drawer. The kind who wore his relationship with alcohol on his face. The kind who had no friends besides his brother officers and even those he had a propensity to piss on then piss off. The kind with no relationship to speak of; only sex with the occasional prostitute or other lost soul cast adrift in a bar. The kind with no family, no home, no roots, with his one-bedroom apartment having one room too many. Utilitarian at best, a television, couch, refrigerator, microwave, and a place to shit was all he needed.
All he had was the job. A job he hated most of the time but would be lost without.
'This case sucks. But they always suck till I get someone in jail.' Cantrell snatched the folder from his desk. Opening the door, he found Fathead pouring a lot of sugar into his coffee.
'Can you get me some donuts?'
'Detective McCarrell read you your rights?' Ignoring him, Cantrell took off his jacket and wrapped it around the chair closest to the door. His chair. If Fathead was ever going through the door to see the light of day and freedom again, he had to go through Cantrell.
Fathead nodded while his fingers fussed with each other in nervous fumbling.
'We ran your prints. Your name is Bartholomew DiGora. Why they call you Fathead?'
'I don't know. Just a name, I guess,' he mumbled, eyes cast shoeward.
'I love this room, Fathead. The truth comes out in this room.' Cantrell perched on the edge of the table that separated them. 'Mind if I call you Fathead? I don't mean to be presumptuous.'
'It's all right.' The boy wore a constant quizzical expression, more of a listener type.
'I just didn't want to disrespect you. Figure in the end, all a man's got is his good name. folks want to trample on that, they disrespect the man. I figure, you show a man respect, give him his due as a man. Less'n they do something to lose that respect. You feel me?'
'I guess.'
'Now your boys, Preston Wilcox and Robert Ither — who you know as Prez and Naptown Red — them I got no use for. Prez's new to me. Looks like a bit of a burnout, but he ain't been in the system. Red, he a bit of a problem. He been in and out as long as he been breathing. He's what we call incorrigible.'
'What you mean?'
'Mean he gonna see the inside of a cell for a long time. He one of them three-strike brothers. Unless…'
'Unless what?'
'Unless he makes a deal,' Cantrell offered, helpfully resting his fists, knuckles down, into the table. 'You see, we got a little girl dead. You knuckleheads want to sling to one another, do harm to one another, that's one thing. It ain't cool, but it's part of the game. You do what you got to do, we do what we got to do. But bodies start dropping, especially a little girl…' Cantrell removed an eight-by-ten glossy from a manila folder and placed a photograph of Lyonessa Maurila Ramona Perez in front of him. 'Well, folks come down hard on something like that. Put a brother under the jail for something like that. You hear what I'm saying?'
'Yeah.'
'Now we got witnesses. Puts three people in an SUV.' Not a lie, per se, about the witness. More like a poker bluff, and Cantrell knew from poker faces.
'I was at home.'
'How you remember? I ain't told you what day.'
'Everybody know. I was home sick.'
'All day?'
'All day,' Fathead echoed.
'Anyone vouch for you?'
'I ain't got no one. Sick alone. In bed.'
'You ain't got no one? No one to take care of you when you sick? No one to be with you when you alone? No one to have your back when you in a jam?'
'No.'
'Cause you know you in a jam, right?'
'What you mean?'
'The kind of weight we seized? Someone's going up for a long time. And that's if we can't put you in that SUV. But someone will. Cause you ain't got no one.'
'No.' Fathead's bloodshot eyes drifted into a sullen gaze.
'Not even Red. What you think he's going to tell us when I say there were three people in the SUV and that he can lessen his years by giving them up?' Cantrell came around the table again to meet his gaze. His voice lowered to a whisper. 'A little girl is dead. Someone's going to pay.'
Fathead was unmoved, in the way the truly innocent were unconcerned. A little cocky cause he knew he wasn't there. So Cantrell changed tack.
'On the other hand, I wonder what Red will tell me. Like whose dope that was. Think he'll put it on you if I ask him for a name? He doesn't exactly strike me as a stand-up guy.' Cantrell's eyes bored into him like trained laser sights on a target.
Fathead squirmed, his lips taut and bloodless. Cantrell knew he had him. It was time for one of his artfully told lies.
'Then again,' Cantrell's voice dropped to a confidential drawl, 'if I were to ask you for a name, you probably will be looking at a walk. I'm no lawyer, but I can talk to the District Attorney. Let him know how cooperative you were.'
'One of my lieutenants have a problem, he squash it. I got zero knowledge.'
'Lieutenants? Come on, now, let's be straight: you low man on the totem pole. Ain't shit you got to say to me about that.'
'I know I ain't no cheese-eating rodent.'
'I wouldn't want to cast no aspersions, if you know what I'm saying.'
'I'm not a snitch.'
'I'm not asking you to snitch. Just… speculate.' Boy, you better swallow your pride like it's your favorite dish, Cantrell thought to himself. 'You got a name for me?'
Fathead calculated the numbers in his head. A lot of dope meant a lot of years. Federal time maybe. Conspiracy. Murder. Intent to distribute. They were looking to close a lot of cases on him. Who had his back? Some public defender, his Johnny Cochran? Nah, they would take one look at him and be skipping out of work. Wasn't like Dred was going to post bond or nothing. Barely put up for Mulysa, and he stood tall with him for years. Plus, it wasn't like they were on the clock for him. They were on their own. He was on his own.
'I said, you got a name for me?' Cantrell repeated.
'Dred.'
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A wanderer by nature, Lott never dreamed of peace or justice or love or being loved. He barely planned into the following week. He hated being trapped in a story that had been written about him. That he was 'the betrayer' or 'the outcast' or 'the unredeemable one' (despite the fact that some of those stories were only written in his own head). He feared that he'd never be able to outrun those stories; that he'd never have the chance to write a new story of himself; that the stories would always define him and he'd be powerless to do more than be moved around more like pieces than characters.
'If you must die, die for something greater than yourself. Better yet, live. Live to serve others.'
He longed to believe King's words again. To be a part of King's crusade. To be led by King again. It had been a while since he visited the Eagle Terrace apartments, an obtuse layout of living spaces, a large swathe of pot- holed asphalt surrounded by labyrinthine walls of rooms winding along curving streets. The first time in a long time he walked its sidewalks alone.
'Jesus help me,' he cried out to the sky. In his heart he prayed that there was a peace to be had on the other side of war. Lott startled the Hispanic woman carrying two bags of groceries. Keeping a wary eye on him, she paused then walked a wider path around him. On any other evening, he'd have offered to carry her groceries for
