“And you’re saying this whole way of operating isn’t solving the problem, it’s making it worse?”
“Sure. Our biggest problems in the black community aren’t external, they’re internal. Once whites routinely did terrible things against blacks, yet despite this many blacks succeeded against the worst odds. But even though there’s still plenty of racism, it isn’t nearly as powerful or restrictive—whites aren’t doing nearly as many terrible things to us now. Yet a higher percentage of blacks are failing than when racism was far worse. The opportunities and odds blacks face are much better, but for many the outcome is much worse.”
“But why? I still don’t really understand it,” Jake said.
“In the post-civil-rights race establishment,” Clarence said, “the equation is always the same. It’s very simple. As Shelby Steele explains it, Black Failure equals White Guilt. So blacks who fail cannot be blamed for their failure, therefore have no responsibility for their failure, therefore have no responsibility to change or to succeed. In fact, if they believe the equation—and millions do—they’re convinced they cannot succeed. The power over their lives doesn’t belong to them. It belongs to the white racists behind every bush. It teaches irresponsibility. One day I saw a couple of black kids break a store window, and the white store owner pointed a finger at them. One of the kids said, ‘You’re just accusing us ’cause we’re black.’ See, he’d learned the game. The victim, the store owner, was now the criminal, the racist. The true criminal, the window breaker, was now the victim. Of course, boys of every race will break windows—but those that don’t have the excuse of always being the victim are more likely to own up to their responsibility.
“All this leads to the dilemma of the middle-class black. On the one hand, despite his success, he may believe he’s still a victim. Say he’s a police sergeant—if he was white he’d be a lieutenant. Say he’s a company vice president—if it wasn’t for being black he’d be president. And whether or not he feels like a victim, he knows that his very success makes people see him as a traitor to the poor black. Because if some blacks are succeeding it means blacks can succeed despite racism, and if that’s true, then the philosophical cornerstone has been destroyed—the supposed victim status and helplessness of blacks. So instead of being an inspiration, white-collar blacks who succeed in business—in almost any career besides entertainment, athletics, or politics—are looked at with suspicion or even disdain.”
Clarence pushed back his empty mocha cup. He sighed. “Well, so much for analyzing the world’s problems. I’ve got another funeral to attend.”
Ty stared at GC’s closed coffin. He couldn’t believe his mentor was gone. Different emotions swirled within him, each taking turns gripping his heart. One was fear, dread, a sense he had to get away from the set. The other was a thirst for justice, a desire for revenge, a thought that he should do something to get even. But get even with whom? There was no one to take revenge on. Bloods hadn’t done this. GC had done it to himself.
GC’s mother was surrounded by three women—two sisters and their mother, GC’s grandma. They sobbed and wailed inconsolably.
Taleisha, GC’s girl, was dressed out fine. Her makeup was heavy, her diamond-studded fingernails looked like the talons of some exotic bird. Her fingers sported a cluster of gold rings, a half dozen of them on each hand, some doubled up on the same finger. Her gold earrings were miniature Cadillac emblems inlaid with precious stones. GC had bought them for her, or so she told herself. She had the look of a girl who used her appearance to get her way as GC used his street smarts to get his. Taleisha cried. Ty felt sorry for her, until he looked over and saw her in a corner looking into a mirror and putting on lip gloss.
Shadow, GC’s lieutenant, stood fast, talking with no one, his granite face pierced only by two smoky gray eyes. With GC gone, he was the Rollin’ 60s heir apparent. Ty looked at him in awe.
Pastor Clancy stood up front. “On days like this, you want to look for the best. But it’s hard to find, real hard. If Raymond could come back here today, just for a moment, I know what he’d tell us. He’d say wake up. He’d say life is a mist, a puff of smoke. You’re going to live forever somewhere, but not here. If you hang with the gangs, you may think you’ll survive, but you won’t. You’ll end up in a casket like Raymond, dying at somebody else’s hand or your own. Life is short enough. Don’t make it shorter. The gangs are your enemy, not your friend. You have only today to get your life straight, and maybe not the whole day either. So better make your peace with God now. I’ll help you any way I can. Ebenezer Church will help you any way we can. Come to us. Come while you still can, before it’s too late.”
Many of the adults cried and moaned. Most of the kids sat still, numb. The Abernathys sat together, except Keisha and Celeste, who were home with Hattie Burns. Geneva sat by Jonah; Clarence by Tyrone. Clarence put his arm around Ty, surprised to sense no resistance. Jonah whispered to Geneva, “Mama, I don’t want to die like GC. I want to die normal.”
