From across the room, a faint wisp of smoke rose from a candle melted onto a TV tray. That was the other burning smell. He uses a candle. Crumpled McDonald’s sacks lay heaped in a corner. A torn sleeping bag sprawled open on the floor. A table lamp with no shade sat on the floor near the window. One stained, upholstered chair with stuffing oozing from the back and a metal folding chair made up the rest of the room’s furniture.
A door opened in the hallway behind Chuck. Running feet. After I saw him in the window, the guy moved to a room at the back of the building and hid behind me until I passed him. Smart.
Chuck bolted into the hallway. The Maglite’s LED beam caught a man’s back as he ran toward the stairway.
Chuck sprinted down the hallway, crossed the stairway landing in two strides, and chased the fleeing man down the stairs three at a time. He’d run halfway down the last flight when the running man hit the bottom and wheeled around the railing toward the open access door.
Chuck leapt the railing, extended his left arm as far as he could, and swung the Maglite at the runner. The three-cell flashlight measured over a foot long and weighed almost two pounds. The heft made it a good club. He’d used a similar one when he’d worn a uniform—both Special Forces and Port City Police patrolman.
The flashlight grazed the back of the man’s head and knocked him off his feet. He rolled sprawling across the concrete floor.
Chuck rammed a knee into the small of his back and jammed the Glock into his ear. “Don’t move. That’s a pistol in your ear. It will blow a large hole in your skull.”
The man stopped struggling. “Don’t shoot, man. I’m cool.”
Chapter 24
Chuck placed the Maglite on the floor and frisked the guy with his left hand. He pulled a switchblade from the man’s pants pocket and slipped it into his own jacket pocket. The baggie of marijuana he found went into another pocket. A plastic bag with cigarette papers and a Bic lighter completed the collection.
Chuck picked up the Maglite and stepped back a few feet.
The guy climbed to his feet, hands in the air. He’s almost as tall as I am. “Turn around.”
He wasn’t a man—just a teenager. Skinny, dirty, and smelly. A wispy soul patch and a ghost of a mustache. This kid doesn’t shave every day. Looks maybe sixteen. Chuck didn’t lower his guard. In three years as a Port City Police detective, he’d taken his share of guns and knives from kids younger than this one. The fact that he’d disarmed the kid didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. “How old are you, kid?”
“Eighteen.”
“Sure you are.” He holstered his pistol, and the kid relaxed a little. “What’s your name?”
The boy stared with lidded eyes. Wary, but almost apathetic.
“They let you live here?”
The kid shrugged.
Chuck pulled out a cellphone. “Maybe I should call the cops and tell them there’s a squatter camped out in this building. A squatter with an illegal weapon and illegal drugs in his possession.”
The boy raised a hand for him to stop. “What’cha mean, ‘call the cops’? Ain’t you a cop?”
“No, I’m a private investigator.”
“Then turn off the damned light. The cops might see it. I’s not supposed to be here.”
“Where are you supposed to be?”
The boy crossed his arms and stared at the ceiling. “If you not a cop, I don’t got to talk to you.”
“I was a cop until a year ago, and I know guys who would bust you for possession and trespass if I say the word. You want me to do that?”
The boy’s shoulders slumped, and Chuck pressed his advantage. “They let you live here?”
The boy shook his head. “The company, they use the first floor and part of the second. They don’t never go up there.” He nodded towards the stairway. “I comes in at night after they gone, and I’s gone in the morning before they gets here.”
“You here every night?” Chuck figured the kid had witnessed Franco’s murder. But he sure as hell won’t tell me about it.
The boy shrugged again.
“Son, it’s not a hard question: Are you here every night?”
“I ain’t yo’ son.”
“Figure of speech. What’s your name?”
“Sneakers.”
“What’s it say on your driver’s license?”
“Don’t got no driver’s license.”
“Okay, what about your birth certificate? You’ve got one of those. What’s it say on that?”
