“The city gonna respond better this time?”
“Maybe,” he said. “They pulled me off my other duties a few months ago and started the anti-gang unit full time again, gave me some other cops and a little money.”
He shrugged and said, “We’ll see. Meanwhile, Dennis said you had an interest in a specific kid.”
“Yeah. Name’s Anthony Warren. I taught his mom in ninth grade. She wants me to help him get out of the Links.”
“Anthony Warren. Doesn’t ring a bell. Cops in the unit probably know him.”
We stopped again while the waiter came with the check and cleared the table. We declined dessert but asked for refills on our beverages. Paris reached for his wallet but I waved him off. He thanked me and we settled back in our seats again.
“Ten years ago,” he said, “when we first started dealing with the gangs, I was out in the field most of the time. I knew all the kids, knew what was going down on the streets. This time around, with all the reports and committees and meetings, I feel more like a goddamned administrator than a cop.” He stopped and rubbed his eyes. “I should know this Anthony Warren.”
Our refills arrived and we both took a minute to drink.
“Gangs don’t usually look too kindly on kids who want out. Do you know if this Anthony has made any moves in that direction?”
“I doubt it,” I said. “I think he’s not sure himself what he wants. But if he does want out, I want to try to help him, and the more I know about the situation, the better my chances are.”
Paris drummed his fingers on the table for a minute and then said, “Best person for you to talk to would be a guy named Asaan Witherspoon. Runs a community center over near Franklin, tight with kids from both gangs.”
“Witherspoon,” I said. “Why do I know that name?”
“Probably from the papers. Asaan was an OG, an Original Gangster, from Chicago. Came here back in ’92 to recruit local kids for the gangs. He ended up being one of the head honchos until we got him on a robbery charge. He went away for three-and-a-half to five, found God in prison, got out a year or so ago.”
“What’s he doing back here?”
“Said he wanted to undo some of the damage he caused. He started small, volunteering in the schools during the day, working a variety of jobs at night to support himself. Eventually he managed to get a small federal grant, enough to open the center.”
“Is he legit?”
“Seems to be. If he’s runnin’ a scam, I gotta admit that I don’t know what it could be. He keeps all his appointments with his probation officer, doesn’t live an extravagant lifestyle, hasn’t gotten so much as a parking ticket since he came back.”
“You’ve been checking on him,” I said.
“Of course. I for sure wasn’t about to take his word about getting religion and wanting to help the kids and all. But he appears to be just what he says he is, an ex-con who saw the light in prison and is trying to make amends. Doesn’t happen very often, but it does happen.”
As we got up to leave, Detective Soloman gave me his card, and on the back he wrote the address of Witherspoon’s community center. Paris gave his niece a hug as we left the restaurant, and then we walked downstairs and out onto Walnut Street.
“Good luck,” he said. “Let me know if I can do anything else to help.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Hey, do you mind if I ask you something?”
“Won’t know ‘til you ask.”
“Does the mayor ever get jealous about you doing those CNN voice-overs?”
He grinned and said, “Dennis told me you thought you were a riot.”
“And he was right, huh?” I asked.
Paris grinned again and turned and walked away.
He hadn’t actually verbalized his agreement about me being a riot.
I assumed it was understood.
Chapter 17
As I walked through the business district on my way home, I decided that I would call Asaan Witherspoon and set up an appointment to see him. Of course, I didn’t have to wait until I got home to call him, since I had my cell phone, but it can be distracting to other people when you make calls in public. Plus, there’s the yuppie factor again, especially in Shadyside.
My thoughts were interrupted when I realized that I was across the street from Robert E and Lee’s, a neighborhood deli/bakery that makes some of the most delicious food in the city. One of those mega-complexes, a combination grocery store/everything-else-under-the-sun, had just opened a few miles away, but I don’t shop there. It’s the kind of place where you can buy a pound of meat, a box of tissues, some carrots and celery, and four new Roadmaster radials. I don’t like purchasing tomatoes and tires under the same roof. Just a personal quirk, but there it is.
When I left Robert E and Lee’s a little while later, I had my dinner in hand: a large roast beef on rye, sides of beans and slaw, and a slice of banana cream pie, baked daily on the premises.
Hey, I was good at lunch.
* * *
Once I got home, I put the food in my refrigerator and dialed the number Paris Soloman had written on the back of his card. After two rings, a young woman’s voice came on the line.
“Community Outreach, this is Tiffany.”
“Good afternoon, Tiffany,” I said. “May I speak with Mr. Witherspoon?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Witherspoon isn’t here at the moment. May I take a message?”
“I’d like to steal a little bit of his time,” I said. “When do you expect him?”
“Actually, not until next week,” she said. “He’s out of town. But I could set up an appointment for next Monday morning, if you’d like. May I ask the nature of your business?”
“Mostly, Tiffany,” I said, “I just want to pick his brain for a while. Detective Paris Soloman suggested
