“Yeah. The Eagles, in black leather.”
“What?”
“Never mind. It’s just not the kind of music a kid in that neighborhood would want to advertise that he was into. That and the room, you know, if it got around, it’s something that could get your ass kicked for you.”
LaDuke breathed out through his mouth. “You sayin’ that maybe him and the Jeter kid were boyfriends?”
“No, not exactly.”
But I thought of Barry calling Roland a “punk.” And the killer had called Calvin one, too. And then there was the Fire House matchbook from Calvin’s room. I dragged on my cigarette, blew the exhale out the open window.
“What, then?”
“It’s just that this Lewis kid is different, that’s all, at an age when being different from your peers is the last thing you want to be. It might not mean anything. I don’t know if it does, not yet.”
I picked up Roland Lewis’s photograph: unsmiling, like Calvin’s, but with a certain vulnerability. Unlike the sister, Roland looked very much like his mother. I slipped the photograph in the folded-up newspaper. LaDuke watched me do it.
“What’s with the paper, anyway?” he said.
“Nothing.” h='27'› “Bullshit. Don’t hold out on me, Nick.”
I hot-boxed my cigarette and pitched it out the window. “I’m not.”
“Yes you are,” he said. “But you won’t keep holdin’ out, not for long. ’Cause we’re gonna do this thing, you and me. You hear me?” He was pumped, his face lit and animated. A horn blew out as he lost his attention and swerved into another lane.
“Okay,” I said. “We’ll find the kid, LaDuke. But do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Keep your eyes on the road.”
He dropped me in front of the Spot. I thanked him for the lift, picked up the newspaper, and started to get out.
“What are we, done already?”
“I am. I’ve got a date tonight.” He looked a little deflated. “Listen, man, we’ll get on this again, first thing tomorrow. Hear?”
“Sure, N ick. I’ll see you later.”
He pulled away from the curb and drove down 8th. I went to my Dodge and fumbled with my keys. When LaDuke was out of sight, I walked into the Spot, phoned Lyla, and told her I’d be a little late. Then I returned to my car, ignitioned it, and headed back into Northeast.
EIGHT
The heavy woman with the elephantine thighs sat out front of the Jeter apartment, her folding chair in the same position as it had been two days before. I turned into the lot and parked beside Barry’s Z, walked across the worn brown grass, into the cool concrete stairwell, and down the steps to the Jeters’ door. I knocked on it, listening to the noises behind it, television and laughter and the cry of a baby, until the peephole darkened and the door swung open. Calvin’s sister stood in the frame, her baby resting on her hip.
“Yes?”
“Nick Stefanos. I was here the day before yesterday, talking to your mom.”
“I remember.”
“Is she in?”
The girl looked behind her. Barry’s younger brother and another shirtless young man about his age sat on the couch, describing a movie they had both seen, talking loudly over the minstrel-like characters acting broadly on the television.
“Uh-uh,” the girl said. “She’s at the store.”
“Can I talk to Barry for a minute?”
She thought about it while I listened to the shirtless young man talking about the movie: “Carlito” did this and “Carlito” Nht=m' ught abodid that, and “Carlito, he was badder than a motherfucker, boy.” Then the young man was on his feet, his hand figured in the shape of a pistol, and he was jabbing the hand back and forth, going, “Carlito said, bap-bap-bap-bap-bap.”
“Come on in,” the girl said, her lips barely moving.
I followed her into the room and back through the hall. The young men stopped talking as I passed, and when my back was to them, they broke into raucous laughter. I supposed that they were laughing at me. Calvin’s sister gestured me toward a bedroom. I stepped aside to let her pass back through the hall.
I went to the bedroom and knocked on the frame. Barry stood next to an unmade double bed in a room as unadorned as the rest. He read from a book, one long finger on the page. He looked up at my knock, gave me an eye sweep, and returned his gaze to the book.
“Wha’sup?”
“I need to get something out of Calvin’s room. It’s nothing personal of his. Would that be all right?”
Barry closed the book and sighed. “Come on.”
He walked with me to Calvin’s bedroom. Barry folded his arms, watched me go to the footlocker and get the folded copy of D.C. This Week that sat beneath the basketball. When I turned around, he was looking at the paper. I thought I saw some kind of light come into his eyes.
“What am I, getting warm or something?”
Barry said, “You’re really into this shit, aren’t you?”
“I’m going to find out who killed Calvin, if that’s what you mean.”
“And if you do? What’s that, gon’ bring Calvin up from the dead?”
“No. But maybe his mother might rest a little easier if she knew what happened to her son. You ever think about that?”
Barry breathed out heavily through his nose. “Moms ain’t worried about no justice. She thinks Calvin’s up there, sittin’ by the right hand of Jesus and shit, right now. Anyhow, who asked you to get on this?”
“That doesn’t matter. The point is, I’m being paid now, and that makes it work. And when someone pays you to do something, you do it. Once you accept that, you don’t think about why, and you finish whatever it is you started.”
“I wouldn’t understand about all that.”
“The thing is, I think you do understand. See, I noticed that uniform in the back of your car. You got that fast-food job of yours-what do you make, five and a quarter an hour, maybe five-fifty?”
Barry’s eyes narrowed. “So?”
“So, you could be like all those other knuckleheads out there, making ten times that a week on the street. But instead, you’re being a man, trying to be right for your family.”
“Listen, man, I ain’t got time for all this bullshit, understand? Matter of fact, I got to get into work, right now.”
I withdrew my wallet, slipped out a card, and handed it to Barry.
“Here,” I said. “You dropped this the first time around.”
“I got to go to work,” he said softly, slipping the card into his shorts. “Come on, I’ll let you out.”
We walked back into the living room. Barry stopped by the TV set and I headed for the front door.
The shirtless young man said, “Hey, Barry, who’s your boy?”
“Man’s a private detective,” Barry said mockingly. “He finds things.”
Barry’s younger brother said, “Maybe he could find Roger some onion, know what I’m sayin’? ’Cause Roger ain’t had none in a long time.”
“Go on, man,” Roger said. “I forgot about more pussy than you ever had, boy.” Barry’s brother and Roger touched hands and began to laugh.
