The Second Girl(76)

Aside from a couple of old Latina ladies walking down Fuller from Columbia carrying grocery bags, this area’s clear for now. Usually you’ll find a couple of boys hanging in front of the apartment building on the corner across Mozart, and even to my left.

I decide to roll out. I hang a right on Mozart and then another right on Columbia Road, see what’s going on at 16th and Park.





Sixty-eight



There’s a bus stop on 16th, across from the sitting man, a statue of some religious figure near the corner at Park Road. I take a seat on the bench next to an old black homeless man. He doesn’t give me a glance, just stares at the ground at his feet, as if he’s studying the cracks in the sidewalk. I already smoked up my cigarette, so I pull out another. It’s a little weird because I’m wearing my tactical gloves and still have my pack slung over my shoulder.

I offer a cigarette to the old man, holding it out to him even though he isn’t looking at me.

“Wanna smoke?”

He lifts his head. It’s an old face, probably looks older than it is because of alcohol and the elements. He looks at the cigarette, but not me. He gently takes the cig, puts it in his mouth, and finally acknowledges me with a nod. I flick my lighter and offer him a light. He accepts, then looks back down toward the cracks in the ground.

A lot of the folks across the street are just passing by, but a few are hanging, a couple of them drunks, drinking their cheap liquor from brown paper bags. A couple of them look like crackheads, and one of them I recognize from past ops at this spot. It doesn’t take me long to make two of the Latino boys for dealers. They started up on the corner quicker than I thought they would. A lot of clients waiting to be served and a lot of money to be made.

The crackhead I recognize is more than likely holding the stash for them. He’s just moving around a small area surrounding the monument, acting like he’s got purpose. He was a regular when Angelo and company worked this corner. These boys will often use crackheads like him to hold for them, after they prove themselves as regulars and pay like they should. When it comes to work like that they’re usually dependable ’cause they don’t want to get the crap beat out of them, or worse, for pinching a bit of rock for themselves. Looks like these two guys who took over after Angelo got locked up work a different system. A crackhead for the stash instead of an empty Dorito bag tossed to the curb. I’ll have to walk the curb to make sure.

The old man beside me adjusts himself on the bench, straightens himself up.

“You spare a bit of change?” he asks.

I still have some rolls in my pants pocket, but I don’t want to pull out one of those. I reach in the pocket of my jacket for some loose bills. I pull a couple out. Two twenties.

He sees them, and his eyes widen with the possibility of getting even one of them.

“This your spot?” I ask.

“You the police?”

“Fuck no. I’m just a man looking for his runaway daughter. She went to school up the street, and I used to catch her hanging with some of those boys over there. That’s what brought me here.” I motion my head toward the boys I suspect are dealing.

“And you’re trying to work up the courage to go have a chat with them?” he asks.

“Yeah, that’s about it. Can I show you a picture of her?”

“I don’t see much around here.”

“Just the same, if you could just look at a couple of pictures, maybe let me know if you’ve seen these guys around. I’ll make it worth your while.”

His eyes are on the bills again.

“You can get yourself hurt bad, messin’ with those boys there,” he mumbles.

“Let me worry about that. What do you say?”

“A’ight.”

I unzip an inner pocket of my hooded jacket and take out the photos. One is a photo of Miriam, and the other two are arrest photos of Angelo and Viktor. I show him the photo of Miriam first.

He studies it long and hard, then says, “Naw, can’t say I seen her. Sorry.”

“That’s all right. I appreciate you taking the time. I got two more. The police gave me these pictures.”

I hand both of them to him. He doesn’t study them so hard.

“I seen them, but not for a bit. They used to work the corner where those boys are now.”

“You ever seen the two in the photos hanging with any of those boys across the street?”

“Just one of them. That little shit over there by the statue.”

“You mean the one that looks like he’s a drug addict?”

“Yeah, the little skinny f*ck. He be holdin’ for those boys. He’s the only one that’s still around. He used to do the same for the two you showed me pictures of. They call him Cookie. But he ain’t sweet like that.”

He hands the photos back to me and I pocket them.

“He mess with you a lot?”

“You could say that.”

I hand him the two twenties, reach into my pocket, and pull out another twenty and two tens. I hand him those, too.

“Damn, thank you.”

“Buy yourself a bottle of some of the good stuff. What you’ve been drinking probably tore a hole in your gut.”

“And you think the good shit’d fix that?”

I smile.