Long Bright River(33)

I exit my vehicle and approach him. He holds up a hand in greeting. Then, wordlessly, he tilts his head toward a doorway a few storefronts down, and I follow him.

There is no sign out front. It’s a sort of a catchall shop: everything from kitchenware to dolls to rolls of wallpaper in its front window. A little dusty placard rests askew in front of these objects. Supplies, it says, as if that explains everything. I must have passed it thousands of times, but somehow I’ve never noticed it.

Inside the store, it’s warm. I stamp my feet on a dingy mat, ridding my shoes of the wet that has accumulated on them. The shelves in this store are so crowded with merchandise that the aisles are barely visible. At the front, behind a counter, an old man in a winter hat is reading a book. He doesn’t look up.

—Here she is, says Truman.

The old man slowly puts down his book. His eyes are wet and ancient. His hands shake slightly. He says nothing.

—Kacey’s sister, says Truman. Mickey.

The old man looks at me for a while, until I realize that it’s my uniform he’s staring at.

—I don’t talk to the police, says the old man. He could be ninety. His voice has the faintest trace of an accent: Jamaican, maybe. Truman’s father was Jamaican. I squint at Truman.

—Ah, come on, Mr. Wright, says Truman, cajoling. Now, you know I’m a police officer too.

Mr. Wright gazes at Truman. But you’re different, he says, at last, to Truman.

—Mr. Wright knows this guy Dock, Truman says to me. He knows everyone in the neighborhood.

—Isn’t that right, Mr. Wright? says Truman, louder. The old man doesn’t look persuaded.

I walk toward him and he sits up, defensive. I very much dislike this part: the discomfort on people’s faces as I approach.

—Mr. Wright, I say, I wish I could have changed before I met you. I’m asking you for a personal favor, something that has nothing to do with my work. Do you know where I can find this person? Dock?

Mr. Wright considers this for a moment.

—Please, I say. Any information would be helpful.

—You don’t want to find him, says Mr. Wright. He’s not a good person.

A shiver runs down me. I don’t like the sound of that, but it doesn’t surprise me. Kacey has never exactly picked choirboys to date.

My radio crackles suddenly and Mr. Wright tenses. I turn it down completely, praying that a priority call doesn’t come over the air.

—Mr. Wright, I’m looking for my sister, I say. The most recent information I have is that she was dating this person. So, unfortunately, I do want to find him.

—All right, he says. All right. He glances left and then right, as if to make sure no one is eavesdropping. Then he leans forward. Come back around two-thirty, he says. He’s usually in the back around then. Comes in to get warm.

—In the back? I say. But Truman is already thanking Mr. Wright and dragging me out.

—And don’t wear your uniform, says Mr. Wright.





Truman walks me to the cruiser.

—Who on earth, I begin, but Truman shushes me until we’re inside.

—Drive, he says, and I pull away.

—He’s my father’s cousin, says Truman, after a beat.

I look at him, skeptical.

—He is?

—Yeah, says Truman.

—Your father’s cousin, good old Mr. Wright?

Truman laughs. We’re formal, he says.

—I never knew you had a cousin who runs a store on the Ave.

Truman shrugs. The implication is clear: There’s a lot you don’t know about me.

We drive for a little longer. It begins to snow, and I turn the wipers on.

—What’s in the back of the store? I say finally, and Truman exhales.

—Between us? he says.

—Between us.

—He lets people shoot up back there.

I nod. There are certainly places like that in Kensington. I know about most of them. The only reason I don’t know about this one, most likely, is that Truman has been protecting it.

—He’s a good person, says Truman. He really is. He lost two sons to it. Now he keeps Narcan and clean needles behind the counter. He’s got a camera up front that shows him what’s going on. He’s always hobbling into the back there and rescuing some poor fool or other. Does it for free. No one pays him.

It’s an improvised safe injection site. They’re not legal in Philly yet, though there’s talk that they will be soon. I wonder if Kacey herself has been to Mr. Wright’s.

Jarringly, a call comes through: two officers are needed for a simple domestic assault.

I answer.

—Would you like to ride along? I say, when I’ve finished, but Truman shakes his head.

—I’m on disability, remember? he says. Officially laid up. Can’t have anyone seeing me around here.

—What will you do now?

Truman points to a building ahead of us. I’ll jump out there by the library, he says. My car’s nearby. Call me, okay? Let me know how it goes.

I pause.

—You don’t want to come with me? To Mr. Wright’s store? I say.

I suppose, on some level, I’d been relying on the idea that he would.

Truman shakes his head. Better not, he says.

He must notice the look of disappointment on my face, because he says, Mickey. You might need me to do something for you down the line. And you might not want this guy to recognize me.