“I’m sorry,” said Alex. “That’s the first thing I want to say. It occurred to me that I’ve never said those words to the two of you. I thought it was time.”
“Why?” said Raymond.
“Funny,” said Alex. “Miss Elaine asked me the same thing today. I wasn’t sure what the question was, but I can guess. Why did we do it? Why did we have to drive into your neighborhood that day?”
“Well?”
“The simple answer is, we were all dumb kids. High on beer and pot on a summer day with nothing to do but find trouble. We didn’t have anything against you guys. We didn’t know you. You were the ones on the other side of town. It was like throwing a rock at a hornets’ nest or something. We knew it was wrong and dangerous, but we didn’t think it was going to hurt anyone.”
“Not hurtful?” said James. “Your friend screamed nigger out the window of his car. It could have been directed at my mother or father. How is that not hurting anyone?”
“I know it. I know. Billy was…” Alex tried to find the word. “Billy was crippled, man. His father made him that way. It wasn’t even hate, because he didn’t have that kind of thing in him. He was a good friend. He was looking out for me, even at the end. I really believe that he would have turned out fine. If he had lived, if he had gotten out of that house and into the world, on his own, he would have been fine. He’d be sitting with us here today, having a beer. He would. If he had only lived through that day.”
“What about you?” said James. “What’s your story?”
“My brother’s sayin, why were you with them?” said Raymond. “Because we’ve talked about it. And both of us remember that you were just sitting in the backseat. You didn’t yell anything and you didn’t throw anything. So why were you there?”
“I wasn’t an active participant,” said Alex. “That’s true. But it doesn’t absolve me. I could have been stronger and told Billy to stop what he was about to do. I could have gotten out of the car at that stoplight, up at the entrance to your neighborhood. If I had just done that and walked home, I wouldn’t be carrying this goddamn scar. But I didn’t. The truth is, I’ve always been a passenger, riding in the backseat. That’s no excuse. I’m telling you, it’s who I am.”
James nodded, his eyes unreadable. Raymond stared down at the stones in the alley.
“What about you guys?” said Alex. “Anything you want to say?”
Raymond looked at James, imposing and implacable in his chair.
“Okay,” said Alex. “I’ll just keep going, then. You know the other night, when we were in the garage? The night I met you, James. You and your brother were revisiting your lifelong argument, the Earl Monroe versus Clyde Frazier thing. Raymond, you were talking about it, and I saw a shadow cross your face.”
“That was just a tiny shadow,” said James, forcing a smile. “That was the little man Gavin walking into the garage to give me hell. Man throws dark on all of our worlds, doesn’t he, Ray?”
Raymond Monroe did not respond.
“That’s what I thought, too,” said Alex, “at the time. But then I got thinking further. I’m talking way back, to when I was a teenager. In the seventies, you couldn’t buy replica jerseys like you can today. Maybe upper-class kids could, but I don’t recall seeing any. We used to make our own, with Magic Markers. Put the name and numbers of our favorite players on the front and back of our white T-shirts, go to the courts, and play ball like we were those players. I know you guys did the same thing. I had one I made with Gail Goodrich’s name on it. Small shooting guard for the Lakers.”
“White boy out of UCLA,” said James. “They called him Stumpy. Had a nice jumper, too.”
“Yeah,” said Alex. “Goodrich wore number twenty-five. I also made an Earl Monroe jersey. He was number fifteen when he played for the Knicks.”
“We know that,” said Raymond. “Why don’t you tell us where this is going?”
“I got hold of the partial court transcripts from the trial,” said Alex. “The transcript said that the shooter was wearing a T-shirt at the time of the murder.”
“So?” said James. “I was wearing the shirt when I got arrested. That’s no secret.”
“I’m not finished,” said Alex. “Miss Elaine told me that the boy with the gun was wearing a T-shirt had a number that was hand-printed across it. She has very good long-term memory, despite her stroke. She said that the number on the shirt was the number ten.”
“Say what’s on your mind,” said Raymond.
“You might have been wearing that shirt when you were arrested, James. But there wasn’t any way you would have put on a Clyde Frazier T-shirt when you got up that morning. You were an Earl Monroe man all the way. You still call him Jesus. I’m talking about Earl when he played for the Knicks and wore the number fifteen.”
“Make your point,” said James.
“You didn’t shoot Billy Cachoris,” said Alex. His eyes went to Raymond. “ You did.”
“That’s right,” said Raymond Monroe evenly. “It was me who killed your friend.”
Twenty-Nine
Everything happened quick,” said James Monroe.
“James had this gun he’d bought hot,” said Raymond. “I had just found it the night before. Charles tipped me off. That morning, I had put it in my dip, with the Frazier T-shirt hanging over the butt. A boy finds a gun, he’s got to hold it. My father never kept one in the house for that very reason. He knew.”
“When y’all came back up the block,” said James, “and Charles knocked your friend’s teeth out and then stomped you on the ground, Raymond’s fever got up.”
“I was young and hotheaded,” said Raymond. “And being young, and a boy, I looked up to Baker. He was dangerous and slick, everything I wanted to be at that point in time. I pulled the gun out and pointed it at your friend. James didn’t even know I had it. He pleaded for me to stop. But Charles kept pushing me, man. He won out, and I shot your boy in the back.” Raymond chewed on his lower lip to stem the tears that had come to his eyes. “When I saw what I’d done, I got sick inside. James took the gun out of my hand and pulled me away. We ran back to my parents’ house’cause they were at work. We got ourselves into our bedroom, and that’s where we made a plan. I was outta my mind…”
“ I wasn’t,” said James. “I knew what had to be done. Raymond was too young to go to prison. I knew he couldn’t jail, not even juvie hall. My father had charged me with looking after him, and I did. I wiped that gun down good and made sure my own prints were on it before I put it back in my drawer. I took that bloody T-shirt from Raymond and I put it on my own self. That’s how the police found me when they came through the door.”
“Charles Baker was in on it, too,” said Alex.
“Sure,” said James. “It turned out good for him. He flipped on me and made a deal with the prosecutors. Because of that, he only drew a year.”
“That’s why he thinks you owe him,” said Alex. “That’s why he keeps coming back.”
“Like a penny you can’t spend,” said James.
“You went along with it,” said Alex, looking at Raymond.
Raymond nodded, his eyes wet in the light.
“I was persuasive,” said James. “The way an older brother can be.”
“How did you all keep the secret?” said Alex.
“Wasn’t hard,” said James. “Miss Elaine was the only one who had seen Raymond holding the gun. But she couldn’t say under oath who it was specifically. ‘It was one of the Monroe brothers’ is what she said on the stand. Back then, even with our three-year age difference, we damn near looked like twins. Same height. Even wore our hair in the same kind of blowout. She testified that the shooter’s T-shirt had a number on it, but no one knew what the number meant except us.”
“And your parents,” said Alex.
“Yeah, they knew,” said James. “When I was in holding, my father and I discussed it deep. It hurt him to let it go to trial like that, but I convinced him that it was for the best.” James looked at Raymond. “And it was, Ray. It was. I mean, look how you turned out.”
“And look how it turned out for you,” said Raymond.