As the organ played, the ushers dismissed the attendees row by row to walk past the closed pine box up front. As he walked by the remains of a ghetto star who’d called him his road dog, Ty whispered, “You can’t be dead, GC. You can’t be. You weren’t never gonna die. Why’d you do it? Why’d you have to play that stupid game?”
Ty felt mad at the world and mad at GC. Though it seemed blasphemy to think it, he wondered if the dude he’d been named after was the ultimate cool or the ultimate fool. He thought about Jason. He thought about how he’d spun the chamber himself, and he could have just as easily died like Jason did. He recalled the clicking sound of the firing pin. He was certain that if he ever did that again, he’d die. He felt frightened and empty.
When Ty went home, he retreated into his bedroom. He took a box out of his closet, filled with comic books. He reached down to the bottom, under all the comics, and found the nine-millimeter Taurus GC had given him. He held it in his hand, and for the first time that day, he wept.
“Clarence? Ollie. We’re in an unusual lull. Just wrapped up two cases. In light of what Mr. Kim saw— the red sweatshirts and all—Manny and I are going back to the hood to ask more questions. We’re expanding, canvassing a one-mile radius of your sister’s place. It’s a huge job, but we’ve got some time we weren’t counting on. We’ve been to homes, gas stations, liquor stores, you name it.”
“Found anything?”
“Zero. To be honest I’m not sure most of the people trust a white and a Hispanic enough to really talk to us. So I decided to split us up. Steve, one of the black detectives, agreed to join Manny for the day. I was wondering if you’d like to tag along with me. Unofficially, of course.”
“Okay. I can get out of here by two. That soon enough?”
“Perfect. How about I meet you at your house at two-thirty and we go from there? We’ll start with Taco Bell.”
“I’m Detective Ollie Chandler, homicide. This is Clarence Abernathy. He’s from the neighborhood.”
“Herb Adrianne.” The short wiry manager extended his hand. “Welcome to the world of Taco Bell.”
“I’m investigating the death of Dani Rawls.”
“Lady over on Jackson?” Herb asked. “Used to come here with her kids. Always wore bright colors. Seemed nice. That happened awhile back. What? August?”
“September 2. To be honest, Herb, the investigation needs a kick-start. I’m grasping at straws, wondering if anybody remembers anything about the night of September 2.”
“That’s been awhile. Let’s see. We were robbed August 14 and September 10. Those dates stick with me. You fill out all those forms—hard to forget.”
“I hear you,” Ollie said. “Guess I was hoping maybe you saw somebody suspicious.”
“I know the people from this hood,” Herb said, “from most the hoods ’round here. They know I know ’em. They’re welcome in my place, but I don’t put up with any nonsense. I tell ’em this ain’t Burger King—can’t have it your way. No g
ang signs here. You flash and you’re out. Some kids don’t like that, but most do. It’s a lot safer. Now when dudes come in from the outside, I know it’s big trouble. Turf thing.”
“Do you get many new faces?”
“Nope. New faces come in with old faces, not by themselves. Always watch the new faces close. Chances are they’re gonna start somethin’ or somebody’s gonna start on them. I even watch the cars—write ’em up if I see trouble comin’.”
“Write ’em up?”
“Yeah, scribble down their license number. Comes in handy when somebody takes a shot or steals somethin’ and hops in their car. With all the confusion, sometimes it’s too late to get the plates.”
“Where do you write down the license numbers?” Ollie asked.
“Keep a ledger book under the register.”
“Do you write down the dates?”
“Yeah, I think so. Usually.”
“Can I take a look?”
“Sure.” Herb took him back behind the register, then handed him the green-covered ledger tablet and flipped to the back. “It’s all yours. Let me get on top of my crew here and I’ll be back, okay?”
Ollie and Clarence scanned the various dates, seeing license plate numbers and notations, such as “tall,” “muscular,” “fat,” “weight lifter,” “White,” “Mexican,” “Kerby Crip,” “Rollin’60.” Obviously Herb wanted to be able to describe them to the police if they ended up perps or suspects.
The records went back over a year, nearly a dozen of them each month, covering several pages. The date wasn’t always clear, but could be roughly figured out by the dates it fell between. With Clarence peenng down over his shoulder, Ollie scanned up to the present and slowed down as he saw an extensive notation for August 14 and again on September 10, the dates of the robberies. He looked at the ten entries in between, not expecting to see September 2.
