'AND-THE-GIRLS-IN-THE-HOOD!'
'Boys-and-girls-in-the-hood-ain't-no-fuck-in-Holly-wood,' Jerome politically corrected himself.
'AIN'T-NO-FUCK-IN-HOLLY-WOOD!' the crowd rapped back.
'Thanks, Jerome,' West said.
'AIN'T-NO-FUCK-IN-HOLLY-WOOD!' The crowd was out of control.
'Jerome, that's enough!'
'Say it again, brothers!' Jerome was spinning and kick-boxing. 'AIN'T-NO-FUCK-IN-HOLLY-WOOD!'
'AIN'T-NO-FUCK-IN-HOLLY-WOOD!'
Sirens sounded in the distance.
Chapter Twenty
The Robins Center, where the Spiders played basketball before great crowds, was between the private lot where Ehrhart had tucked her Mercedes, and the X lot where commoners parked, no more than two rows of parking spaces or approximately fifty yards from the track, where this moment Brazil was running hard for the second time this day.
It was late afternoon. He had spent hours working on the COMSTAT computer crisis while the media continued to kick around mean-spirited stories about Fishsteria and the vandalism of Jefferson Davis's statue. Comments of low intelligence and terribly poor taste streaked through e-mail and were passed word-of-mouth through offices, restaurants, bars and health clubs before at last finding their way to the ears of the police.
Cops finally catch something, no longer let crooks off the hook.
Knock knock. Who's there? Police. Police who? Police get rid of the fish.
Jeff Davis coloredized.
What's black and white and red all over? (Jeff Davis.) Brazil had been desperate for a break. He needed to clear his head and work off stress. What he did not need was to see Lelia Ehrhart walking out of the Robins Center, heading toward her black Mercedes parked in the Spiders Club lot. He knew instantly what she was up to and was furious.
Brazil sprinted off the track and through the gate. He got to her as she was backing up. He tapped on her window as the car continued to move. She braked, made sure her doors were locked and the window down an inch.
'I'm Officer Brazil,' he said, wiping his face with the hem of his tank top.
'I didn't recognize you,' Ehrhart said, appraising him as if thinking about a purchase.
'I don't mean to be rude,' Brazil said, 'but what were you doing in the gym?'
'Fact finishing.'
'Did you talk to Bobby Feeley?'
'Yes.'
'I wish you hadn't done that, Mrs. Ehrhart,' Brazil said.
'Someone had to, and I have a personal interested in this that has to do with me. Aren't you visiting outsiders from Charlotte always telling us to community police? Well, here I am. How old are you?" 'Community policing does not include interfering with an investigation,' Brazil told her.
She stared at his legs.
'You are quite the athletic,' she flirted. 'I have a trainer. If ever you want to work in together, the both of us, wouldn't that be nice?'
'It's generous of you to offer.' Brazil was courteous, professional and respectful.
'Which gym do you work in out of?' She rolled the window down the rest of the way, caressing every part of him with eyes that had huge purchasing power.
'I've gotta go,' Brazil said as she stared at his crotch.
'How often do you hang yourself out here?' she inquired, continuing her physical examination of him. 'You are very sweating. It's running all down you in little rivets and you look very hots. You should take your shirts off and drinks some Gatorades.' She patted the passenger's seat. 'Come sits, Andy. Out of the heats. I have a swimmer pool at my house. We could go and jump on it. Think how good that would feeling when you are so hots.'
'Thank you, Mrs. Ehrhart.' Brazil couldn't get away fast enough. 'But I've got to head out.'
He ran off. Her window hummed up. Her tires sounded angry when she sped away.
Brazil took two steps at a time and ran inside the Robins Center, dashing into the gym, where Bobby Feeley was working on defense and fouling imaginary Cavaliers.
'Mr. Feeley?' Brazil said from the sidelines.
Feeley dribbled the ball over to him. He started laughing.
'What is this? The inquisition? Or are you just looking for the track, man?'
'I'm with the Richmond Police Department, investigating the vandalism that occurred in Hollywood Cemetery last night,' Brazil explained.
'You always go to work dressed like that?' Feeley tried another jump shot and the ball didn't even come close.
'I just happened to be out running when I saw Lelia Ehrhart drive off,' Brazil said.
'Now that's a piece of work.' Feeley retrieved the ball. 'How long's she been on this planet?'
'Look, Mr. Feeley 'It's Bobby.'
'Bobby, do you have any idea why someone would paint a statue to look like you?' Brazil said. 'Assuming you didn't do it.'
'I didn't do it.' Feeley faked passes. 'And although it's very flattering to think there's a statue of me in a historic white cemetery, I don't think so.' He missed a layup. 'I'm a pretty sorry basketball player and not likely to be anybody's hero.'
'How'd you get on the team?' Brazil had to ask as he watched Feeley miss another layup.
'I used to be better than this,' Feeley said. 'I pretty much ripped up the court in high school, got recruited a million places and decided on Richmond. So I get here and something goes haywire. I'm telling you, man, I started worrying that maybe I had lupus, muscular dystrophy, Parkinson's.'
Feeley sat on the basketball, resting his chin in his hand, depressed.
'Doesn't help that I'm wearing Twister Gardener's jersey,' Feeley said despondently. 'I've wondered if that's part of it. Getting psyched out, you know, because everybody looks at my number twelve and remembers him.'
'I'm not from here.' Brazil sat beside him. 'More into tennis than basketball.'
'Well, let me tell you,' Feeley said, 'Twister was the best player this school's ever seen. I got no doubt he'd be playing for the Bulls right now if he hadn't got killed." 'What happened?' Brazil asked as something started stirring deep in his mind.
'Car wreck. Some fucking drunk driver on the fucking wrong side of the road. Last August, right before his sophomore year.'
The story pained Brazil. It enraged him that an extraordinary talent could be completely annihilated in a second by someone who had decided to throw back a few more beers at the bar.
'I'm just glad I got to see him play. I guess you could say he was my hero.' Feeley got up and stretched his limber seven-foot frame.
'Pretty tough to wear your hero's jersey,' Brazil commented as he got up, too.
Feeley shrugged. 'It's part of running with the big dogs.'
'Maybe you should get your number changed,' Brazil suggested.
Feeley was startled. His face got hard, eyes flashing.
'What did you say?' he asked.
'Maybe you should retire the number, let someone else have it,' Brazil explained.
Feeley's eyes snapped. His jaw muscles bunched.
'Fuck no.'
'Just a suggestion,' Brazil said. 'But I don't understand why you'd want to keep it if you get psyched. Give it up, Bobby.'
'No fucking way!'
'Just do it.'
'Fuck you!'
'It really makes sense,' Brazil went on reasonably.
'Motherfucking never!'
'Why not?'
'Because nobody would fucking care about it as much as I do!'
'How do you know?'
Feeley threw the basketball as hard as he could and it swished in without touching the rim.
'Because nobody would respect Twister, treat him right, spread the word about him like I would!'
Feeley ran full speed for the ball, dribbled with his right hand and left and slam-dunked.
'And I'll tell you what, too, you'll never see that jersey dirty or tossed in a corner somewhere!' He dunked the ball over the back of his head, the rim vibrating. 'Some little spoiled piece of shit coming in here and wearing Twister's number!'