The boy looked at the floor. “Bill Clinton Watkins. But don’t nobody call me by that name.”
Chuck grinned. “Okay. Sneakers then. Are you here every night?”
“Got no place else to be. You got a name, man?”
“Chuck McCrary.” He didn’t offer to shake hands—too dangerous. “Sneakers, if you’re not supposed to be here, where are you supposed to be?”
“Ain’t supposed to be nowhere.”
“Where are your parents?”
Sneakers shrugged.
“Kid, I’m getting annoyed with you shrugging when I ask a question. Where are your parents?”
“My mama, she stays here and there, she don’t have no regular place.”
“Is she homeless?”
“Mostly.” His eyes flared. “She likes getting high and shit more than she do me.”
“What about your father?”
Sneakers started to shrug, then thought better of it. “I ain’t seen him since I can remember.”
Chuck reflected on his own, more Norman Rockwell life. Father and mother still happily married. Grandparents shooting video and taking pictures at birthdays and holidays. High school graduation. Army Special Forces. College education. Chuck had met kids like Sneakers when he was a cop, but he didn’t understand the world they lived in. He didn’t know what to say, so he nodded. “Did I smell French fries up there?”
Sneakers shrugged.
“I told you not to shrug when I ask you a question.”
The boy’s eyes flared. “How the hell I know what you smelled, man?”
“You’re right—stupid question. Look, I’m a little hungry. I’m going to get something to eat. How about I buy you dinner? I know an all-night diner with a cool waitress and bodacious pie. It’s just a few blocks away.”
“What are you, queer or somethin’?”
“No, I’m straight. I just figured you could use a good meal, and I have a favor to ask. I figured a meal would pay you back for the favor.”
“What’s the favor?”
#
They crossed the parking lot.
“Those your wheels, man?”
“It’s a 1963 Studebaker Avanti. My grandfather gave it to me as a graduation present.”
“High school or college?”
“University of Florida.”
“That’s a slick ride, dude.”
“Thanks. I think so too. My grandfather called it the Silver Ghost.”
Chapter 25
The kid slurped the last of the chocolate shake, chased it around the bottom of the cup with a plastic straw. He had packed away two double-meat burgers, a large order of fries, and two pieces of pecan pie. He stretched against the back of the booth.
Veraleesa Kotenay walked over and put a hand on Chuck’s shoulder. Apparently, he was a regular now. “You two get enough to eat?”
Chuck returned her smile. “I’m good, but I could use more coffee.” He turned to the boy. “How about you, Sneakers?”
“I’m good.”
Veraleesa went to get the coffee.
Sneakers and Chuck were the only customers in the diner.
Chuck said, “How about that favor now?”
“What you wanna know?”
“A few weeks ago, there was a shooting in front of your building. Just about 12:30 at night. What did you see?”
“I just heard the shots, man. They woke me up. But I didn’t see shit.”
“Okay, I got that.” Chuck leaned
forward. “But tonight, when I fired those shots in the parking lot, you looked out the window. Did you go look out the window the night Franco was shot?”
Sneakers cut eyes around the room as if he was looking to escape.
Chuck held his eyes on the boy’s face.
Finally, Sneakers looked down at the tabletop. “Yeah, man, I looked out the window.” He looked up at Chuck and narrowed his eyes. “But I didn’t see nothing.”
Chuck put a hand on the boy’s forearm. “Think about it, Sneakers. Any little thing you remember might help. Did you see a car parked in the middle of the street?”
Sneakers pulled his arm away. “Didn’t see nothin’.” He paused a moment. “If you not a cop, why you care?”
“I’m a private investigator. The cops arrested the wrong guy. He’s hired me to find the real killer.” Chuck realized he had leaned forward while he interrogated Sneakers. He leaned back, adopted a more relaxed posture, reducing the tension.
“So this is just a job to you?”
Chuck shook his head. “No, the guy is also a close friend. He can’t even afford to pay me.”
