“This ain’t the kind of thing that gets asked twice, bud. To be honest, you’re kind of fucking up more than you realize right now.”
It was just him and Dwayne. Poe looked across the yard at the black men gathered on the far side, by the other weight pile, there might have been two hundred of them. There was nothing he could say. He would agree to do it and then he would figure something out. He would agree to it and get himself a few hours to think. No, he thought. You will agree to it and you will do it.
“Alright,” he said to Dwayne. “I’m in.”
Dwayne’s face had no expression.
“Whatever else, too. You want me to stab the guy, whatever. Sometimes it just takes me a while to think.”
“I was the same way,” Dwayne said. “Took me a while to accept what was happening.”
“You think Larry’ll be good with me.”
“He knows,” said Dwayne. “Don’t think for a second he doesn’t. We were all in the same spot as you when we came in. Especially bigmouth Clovis.” He walked over to the dirt by the fence and kicked his foot into it.
There was something there and Poe picked it up, a sock full of D-cell batteries.
“Separate it out,” said Dwayne. “Put the batteries in your pocket. When the detector goes off you show them what you have and they’ll let you pass.”
BOOK FOUR
1. Isaac
The cop hadn’t pursued him and he could hear the sirens of a second and then a third car and he guessed they had caught the Baron. Back to the canal. Get the pack. Minute or two at most—he’ll be trying to explain what he’s doing with all that cash.
He crossed a few residential streets without seeing anyone. It was quiet, early morning, the sun wasn’t quite up. There’s the park—the canal is in those trees. But where’s that clearing? When he reached the treeline he hunkered down in the brush, trying to figure out where he was in relation to where he’d left his backpack. Sirens still coming. At least four cars now. Shouldn’t have chased him in the open like that.
You could have gotten him with the knife when you sat up but you grabbed his coat instead. That’s stupid to think about. No, it was a choice. Don’t pretend it wasn’t. There was a car coming and he crouched lower in the brush, watching a police cruiser race up the road he’d just crossed, lights flashing. Closer than you thought. They do this for a living. Forget the pack.
He didn’t want to move. I’m well hidden, I can stay here until they leave. No, he thought, get up. Get further into those trees and get away from here. Stand up. Alright. I’m doing it. He stood up. Through the trees it was twenty yards to the canal and once he reached it, he began walking through the thin woods, away from the north end of the park, away from the road where he’d chased the Baron. Where did you leave the pack? Where is that clearing?
On the other side of the canal was a broad public lawn, and up ahead, on his side, he could now see where the trees ended—a grassy common area behind a row of houses. The pack is behind you. Know where it is now. There were other sirens in the distance and the closest sirens had already stopped. How many cars is that, he thought. Six. Maybe seven. A man armed with a knife—that’s you. You need to keep going, you don’t have time for the pack.
He felt a despair wash over him. Need to think a minute. No one can see me here. Alright, the pack is gone —accept that. Change the way you look, they saw a coat and black watch cap. Fine, he thought, it’s progress. He stripped off his coat and hat and tossed them into the canal, along with the sheath for the knife. Better—brown sweater with a blue flannel shirt. Tuck in the shirt and pull the collar above the sweater. Schoolkid look. Christ it’s even colder. Twenty- five degrees, maybe. Better that than arrested.
He stood numbly for a few seconds, glancing at the houses up ahead and the blue lights flashing behind him at the edge of the park. Forget the pack, he told himself again. Best- case scenario is you get out of here without handcuffs. Get your head straight. Don’t walk too fast.
He crossed from the woods into the open area, fifty yards behind the row of single- family houses. Looking casual. Out for a stroll. Morning air clears the head. Hope no one’s looking out a window. Christ you couldn’t have done worse—big park on the other side. Half- mile visibility. Don’t look nervous. Pray for late risers. He’ll tell them you chased him with a knife, attempted murder. Who’ll believe you? Shouldn’t have brought it in the first place.
You are stupid. He could feel tears welling up in him. You could have gotten away the first time you woke up, then you’d have the money and the notebooks and everything else. I was so tired, he thought. No, you were stupid. This is the second time. No more mistakes.
On the other side there was a large public gazebo and two women jogging. Witnesses. Except the kid will make it. He refuses to do anything the easy way. Too far to see your face. More blue lights coming from the trailer park now—they’re on your scent.
He was near a large storage building, there were blue lights reflecting on the wall, he looked around behind him and on the other side of the park, a few hundred yards away, a cop car was driving slowly across the lawn, approaching the two joggers. Does he see you? No. Run or walk? Just keep going.
He ducked behind the building and kept going along the canal but there were more houses on the other side, he could clearly see a man in his kitchen, standing at his counter drinking coffee in his boxer shorts. These early risers are going to fuck you. No he doesn’t see you. Lost in his own worries.
A few hundred yards later he crossed a train trestle over the canal, it was a broad railroad cut with half a dozen sets of tracks. Now you’re south of the steelmill. You are going to be fine. Stick to the smaller streets and you’ll be fine. See them before they see you.
He’d been walking maybe an hour when he came to a wide boulevard, there was a shopping mall ahead of him and heavy traffic, rush hour, it was an overcast day. Even worse than the Mon Valley. Middle of April and just like winter. Meanwhile here comes a bus. Crowd of people. That is your bus. Get across this street and you’ll make it, where’s your wallet?
Jogging across the road, he arrived behind the idling bus and got in line with the others. A few people turned to look at him. No coat and the bruises on your face, up to no good, they can smell it. Shirt and sweater wrinkled and your pants filthy. Not to mention you’re white. He made himself fixate on a stain on the curb and soon enough people stopped looking at him. In through the nose and out through the mouth. The Homicide Kid is headed south. The entire precinct after him, he gives them the slip. Day of the Jackal. Walks casually onto a bus.
There were no seats left and he found a place in the middle and stood. Warm in here. Where do I get off? How much money do I have? He tried to think. Nine bucks after the bus fare. A few meals’ worth. Ride this till the end—put as much distance as possible. The bus went on forever, traffic was slow, he was drowsy. People got off and he found a seat. After a while he realized the bus hadn’t moved for a long time. He opened his eyes and it was empty and the driver was looking at him in the big mirror. Isaac nodded and got off and looked around.
How far did you come? Ten miles maybe. Different world here. It was very green and the houses were large with hedges or stone walls in front of their yards. He passed athletic fields, stone buildings, a school of some kind. A handful of boys, fourteen or sixteen years old and wearing blue blazers, were smoking between classes. He nodded to them and all but the oldest boy looked away. Prefer you didn’t exist. That is their desire— stop making me uncomfortable.
A block later he slowed to inspect himself in a car window. Surprise, you aren’t any cleaner. Look like a street kid. Which you are.
He kept his eye out for cops but nothing happened. Hungry again. Doesn’t matter. He walked aimlessly, turning down streets at random, trying to guess the position of the sun in the overcast sky, always moving.
