The Second Girl(80)
“The one right there past the alley.”
It’s a one-way street, so I park on the other side, near a large community center. I remember when it was a smaller abandoned building with busted-out windows and occupied by squatters. Looks like DC did something right for the neighborhood by replacing it with a community center.
“Your parents still live there?”
“Just my moms. My pops passed on.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
He doesn’t respond; he’s probably not used to hearing people offer their condolences.
I grab the bag of crack off his lap, reach in, and take five dime bags out of it. I drop the zips in his side coat pocket and then the large baggie back in my coat.
“What the f*ck kinda cop are you, man?”
“The broken kind.”
I turn the car off, find the handcuff key on the key ring, and reach over to unlock the cuffs.
“Bend forward,” I tell him.
When he does, I unbind him.
“You know a kid by the name Edgar?”
“Naw, never heard of him.”
“He’s Latino, seventeen years old and lives in Virginia, but hung out with Angelo.”
“No, man, don’t know him.”
“You ever hear about any of the boys in Cordell’s crew taking a hit out on a kid in Virginia?”
“No, I never heard nothin’ like that.”
I grab his cell phone out of the pocket of my jacket.
“You got Cordell’s number in here? Playboy’s or Little Monster’s?”
“Fuck no.”
I search it anyway. I find Angelo, José, and Viktor, but no one else I recognize.
“I told you I ain’t got no numbers like that.”
I tap in my cell number to call myself.
“Now what you gotta go and do?”
When my cell rings, I pull it out and look at the number.
“I’ll save your number. You’re now a Cookie in my phone. You answer if it ever rings. Am I clear?”
“Yeah, you clear.”
“Now let me see you walk into your house.”
He crosses the street. He takes some keys out of his pocket and walks the short flight of stairs to the porch. He fiddles with the keys, unlocks the door, and enters, shutting the door behind him.
I wait a couple of minutes, then call him from my cell. He answers on the first ring.
“You forgot some of your shit in my car.”
Seconds later, the door opens and he returns.
I roll down the window so he can lean in. I take out the large bag of crack and toss it on the seat.
“You keep that shit. Don’t be seen for at least three days, and if anyone asks tell them your case got no-papered because it was a bad search. You understand that?”
“Yeah, f*ck yeah.”
He snatches it right up. “Bad search, no-papered,” he repeats, then looks to his right, then to his left, and pockets the shit.
“You better do just what I said ’cause you know what they’ll do otherwise. And you f*ck with me I’ll do worse. I’ll bust into your home and kill your mom and then you.”
“I got you, man. Shit, you don’t gotta worry about shit. But what about that powder you took off me?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
Seventy-one
I make the turn in the alley behind the 1400 block of Euclid that leads to University Place. Several cars are parked in a small area at the back of an apartment complex. One of the cars is a black Lexus that looks exactly like the one Playboy drives. I get as close to being excited as I possibly can nowadays. And that f*cking Cookie’s the man.
I’m hoping Playboy doesn’t stay in that apartment complex. It’d be a nightmare trying to find his unit. Street-corner mopes generally don’t sign leases. None of the spaces are marked with numbers, so more than likely he’s just taking the space and calling it his own. I’m guessing he’s in the house my new boy Cookie pointed out.
These boys have already proven they don’t mess around. I don’t have reinforcements. I’m not in the gang anymore. I’m tempted to call Luna—he’ll get a surveillance crew on the car and the house, but damn if they don’t spend too much time on shit like that. The Lexus parked in the alley doesn’t obviously connect Playboy to the house, even though I’m convinced it does. Police need much more than that before they go in. But I’m not about to go in that house with guns blazing, either, even if I do have a flashy throwaway. This ain’t the movies or one of those f*cked-up cop shows you watch on TV.
I back into one of the parking spaces at the far end, beside a Dumpster. I’ll sit here and see how this plays out. That pretty much sums up what you do in this line of work.
Seventy-two
Throughout the day and into the early evening, a number of people walk by the opening to the alley on University. I can’t tell how many of those folks are walking up to the house. The only visual I have on the house is the rear and the small backyard. A six-foot-high bent-up chain-link fence surrounds the yard. The windows are either blacked out or, like my bedroom windows, have thick curtains.
My window is rolled down partway. Cars in the distance sound like gentle waves against sand. I got a bottle of Jameson in the pack, and now, with what I took off Cookie, more blow than I need. Only thing I forgot was my Gatorade bottle, but I’m far enough back that I’ll just piss behind the Dumpster if I have to. I’m prepared to sit for as long as it takes.