“Then why you doin’ it?”
“I told you: the guy they arrested is my friend. And I owe him.”
“You don’t owe nobody nothin’.”
Veraleesa refilled Chuck’s cup. “Scoot over, big guy. I gotta hear this.” She sat down beside Chuck and set the coffee carafe on the table. “Good ahead, home boy. Tell us how nobody owes nobody nothin’.”
That surprised Chuck. He shrugged and turned to Sneakers. “You think I don’t owe anybody?”
“Everybody out for theyselves. Everybody know that. Don’t nobody look out for nobody else.”
“You don’t know nothin’ about real life, kid,” Veraleesa said.
The kid scowled at her. “You don’t know nothin’ about nothin’, bitch.”
Chuck put a hand on the kid’s forearm. “Sneakers, you can’t speak that way to my friends.”
“Yeah? And why not, man?”
“It’s not done. It’s rude, crude, and socially unacceptable.”
“You think I care about that?”
“Someday, if you’re lucky, you’ll care about that.”
The boy laughed. It was not a happy sound. “You hope.”
“Also…if you insult one of my friends, I’ll beat the crap out of you.” Chuck never raised his voice. Somehow that made it more menacing. The kid stopped laughing.
Chuck released his arm. “Sneakers, I owe lots of people who helped me along the way. People who help me to this day. People like Veraleesa.”
The boy looked a little surprised. “What you owe the bi—Veraleesa for?”
“Veraleesa helped me find a clue that may help solve the murder case I’m working on.” Chuck looked up at her. “And she serves the best pie in Port City.”
As he spoke, Chuck had the depressing thought that Sneakers may have had no one help him in his entire life. And where was he now? Living a dead-end life, squatting in a semi-abandoned building. He had barely begun life’s adventure and—if he turned out the way most kids with his background did—he’d be dead or in prison before he turned thirty. “Look, kid. I know life looks bleak to you. But it doesn’t have to stay that way.”
Sneakers sneered. “Yeah, ri-i-ight. Tomorrow is another day. The sun will come out tomorrow and all that shit. You sound like one of them people in that stupid play about that stupid orphan.”
“You mean Annie?”
“Yeah, that the one.”
“Where did you see Annie?”
Sneakers withdrew and looked at the table. He mumbled, “When I was in school.”
“They took you to see Annie?”
He smirked. “Yeah, we was being ‘culturally enriched.’”
Chuck laid a hand flat on the table. “Sneakers, we both know that no billionaire Daddy Warbucks is going to adopt you. Or me. That doesn’t happen in real life.”
“You got that right.”
“Nevertheless, your life can improve. You can make your life better.”
Sneakers half-stood at the table. “Yeah, Whitey. And how would that shit work, huh? I go back to school? How would I get to school? I get a job? Who would hire me? And if they did, how would I get to work?” He grabbed his worn out shirt with both hands. “These be the only clothes I got, Whitey. Maybe I go back to foster care? They got seven hundred fifty dollars a month from the state to take care of me. They fed me shit. I got rice and beans once a day, and I had to beg for that. I ran away from them turkeys six months ago.”
He pushed his empty dishes aside and crossed his arms on the table. He dropped his face into his arms and his shoulders began to shake.
Veraleesa refilled Chuck’s cup and stood. She removed the empty dishes. She patted Sneakers on the shoulder and walked to the back of the diner.
Chuck remembered an Afghan boy he’d known, even younger than Sneakers, whose family the Taliban had murdered. But that boy had an entire village of friends and extended family to fill the gap.
Sneakers had no one.
#
“You sure you want to go back to the warehouse?”
“Got no place else to go.”
Chuck started the Avanti. “Buckle your seat belt.” He pulled out of the parking lot. “I could take you to the Department of Children and Families. They’d put you up someplace tonight with a real bed.”
