I gave the sergeant my name and asked if Detective Soloman was available. The sergeant picked up his phone, said a few words into it, and then told me the detective would be right out. I considered sitting down, but the only spot available was next to the screaming teenager. I thought about going over and asking the kid if he was actually a performance artist doing an updated version of Keith Haring’s crawling baby, but I decided it would be lost on him and most of the rest of the room as well. So I opted to stand quietly by myself, a strategy that I am urged to pursue more often than I care to admit.
Within a couple of minutes, a door on the other side of the room opened and Paris walked in, looked around until he spotted me, then motioned me over to him. When I got there, I said, “Let me ask you something, Detective. Do you think Screaming Teenager would be the logical extension of Crawling Baby?”
He shook his head and said, “Been a long night, JB, and asking me questions about a famous graffiti artist of the eighties ain’t makin’ it any shorter.”
I raised my eyebrows and he said, “What? Cops can’t be cultured?” Then he shrugged and said, “That niece of mine who works at Max & Erma’s is an art major at Chatham College. Every once in a while, I take her to dinner and she tells me about stuff she’s studying. We just finished Andy Warhol.”
“I gotta hunch your cultural enlightenment predates your niece’s college career, Detective, but that’s probably a conversation for another time.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, “and another place, preferably one that serves cold beer.”
“You’re on,” I said. “Meanwhile, you making any progress on the shooting?”
“Depends on your definition of progress. T-Man came in on his own half an hour ago, said he knew we’d be trying to pin the shooting on him, ‘cause . . .” and he glanced up at me . . . “you’re gonna love this. ‘Cause he’s the leader of the Links.”
“The leader of the Links?” I said. “He actually said that?”
“Yep. Sounds like one of those songs from the fifties, doesn’t it? Anyway, our boy swears he got witnesses who can prove that he didn’t fire the shots.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I just talked to one of them.”
“Anthony?”
I nodded and Paris scowled.
“Shit,” he said. “I really liked the little bastard for this, but I gotta admit that five minutes after he came in, I knew he wasn’t the one pulled the trigger. You get so you can tell when the indignation is real or faked.” He shrugged again. “We’ll have to cut him loose, for now anyway. Hey, I just remembered, I’ve got your car keys in my coat pocket. Hold on a minute.”
When he returned a minute later, Paris had T-Man with him. As they approached, Paris turned to T-Man and said, “The only reason you’re walking out of here tonight is that Mr. Barnes here verified your story.”
T-Man got a disgusted look on his face and said, “I tell you I didn’t do nuthin’ and you drag my ass down the hall to that stupid room. But some white guy says I’m innocent and suddenly it’s ‘We so sorry, we so sorry, ya’ll can go now.’ Well, fuck that!”
Paris started to say something but stopped when I shook my head. He took my keys out of his pocket and tossed them to me.
“Thanks for your help, JB,” he said. Then he leaned in close to T-Man and, very calmly, said, “The next time you tell me to fuck it, I’ll be takin’ my badge and gun off and showin’ you the alley out back.”
Then he stood there for a minute, his face almost touching T-Man’s, before he turned and walked away.
T-Man started to leave, but then he stopped and looked at me.
“Listen up, asshole,” he said. “Ain’t nobody leavin’ the Links, ‘specially Anthony. You stay away from him, ‘less you wanna get chalked.”
He stared at me another minute before walking slowly across the room and out the door.
Gee, a simple thank-you would have sufficed.
Chapter 33
The fight at The Center, replete with gunshots and an injured former gang member turned social activist, had generated enough coverage by the local media to ensure several days’ worth of follow-up stories, which in turn motivated both the Board of Education and the city cops to increase security at Franklin High and the surrounding communities for the next several days or, depending on your level of cynicism, the next few news cycles. Regardless of the reason, the extra patrols had a calming effect on all involved, and I figured Anthony wasn’t in danger of getting pushed into any more gang activity for at least a little while. Despite T-Man’s rant on Friday night, I was hoping he’d reconsider and allow Anthony to leave the Links. Ever the optimist.
Meanwhile, a few nights later, Denny and I went to another of Matt’s basketball games, to make up for our rather abrupt departure from the previous contest. Matt’s team was winning until midway through the third quarter, when Simon, who was handling the coaching duties himself that night, pulled Matt and another kid and replaced them with a couple of boys whose court skills could most generously be described as still being in the developmental stage. The game got a lot closer then, and the other team pulled ahead with about four minutes to go in the final quarter. At that point, a tall heavyset black guy sitting several rows above us began yelling at Simon to put number 4 back in the game. Number 4 was the kid who, in the vernacular of the ‘hood, pretty much schooled everyone else on the court. With him out of the game, Matt’s team just wasn’t the same.
Denny looked over his shoulder at the guy
