Out of the Blues
Page 30
“Sure,” Man answered, “but it ain’t just any old track now.”
She turned toward Man, top man of one of the tightest gangs to operate in an Atlanta ghetto, “Let me guess—the BeltLine?”
“Yes, Lord.” Man walked toward the ridge on the horizon.
The BeltLine was a project that the city expected would do more for its economy than any other undertaking since the airport. The plan called for using existing rails that had in the past been used for both passenger and freight, that had once supplied industrial sites, some of which had been discovered to be toxic, and rails that had become defunct, currently in use but only infrequently for light industry. Routes had been designated to create an approximate thirty-three-mile transit and green space that would encircle the central city, spurring business and housing and linking neighborhoods.
“Yes, Lord,” Man repeated. “My business sittin’ right up against the BeltLine.” He turned to her, spreading his arms, smiling. “‘Legit,’ that’s what I say. ‘Legit.’”
—
SALT DROVE the half mile and parked in a liquor store parking lot, as close as she could get to the tracks, then climbed a rutted path to the top. From the looks of the trail, weeds beaten back and freshly strewn trash, people had been trespassing on the railroad easement for decades or maybe even a century. She’d always known that gangs, as well as others, used the tracks as an escape way, a meeting place, somewhere to stash stolen goods. It was gang territory.
She keyed the mic on the Handie-Talkie. “Radio, hold me out on the tracks at Pryor and McDonough.” She listened for responses, in particular from Wills, but only dispatch acknowledged, then the frequency was quiet.
From time to time she and Wills had taken the dogs on walks along parts of the BeltLine already reclaimed for recreational use. Tracks had been removed, walkways had been installed and paved, and muralists had enhanced bridges and tunnels. There had been BeltLine-sponsored events, footraces, bike tours, art celebrations, and parades. New parks were being dedicated. Developers were buying up properties along the proposed route, the feds offering a lot of money for development and toxic site cleanups.
There were other stretches like this one she was walking, right-of-ways that were still active and still owned by the railroads. But now the railroad tracks that had created, then divided, the city would provide a means by which its residents could travel easily from neighborhood to neighborhood without impediment. Tracks that had once been barriers were going to unite communities—paths that had first been cleared by slaves and convicts building the railroad that ended at the place that would become Atlanta.
From the top of the ridge she turned and faced south in the direction of The Homes, the housing project she’d spent ten years policing.
Man and Lil D might make it out, might be able to move from the ghetto and transition to the paths of legitimacy. She hoped so. But then there was Stone.
THANKS TO:
My agent, Nat Sobel, and the folks at Sobel/Weber, who have supported this project. Big thanks to my editor, Sara Minnich Blackburn.
I also thank Carol Lee Lorenzo and the Callanwolde Fine Arts Center’s fiction writers.
I am grateful to Bill Thomas, Deputy Chief Lou Arcangeli, Doug Monroe, Lorna Gentry, and Carol Beavers.
I am so very appreciative of the support of my family. Noah, Viki, Gabriel, and Sadira have been cheering at every turn. And to my husband, Rick Saylor, who is my music man, partner, and “joy-in-every-samich.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Trudy Nan Boyce received her Ph.D. in community counseling before becoming a police officer for the City of Atlanta. During her more than thirty-year career she served as a beat cop, homicide detective, senior hostage negotiator, and lieutenant. Boyce retired from the police department in 2008 and still lives in Atlanta.
trudynanboyce.com
facebook.com/TrudyNanBoyce
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