The boy sneered. “Been there, done that. Don’t want no more DCF shit. You try that shit again, I run away again. You hear me, man?”
“Okay. It’s your decision.”
“I’m okay with my sleeping bag.”
Chuck remembered sleeping rough in Afghanistan when they were on a mission. He’d never liked it.
“Where’d you get that sleeping bag anyway?”
“I found it in a pile of stuff on the curb outside one of the projects. They was throwing it away.”
“That where you got the chairs?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d you carry that big chair up two flights of stairs?”
“The guy who give me the grass. He helped me.”
“Is he a friend?”
“Don’t got no friends.”
Chuck’s insides twisted again at the matter-of-fact way the boy announced his aloneness.
“Then why did he help carry it?”
“I run errands for him. He pay me from time to time.”
“You carry drugs for him? You his mule?”
Sneakers looked sideways at me. “What you know about mules?”
“Children that drug dealers hire to carry their drugs. If they’re arrested, the mules are juveniles and they get off easy. That what you do?”
“Sometime, maybe.”
“You have any brothers or sisters?”
“Used to have a little sister.”
“Used to?”
He nodded.
“What happened to her?”
“She dead.” He showed no emotion.
Chuck thought of his own brother and sisters.
He took a moment before he could speak. “I’m sorry to hear that. How’d that happen?”
“A shooting on the street. A stray bullet went through the window into our bedroom. Hit her in the chest.” The boy spoke matter-of-factly.
Chuck felt bad for him, not only for the loss of his sister, but for the boy’s lack of emotion as he related the story of his sister’s death.
“When did that happen?”
“She was six and I was eight.”
“Were you there?”
“I was sleeping on the top bunk. She was on the bottom.”
“God, that’s terrible.”
The boy stared out the window in silence. Chuck didn’t say anything for a while. He drove another couple of blocks before he spoke. “Any other brothers or sisters?”
The boy shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
“Aunts or uncles?”
“My Aunt Desiree, s
he in prison. Got another aunt. Momma told me she live in Atlanta. Don’t remember ever meeting her. My Uncle Debonio, he got shot a few years ago. He belong to the wrong gang.”
“Any cousins?”
“All dead, in jail, or else gangbangers.”
“Why aren’t you in a gang?”
Sneakers turned to face Chuck. For once, he showed some animation. “Those dudes are crazy, man. Everybody know that.”
Chuck turned down the alley behind the warehouse and stopped in front of the access door. “We’re here. Here’s my card. If you think of anything else about that shooting, give me a call. Try to stay away from drug dealers. They’ll get you killed.”
“Can I have my knife back?”
Chuck handed him the switchblade.
Sneakers opened the door.
“Wait.” Chuck reached in his pocket and gave Sneakers a fifty-dollar bill.
“How I gonna spend a fifty-dollar bill?”
“You’re right.” He pulled out two twenties and a ten. “Let me change that for you.”
He laughed. “You sure you ain’t queer? The only dudes who offer me that much money are queers who want me to drop my pants.”
Chuck laughed with him. “Tell you what, Sneakers. I’ll give you another twenty dollars if you’ll do me one more small favor.”
He slapped his thighs. “Haw, haw, haw. I knew it. Here come the small favor.”
“Seriously, Sneakers, I’ll give you another twenty dollars if you’ll promise me to call them ‘gay’ from now on.”
His eyes widened. “You serious, man?”
Chuck nodded. “Serious as a drug bust.”
“For twenty bucks I can do that, man. But what’s it to you? You ain’t quee—gay.”
“Most gays find the word insulting and offensive.”
“So what? Why you care about them? You ain’t one of them.”
“Sneakers, how would you feel if someone called Veraleesa a nigger?”
He turned and looked out the windshield without expression. “That be Veraleesa’s problem.”
“How about if they called you a nigger?”
Double Fake, Double Murder (A Carlos McCrary, Private Investigator, Mystery Thriller Series Book 2) Page 6
