As the Wicked Watch(68)

The issue that continues to upset me is if they all know she didn’t deserve this ending, then why make it her story? Someone knows something, and now I’ve dragged this kid Grace into my obsession to figure it out.

I didn’t realize I was deep in thought, a full-on daydream, until the driver behind me laid on the horn and passed recklessly on my left, crossing into the opposite lane and swerving over just in time to avoid an oncoming SUV. I had forgotten in the moment that Grace was even in the car until I heard her gasp.

Grace’s eyes grew large.

I tried to reassure her. “It’s okay. Just somebody in a big hurry.”

Grace got her bearings again. “It’s kind of sad here. Nothing is open. It’s all boarded up,” she said.

“Yes, but that’ll change in the next block or so,” I said. “Watch.”

“Hey, there’s St. Luke’s church! I didn’t know it was around here,” Grace said, pointing to the iconic sanctuary led by an activist minister who has organized numerous anti-gun and anti-gang rallies in the community. He is always in the news, again proving my point that to someone not from this neighborhood, it could never be so close to what Grace called a “sad” area.

“It’s beautiful and bigger than I imagined,” she said.

To me, St. Luke’s represents the potential of Englewood, a neighborhood of pastors, parishioners, business owners, and residents who also see its potential, and work hard to make a better life for themselves and a better future for their community. If it weren’t for divestment in its infrastructure and the interminable drug and gang violence, one could only imagine the possibilities. The brownstones just a few miles down the road on Lake Shore Drive would go for a million dollars or more. Englewood, properly tended, had the potential to raise many ships.

We passed nearly two blocks with nothing but sidewalks and vacant land on either side of the street before coming upon the Miracle Salon, the sole building on its block, its own little island.

“You’ve gotta love the name, right?” I said.

“Right,” said Grace.

I thought about going inside to ask about Masey. Then I remembered Pam saying that Yvonne does hair out of her house, what my best friend in college called a kitchen-tician. Every Sunday a gang of us would pack into someone’s dorm room and proceed to relax, braid, and cut one another’s hair. If you were lucky, Renée would help you out. If you were unlucky, you got me. I was not that good, but I never had a challenge I didn’t meet—that is, until I tried to shave one side of Renée’s roommate’s hair for an edgy look. It was more of an edgeless look.

I was on Yvonne’s stomping grounds. She might know the owner of the salon or the women inside, and the last thing I needed was people telling her that Jordan Manning from Channel 8 was in there asking about Masey. I didn’t want the word on the street to be our introduction. I need an ally in her, not an enemy.

A little farther up on the east side of Halsted was a convenience store, the L & H Convenience Mart, that anchored a few stores in a strip mall, including a barbershop that was packed even at this time of day. The L & H sign looked like it had been painted by hand in red letters against a yellow background. I figured there was no better place to start a search with no bread crumbs to lead me. I made an abrupt U-turn, and boom, we were right in front. Now I would have to muster the courage to go inside and do what I needed to do.

Young people milled about in the lot. I could tell, even if they didn’t come here to buy anything, they’d come just to socialize.

“Okay, wait here,” I said.

“You don’t want me to go in with you?” Grace asked. “With my iPhone?”

“No. I’ll just be a minute,” I said.

Inside L & H, two clerks were barely visible behind the thick plexiglass barrier—a young woman sitting on a stool off to the side, talking on her cell phone, and a young man in his twenties chatting with a middle-aged man buying lottery tickets. I stood back and waited for them to wrap up.

“Good luck. I hope you win,” said the clerk, who was brown-skinned with coarse, shiny black hair and an accent that told me he wasn’t from this neighborhood.

“Hello,” I said to the passing older gentleman. He did a double take as if he recognized me. He looked about to speak, but I could tell he wasn’t quite sure, so he didn’t say anything. He isn’t the first person to be thrown off by my shorter hairdo.

“Powerball ticket?” the male clerk said with a smile.

“Not this time.” I smiled. “I’m Jordan Manning with Channel 8 News.”

He began to shake his head and held up his hands as if I’d said I was about to hold up the place. “No, no, no, I don’t want to be on-camera. I don’t want to be quoted. No,” he said emphatically.

The irony of the mic being viewed as a weapon is not lost on me. That again speaks to the danger and the power it holds.

“Oh, you won’t be.” I grinned. “I don’t have a camera. I promise. See? Hands free.”

“Okay,” he said with a glint of suspicion. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

“Do you get a lot of students in here after school?” I asked.

“Yes, but we only allow three in at once. Otherwise, they’d clean me out,” he said.