Closing her book and getting up from her chair, she indicated that I should join her as she walked towards the sitting area. She was wearing a short black leather skirt, a wine-colored silk blouse open at the throat to reveal a silver necklace that matched her earrings, and medium black heels. On a lot of women, the outfit probably wouldn’t have worked, or maybe even have looked a little cheap, but on Tiffany, with her figure and carriage and coloring, it was classy and stunning.
As we reached the sitting area, she turned and said, “Please have a seat, Mr. Barnes. May I get you something to drink? We have coffee and tea and a variety of soft drinks.”
I sat on the sofa and Tiffany eased into one of the chairs.
“Thanks, Tiffany,” I said, “but I’m fine. If you don’t mind my asking, what were you studying just now?”
She smiled again. Definitely better than Halle.
“Principles of Acting,” she said. “I’m taking classes at community college. I’m hoping to enroll in the theater department at Carnegie Mellon in January. Mr. Witherspoon’s helping me apply for some scholarships. In fact, I have an interview for one this afternoon. That’s why I’m all gussied up today. Usually, I just wear jeans to work, but Mr. Witherspoon says you can’t overestimate the importance of a good first impression.”
“He’s right,” I agreed. “And, by the way, yours is excellent.”
“Thank you,” she said, and then she glanced outside and saw an old red Buick Century pull up to the curb. “Oh, there’s Mr. Witherspoon now.” She stood and so did I.
“He’ll be right with you, Mr. Barnes.”
As she turned to go back to her desk, I said, “Say, Tiffany, did anyone ever tell you that you bear an uncanny resemblance . . .” and the tired look on her face told me that she was expecting the same comparison she’d undoubtedly heard countless times before, “to George Burns?”
This time I got both the smile and a rich, sweet laugh. Better watch out, Ms. Berry.
* * *
Asaan Witherspoon was tall, maybe six-three or four, and very dark-skinned, with a shaved head and the look of a bodybuilder. He came in wearing jeans, an old Chicago Bulls sweatshirt and black high-cut tennis shoes. He carried a briefcase in one hand and an olive-colored jacket in the other. He talked to Tiffany for a minute before walking over to me.
“Mr. Barnes,” he said, putting the jacket over his briefcase and then holding out his hand. “I’m Asaan Witherspoon.”
We shook hands, and he said, “C’mon, let’s go into my office.”
The office was small and sparsely furnished. An old desk that looked like the one I used to have when I was teaching, two molded plastic chairs for visitors, a couple of filing cabinets and, in one corner, a three-foot high rubber plant. At least, I think that’s what it’s called. A friend gave me one when I moved into my townhome, and that’s what she said it was.
Asaan sat down behind his desk, and I carefully positioned myself in one of the plastic chairs. It seemed sturdy enough, but plastic has never been my first choice when it comes to quality furniture construction.
“I apologize for my tardiness, Mr. Barnes,” he said. “I hope I didn’t inconvenience you too much.”
“Not at all,” I said. “I spent the time talking with Tiffany. She’s a very personable young woman. Told me you’re trying to help her get into Carnegie Mellon.”
“I’m doing what I can,” he said. “Pulling whatever strings I can get my hands on. But anything good that happens to that girl is mostly her own doing. Came out of a particularly bad home situation. I won’t bore you with the details, but trust me, it was worse than most people can imagine. She dropped out of school, and her family, at sixteen, pretty much lived on the streets for the next year or two, eventually figured out there had to be some better way to spend the rest of her life. Got a job, applied to community college, discovered the theater. She just turned twenty, practically runs this place for me. Once she starts going to school full time, probably after Christmas, she’ll have to give up this job. Not gonna be easy replacing her.”
He thought about that for a moment, then said, “Anyway, I apologize again for being late. I was over at Franklin this morning, greeting the kids as they arrived, reminding everyone to be cool.”
“Mondays are always the toughest,” I agreed. “Stuff that happens in the community over the weekend spills over into the schools on Monday mornings.”
He gave me a questioning look.
“I was a teacher at Franklin for a few years.”
He nodded.
“Still in teaching?”
I shook my head.
“I’m a private investigator.”
“Interesting,” he said. “And are you here in an official capacity?”
“Technically,” I said, “I guess I am. A former student of mine, Larretta Warren, has a son, Anthony, in ninth grade at Franklin. Kid’s involved with the Links. Larretta wants me to help him get out of the gang.”
Witherspoon didn’t respond for a minute. Then he said, “Actually, I wouldn’t recommend that.”
Chapter 22
“You think Anthony should stay in the gang?” I asked.
He leaned back in his chair and studied me for a minute.
“Mr. Barnes—”
“JB,” I said.
“Okay. JB, how much do you know about the gangs in this city?”
“Got a good friend who’s a cop, and I met with a detective named Paris Soloman. He’s the one who suggested I contact you. And Augie DeNunzio over at Franklin’s also a good friend. I’ve talked with all of them, plus my last few years at Franklin covered the time when the gangs were starting to take hold here, especially in the schools, so I got a lot of first-hand experience there.”
“That would have been about the time I arrived,” he said. “Came here in ’92, from Chicago. I was twenty-two then, gettin’ on in years for a gangbanger. I was part of the OGs. We were trying to organize
