“Why down there? In Watts.”
Ike nodded. “Exactly. That bothered me too. Latch’s story was, the source I was going to meet was someone who lived there. From Mom and Dad’s past, the Black Liberation Army. Someone still wanted by the authorities, needed the cover of Watts, couldn’t afford to leave home territory.”
“Latch give you a name?”
“Abdul Malik. But he said that was just a code. He liked codes. Like some kid playing I Spy. I never really bought it.”
“The real reason for Watts,” said Dinwiddie, “was that a black body there wouldn’t cause the police to blink an eye. And that’s exactly what happened, isn’t it?”
Milo ignored that, said to Ike: “So in spite of it smelling bad, you went down there.”
“I had to know what was going on. I figured if they were going to pull something, they’d do it another time, another place. Might as well be prepared, see what was going on. So I showed up early, hid my bike in the next alley, and found a hiding place next to this garage, behind some garbage cans. The bulb was out and that part of the alley was really dark. And rank. Something out of a nightmare.” He grimaced, remembering. “Junkies sneaking in and out, all these low whispers, deals going down, people shooting up, snorting, taking leaks, taking dumps. I started to get scared, wondering what I’d gotten myself into. But as it got later, closer to the time I was supposed to meet this Malik, the action started to slow.”
“When was that?” said Milo.
“About three A.M. I heard somewhere that’s the killing time of day, time the life forces are weak. Hiding in that place, you could really feel it. Everything going dead. Anyway, the junkies and dealers started to go home, only a few stragglers. Real losers nodding off, not caring if they were sitting in dog shit or whatever.”
He gave a sick look. Stopped.
Milo said, “Go on.”
“One of them- one of the stragglers- was about my size. Maybe a little shorter but almost the same size. And really skinny, like me. I noticed him because of that, kind of identified with him, thinking about what led him to get that way, there but for the grace of God, and all that kind of stuff. I mean this guy was really pathetic- totally wasted. Walking back and forth, muttering, stoked on God knows how many different kinds of poison.
“I’m watching him, watching all of this, the smells seem to be getting worse, and the darkness starts to get really heavy- crushing down on me. I know now it was my anxiety. I start thinking anxiety-thoughts, like is someone going to steal my bike and am I going to get stranded here? Who knows who’s out there. Watching. Then the guy they sent to do the job shows up. He’s early too. Half hour early. I can tell ’cause he’s dressed in black, wearing this long black coat even though it’s summer- that’s one thing that tipped me off, though by itself it didn’t mean much. Junkies get cold. But he stepped under a garage light and I saw that he was a white guy. Real cracker face, turned-up pig nose, but with stuff on his face. Greasepaint. To make him look black- like a minstrel act. In the darkness it almost worked. The few junkies who were left never noticed- they just wanted their dope. But I was looking out for it, so I caught it right away.
“This guy just kind of saunters in, walking cool, head-bopping, trying to look as if he belongs there. But overdoing it. Playing black. Then, when he saw no one was paying attention to him, looking at his watch, showing how jumpy he was. I stay behind the garbage cans. Then this tall thin junkie spots him, says, “Yo, bro,” and starts ambling up to him. Talking really slurred- stoned out of his mind. Maybe he was trying to buy or sell or just hitting the white guy up for a handout. The guy in the coat says my name-‘Yo, Malcolm?’ Like that. And the junkie mutters something back, doesn’t say he’s not me, and keeps coming at him. Maybe he even wanted to mug him or something, I don’t know. He was pretty big, must have looked pretty scary to old Whitey. So old Whitey pulls something out of the coat. Sawed-off shotgun. And blasts the tall guy, from right up close- maybe he was two feet away, if that. I could see him fly back, as if he’d been hit by a hurricane. Just fly back and fall. The other stragglers started running- it was weird, no screams, no one talking. Just silent running, like rats. Like they were used to it- this was no big deal. Then the white guy in the coat runs away and I hear a car start at the end of the alley and drive off. I wait awhile, scared out of my mind but knowing I should go over to the junkie, see if there’s anything I can do for him. Even though I know there isn’t- the way he was thrown back, the way he exploded. But finally, I do. When I see what the shotgun did to him I get really sick. For him and also, I guess, because I know this is what they meant for me. I’m dizzy, I feel like throwing up, but I know I’ve got to get out of there before the police show up, so I hold it in. My stomach’s really killing me, churning, I need to go to the bathroom. Then I think of something- some way to take something good out of this. Make the junkie’s life meaningful. I put my hands in his pockets. It’s disgusting- they’re all wet. With blood. And empty except for some pills. No ID. I slip my ID in and split. Hoping the way he looks- what the shotgun did to him- us being around the same size, no one will figure it out. Later, riding away, I get real paranoid about it, start to shake. Tell myself it was the most idiotic thing I could have done. What if they do figure it out? There’s my ID right on the body- I’m cooked. I could be busted for murder. So I call Ted from a pay phone. He gets out of bed and drives me here. And I wait, scared out of my mind. Out here in Nowheresville. For the cops to come looking for me. For Latch’s Nazis to come looking for me. The next day the cops do come around talking to Grandma, asking about my involvement with dope. Accepting the dead body as me. So I’m officially dead.” Smile. “Never thought it would feel so good.”
The smile faded. “But I can’t stop thinking about the junkie. His dying for me. Like the Azazel goat in the Bible- almost as if he were my Jesus. If I believed in Jesus. I think about the fact that he was someone’s little kid once. Maybe someone loved him; now no one will ever know what happened to him. Then I rationalize it, saying it wouldn’t make him any more alive to tell the story. The way he was- so far gone- probably everyone who’d once loved him had given up on him.”
Looking to us for confirmation. I gave a supportive smile and nodded. Milo nodded too.
The boy clenched and opened his hands. Blinked. Wiped his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was small and tight.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “Holly. Another sacrifice. But I had no idea she’d do what she did- it wasn’t as if the two of us were confidants or anything. I felt sorry for her, so lonely, so closed in, that father who treated her like a slave. If I had known, I would have called her, warned her not to do anything stupid.”
Milo said, “What did the two of you talk about, son?” Using the voice I’d heard him use with victims.
“Things,” said the boy. Wretched. “All kinds of things. She didn’t talk much herself- she wasn’t very bright, just a step above retarded, really. So I did all the talking. I had to do all the talking.”
He held his hands out, supplicating. Zeroing in on Milo. Wanting a cop’s forgiveness.
Milo said, “Absolutely. If you didn’t talk, it would have been like treating her the way everyone else did. Shutting her out.”
“Exactly! Shining her on- everyone shined her on, treated her like some kind of subhuman creature. Even that father of hers, going around doing his own thing with his computers, pretending she didn’t exist. She told me that, told me how he expected her to do his housework. His scutwork. For no money. After we got to know each other she said her dad had been in the army, a general or something. Demanded everything perfect. That she could never be perfect, so she knew he’d never like her.”