“I can't talk to you! Don't have to, neither!” he finally did a little exasperated spin and threw up both his skinny arms. “You think I owe you 'cause once upon a time you fed us Manhandler soup-slop at the po'boy kitchen? Think I owe you? I don't owe you shit!”
Loy started to strut away. Then he looked back at me, as if he had just one more irritating wisecrack to hurl my way. His dark eyes narrowed, caught mine, and held on for a second. Contact.
Liftoff.
“Somebody saw an old man where that little girl got kilt,” Loy blurted out. It'was the biggest news we had so far on the Truth School case. It was the only news, and it was what I had been looking for all these days working the street.
He had no idea how fast I was, or how strong. I reached out and pulled him close to me. I pulled Loy McCoy very close. So close I could smell the sweet peppermint on his breath, the scent of pomade in his hair, the mustiness of his badly wrinkled winter clothes.
I held him to my chest as if he were a son of mine, a prodigal son, a young fool who needed to understand that I wasn't going to allow him to be this way with me. I held him real tight and I wanted to save him somehow. I wanted to save all of them, but I couldn't, and it was one of the big hurts and frustrations of my life.
'I'm not fooling around here, now. Who told you that, Loy?
You talk to me. Don't fuck with me on this. Talk to me, and talk to me now.'
His face was inches from mine. My mouth was almost pressed against his cheek. All of his street swagger and the attitude had disappeared. I didn't like being a tough guy with him, but this was important as hell.
My hands are large and scarred, like a boxer's, and I let him see them. “I'm waiting for an answer,” I whispered. “I will take you in. I will ruin your day and night.”
“Don't know who,” he said between wheezing breaths. 'Some people in the shelter be sayin' it. I just heard it, you know.
Old homeless dude. Somebody saw'm hangin' in Garfield. White dude in the park.'
“A white man? On the southeast side of the park? You sure about that?”
'That's right. What I said. What I heard. Now, let me go.
C'mon, man, let go!'
I let him pull away from me, walk away a few steps.
Loy regained his composure and cool as soon as he realized that I wasn't going to hurt him,. or even take him in for questioning.
“That's the story. You oweme,” he said. “I'm gonna collect, too.”
I don't believe Loy saw the irony in what he was saying.
“I owe you,” I said. “Thanks, Loy.” I hope you don't ever have to collect.
He winked at me. “Be all you can be, all-riii!” he said and laughed and laughed as he walked back to the other crack runners.
AN OLD HOMELESS MAN near the muzzler scene. In Garfield Park. That was something solid to work with, finally. I had paid some dues and gotten a return on investment.
A white man. A white suspect.
That was even more promising. There weren't too many white males hanging out in the Garfield Park area. That was for sure.
I called Sampson and told him what I'd found out. He'd just come on duty for the night shift. I asked John how it was going on his end. He said that it wasn't going, but maybe now it would.
He would let the others in our group know.
At a little past five, I stopped by the Sojourner Truth School again. There were several forces strongly pulling me in the direction of the school. The new information about the homeles white man and the constant feeling that just maybe my nemesis Gary Soneji might be involved. That was part of it. Then there was Christine johnson. Mrs. Johnson.
Once again, nobody was sitting at the desk in the outer office.
The multiracial dolls on the desk looked abandoned. So did some “face doodles” and a couple of Goosebump books. The hea/ wooden door into the main office was shut tight.
I couldn't hear anyone inside, but I knocked anyway I heard a drawer bang shut, then footsteps. The door opened. It wasn't locked.
Christine Johnson had on a cashmere jacket and long wool skirt. Her hair was pulled back and tied with a yellow bow.
She was wearing her glasses. Working barefoot. I thought of a line- from Dorothy Parker, I think- Men seldom make passes/At girls who wear glasses.
Seeing her lifted my spirits, brought me up immediately I didn't know exactly why, but it did.
It occurred to me that she worked late at the school a lot. That was her business, but I wondered why she spent so much time here.
“Yes, I'm working late again. You caught me in the act. Red-handed, guilty as charged. A friend of yours dropped by the school this morning,” she said. “A detective John Sampson.”
“He's in charge of the case,” I said.
