Payne turned and glanced around the busy intersection.
The storefronts were a blend of bars and fast-food chain restaurants, banks and pharmacies, barbershops and convenience stores. Payne thought that the facades of the aged buildings, as well as the streets and sidewalks, looked much like he felt-tired, worn-out.
On Erie, halfway down the block, Payne saw the coffee shop he was looking for-tall stenciled lettering in black and red on its front window read THE DAILY GRIND-then grunted.
As he pulled on the stainless steel handle of the diner’s glass door, then started to step inside, he almost collided with a grim-faced heavyset Latina in her twenties carrying three waxed paper to-go coffee cups. He made a thin smile, stepped backward, made a grand sweep with his free arm for her to pass through the doorway first, then went inside.
It was a small space, permeated by the smell of frying grease and coffee. The only seating was at a stainless steel countertop at the back that overlooked the open kitchen. Elsewhere, customers could stand at the nine round high-top tables and at the worn wooden counter that ran chest height along the side walls and the front windows.
There were just two customers now, both older men, who were seated at opposite ends of the back counter and busy with their meals. An enormous coal-black man in his forties, wearing a grease-stained white apron tied over jeans and a sweaty white T-shirt, stood stooped at the gas-fired grill, his large biceps bulging as he methodically worked a long-handled wire brush back and forth. Flames flared up with each pass.
The cook stopped, looked over his shoulder, saw Payne, called out, “Hey, man, he’ll be right with you,” then turned back to scrubbing the grill.
At the far right end of the counter, under a sign reading ORDER HERE/PAY HERE that hung from the ceiling tiles by dust-coated chains, was the cash register. And just beyond it was a faded emerald green wooden door with TOILET FOR PAYING CUST ONLY!! that appeared to have been handwritten in haste with a fat-tipped black ink permanent marker.
The bathroom door began to swing open and a brown-skinned male in his late teens stepped out, drying his hands on a paper towel.
Daquan Williams-in black jeans and a tan PHILLY-NOBODY LIKES US amp; WE DON’T CARE T-shirt-made eye contact with Payne, nodded just perceptively, then looked away as he went to the rack of coffeepots.
He pulled a heavy china mug from a pyramid-shaped stack, filled it with coffee, then carried it to Payne, who now stood by a window in the front corner of the shop, opposite the door, watching the sidewalk traffic over the top edge of the newspaper as he casually flipped its pages.
The teenager placed the steaming mug on the wooden counter beside a wire rack containing packets of cream and sugar.
“Thanks, Daquan,” Payne said, then yawned widely as he reached for the coffee. “I really need this.”
He held out a five-dollar bill.
Daquan didn’t take it. He nodded toward the enormous cook cleaning the grill.
“Boss man say you don’t pay,” he said, keeping his voice low so as not to be overheard.
“I appreciate that, but I like to pay my way.”
Payne put the money on the counter, then sipped the coffee.
Daquan nodded. He took the bill.
Payne glanced at Daquan’s left ear. What looked like a new diamond stud sparkled in the lobe. Payne considered mentioning it, but he instead gently rattled the newspaper’s front page.
“So,” Payne said quietly, “what do you know about this hit?”
Daquan’s eyes shifted to the front page of the newspaper and his facial expression changed to one of frustration.
The photograph showed, behind yellow tape imprinted with POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS, two members of the medical examiner’s office standing at the rear of a white panel van. They were in the process of lifting through the van’s back doors a gurney holding a full body bag. Splashed across the image was the headline: #360. ANOTHER MURDER, ANOTHER RECORD.
The teenager, head down, quickly turned on his heel and marched to the cash register. He punched in the coffee, made change, then carefully closed the cash drawer as he scanned the front door and windows. Then, from beneath the register, he pulled out the busboy cart and rolled it to the front of the diner.
“Your change,” he said in a normal voice, holding the money out to Payne.
“That’s your tip. Keep it.”
“Thanks.”
Daquan stuffed it in the front pocket of his jeans as he immediately turned his back to Payne. He busied himself clearing the small plates and cups from the nearest high-top table.
“What about the drive-by?” Payne pursued, again speaking quietly as he flipped pages.
“I really can’t say,” Daquan replied, almost in a whisper, without turning around.
“Can’t?” Payne said. “Or won’t?”
Daquan shrugged.
“Peeps talk, they get capped. That’s what happened to Pookie. Law of the street. That’s why I texted you now, after they came. .”
“Who did it?”
“Capped Pookie?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s just it-I don’t know,” he said, then looked over his shoulder at Payne. “Matt, I didn’t even know the dude. They’re threatening me over something I don’t know.”
“Any guess who did do it?”
Daquan turned back to busing the table, and shrugged again.
“I heard word that King Two-One-Five knows,” he said.
Payne thought: Tyrone Hooks knows-or ordered it done?
He pulled his cell phone from the back pocket of his jeans, rapidly thumb-typed and sent a short text message, then tucked the phone back.
“When’s the last time you saw your parole officer, Daquan?” he said, picking the newspaper back up.
“Few days ago.”
“It go okay?”
“I guess.”
“How’s school coming?”
“Hard, man. Just real hard.”
“One day at a time. You’ll get that GED.”
Daquan then pulled a hand towel and a spray bottle of cleaner from the cart and began wiping the tabletop.
Payne said, “Nice diamond stud. Is it real?”
Daquan stopped wiping.
“Uh-huh. S’posed to be, anyway,” he said, made two more slow circles, and added, “Got my momma something nice for Christmas. And this earring, it was part of the deal.”
“Really?”
Daquan grunted.
“Really,” he said, then moved to the next table. “You know I’m trying to get my life straight, staying away from the street. You think I like busing tables? Only gig I could find.”
“I know. Remember?”
Daquan sighed.
“Yeah, of course I remember. You know I appreciate the help, man.”
“Keep your nose clean, make it through the probation period, and we’ll work on getting your record cleared. Have the charge expunged. Then we’ll find you something else. Right now, this is good, honest work.”