killed your girlfriend.”
“You DT?”
“No.”
“So what you care who piped Devona?”
“They killed your baby, too,” I said.
“Hey, man, what you talking shit to me for? You don’t even know that my little girl.”
I waited. Tallboy glanced back toward the open garage where the jug was.
