Chapter 47
Laura and I slept late the next morning, then got up and made breakfast together. Chocolate-chip pancakes, bacon and orange juice. Not your healthiest of meals, I know, but as I told Laura, every once in a while, it’s good to give in to temptation. We took everything back to bed and read the Sunday paper while we ate and listened to The Sounds of Sinatra on a local radio station.
When we were finished eating, I took the dishes to the kitchen, rinsed them off, and put them in the dishwasher. By the time I got back to the bedroom, Laura had changed from her cotton nightgown to a short pink baby-doll nightie made of some sort of very sheer material. She was kneeling on the bed, and as I came in, she stretched her arms above her head, which lifted the nightie just high enough to show me the matching bikini panties. The stretching also pressed the nightie rather tightly against her breasts.
“You know, Jeremy,” she said, “I was thinking about what you said in the kitchen a while ago, about how it’s good sometimes to give in to temptation?”
And she slipped off the nightie, tossed it at my feet and stretched her arms over her head again.
“Would this qualify as one of those times?”
* * *
Laura and I spent the next hour or so engaging in as many activities as we could think of that would have gotten us arrested in nineteenth-century Georgia. We finally stopped, but only because we were exhausted, and I remembered that the Steelers of the twenty-first century were playing an important game later that day. I suggested we watch together at her place, but Laura vetoed that idea, reminding me that she had schoolwork to do, and if I hung around any longer, the two of us would probably end up back in the 1860s again. She did offer a compromise, though, inviting me over for a future Steeler telecast. I believe there was talk of a cheerleader outfit.
* * *
The game was in San Diego, which meant a four-thirty start in Pittsburgh. By kickoff, I was settled on the sofa in my living room, and by halftime, the Steelers had a 14-3 lead, and I was ready for dinner. I went into my kitchen and put together a leftovers meal of turkey, stuffing and dried corn, all of which went into my microwave on the Dinner Plate setting. By the time the nuking process was over, I’d made a small spinach salad. Taking everything back to the living room, I sat down just in time to see the local news crawl at the bottom of the screen, the one that read Gang Summit at Park- Details at Eleven.
I thought about calling Denny, but then I remembered that he was spending the weekend with a lady friend at Seven Springs, a ski resort about sixty miles from Pittsburgh. I briefly considered Paris Soloman, but I figured he was probably already involved in whatever was happening. Finally, I decided to try Asaan Witherspoon. I had his cell phone number, and within a minute, I had him, too.
“Asaan,” I said, “it’s Jeremy Barnes. Listen, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to know if you could tell me anything about this gang summit thing.”
“You watchin’ the game?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“You see that crawl during halftime?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you know as much as I do.”
I started to say something, then stopped.
“Go ahead,” said Asaan. “I know what you’re thinking. How could I not have known about this? I’m supposed to be the go-to guy on gangs, right? And now there’s this big meeting, and I’m standing here with my dick in my hand.”
There was anger and bitterness and, maybe, just a little touch of hurt in his voice.
“Listen, Asaan,” I said. “I’m gonna call Anthony Warren, see what he can tell me about all this. How about you and I meeting for breakfast tomorrow, compare notes?”
He paused, then said, “Ritter’s. Nine o’clock.”
“See you then,” I said.
Next, I dialed Larretta’s number, and Anthony answered.
“’Lo,” he said.
“Anthony,” I said. “It’s Mr. Barnes.”
“Hey, Mr. Barnes. My ma’s at work, but I bet I know what you callin’ about.”
“Bet you do,” I agreed. “So tell me about it.”
“Ain’t much to tell,” he said. “A bunch of us was over at the Center yesterday, and when we left, Razor tole us to meet up at Mellon Park at one o’clock today.”
“He say why?” I asked.
“Nope. Just say be there at one.”
“Okay,” I said. “What happened at one?”
“I walked over to the park with some of the other guys, and soon as we got there, we knew somethin’ was up, ‘cause there was Gates all over. I was thinkin’ somethin’ bad was ‘bout to go down, but Razor was there, too, talkin’ to some of the Gates, and he motioned for us all to go over and sit down on some of them picnic benches. Then he tell us ain’t no Links or Gates no more. He say we all in a new gang now, called LAW, spelled, like, with all capital letters.”
“LAW?” I said.
“Yeah. The LA part for Lincoln Avenue, and the W be for Wingate.”
“Razor say whose idea this was?”
“Uh-uh, he just say we all in the LAW.”
“Who’s in charge of the LAW?”
“Razor say he and the three dudes used to run the Gates gonna be some sort of council, run things together.”
“How do you feel about all this, Anthony?”
“Same as I did about the Links, I guess,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “A gang is a gang.”
There was silence on the other end for a minute. Then Anthony said, “Just before we left the park, I asked Razor if everybody had to be in the gang.”
“And?”
“He say you in the LAW, you in for life.”
Chapter 48
Ritter’s Diner is an institution in the East End. Located on Baum Blvd. in Bloomfield, it’s long been a gathering place for everyone from college students who like the reasonable prices to local politicians