“There it is.” Clarence beat Ollie to it. “September 2—Two black males. 6′2” skinny, 5’7” stocky. Both blue jeans, black leather jackets, black caps, Jordans. Stocky guy: tough looking, shark eyes.”
“It’s followed by some words I can’t read, then a license number,” Ollie said, jotting it down: Oregon, CWR 403. “Back in a minute, Herb,” he called. Clarence followed Ollie outside while Herb waved and returned to instructing a teenage employee on how to mop up spilled coffee.
Ollie unlocked the car and reached under his seat. He took out what looked like a gigantic cell phone with a full keyboard and screen.
“What’s that?” Clarence asked.
“MDT. Mobile Data Terminal. Ties me into LEDS—Law Enforcement Data System. All the mobile units are hooked up to the mainframe in Salem. This’ll take a few minutes. Make yourself at home. If you want a snack, you can probably find some pretty good stuff in the seat cracks. This is my stakeout car. Ever seen an evidence collection kit? Got a couple under your seat. Usually keep ’em in the trunk, but it’s been leaking. Check ’em out.”
Ollie typed in OR, CWR 403, and some other information. Clarence looked in the first kit. He examined the scissors, wire cutters, tweezers, pliers, knives, syringes, and a vast array of other tools, pens, paper, plastic evidence bags, a flashlight, and measuring tape. Two cameras and lenses filled another kit—one a 35 mm Nikon, the other a Polaroid for the quickies. Next was a compact video camera case. Another kit contained plaster casting, silicone rubber putty, dust and dirt hardener, oil coater, and other materials to make casts and molds. The final kit was marked, “Document evidence collection.” It had transparent protective covers and paper envelopes, tweezers, and a magnifying glass. Looking over all this, for the first time in his life Clarence thought it might be kind of fun to be a cop, at least a detective.
Clarence looked at Ollie’s MDT. “I’ve never seen one of these. The ones in cop cars are bigger, aren’t they?”
“Detectives carry the smaller units,” Ollie said. “You don’t want the full-size computer terminals. Not conducive to undercover work. The MDT gets you everything you need. While it’s processing, let’s get back to Herb.”
As they walked inside, Herb moved toward them, straightening a few salt and pepper shakers along the way. He pointed back at the young boy mopping the floor. “He’s gonna be a good employee. Nobody taught him how to clean. Well, he’s gonna learn here. You know, for kids today, it’s all about ‘cool’ and ‘party.’ With ‘cool’ you look good rather than be good. It’s all image, no character. ‘Party’ is do what you want, when you want. Sounds great to them, but all it creates is chaos. These kids don’t know how to blush anymore. They don’t know the rules. They don’t have any guardrails to keep them from going off the cliff. We’ve got to rebuild the guardrails. Well, this is just Taco Bell, gentlemen, but it’s my turf and in here we’ve got guardrails. In here my kids learn how to work and show respect.”
Clarence noted the look of pride and accomplishment in Herb’s eyes.
“Found an entry the day of the murder,” Ollie said.
“Question, Herb,” Clarence said. “You give exact figures for how tall the dudes are. How can you be so sure?”
“Take a good look at the door,” Herb said, smiling broadly. Clarence looked at the door and saw the colorful lettering and red-marked design. Suddenly he realized what the red marks really were.
“A height chart,” Clarence said, noticing a 6 and a 5 and one-inch increments above and below each, with wider marks at quarters and halves, like on rulers.
“Yeah. Got the idea from the 7-Eleven. The crook walks out the door, you just watch him, and you’ve got his height. All we need is a scale on the floor, and we’d have their weight too.”
“How about a trap door?” Ollie asked. “You could push a button and drop out the bottom as they head out.”
“Now you’re talkin’.” Herb laughed.
“There’s no time indicated in your book,” Ollie said. “You wouldn’t know when these guys were here?”
“Well, maybe I can narrow it down,” Herb said. “Got a calendar?” Ollie opened his schedule book and found one. “Okay, September 2, that was a Saturday? I only work a half day Saturdays, seven to midnight. Had to be after seven and before midnight. That help?”
“Yeah. Okay, do you remember these guys? One tall, the other short and muscular, Levis, Air Jordans? Black jackets?”
Herb looked down at his own description. “Fits a lot of dudes. Hold on. ‘Shark eyes’? Yeah, it’s comin’ back. They looked mean, especially the shorter one. Like they’d been around the block a couple thousand times. Yeah. Thought trouble was comin’ for sure.”
“What are these words here I can’t read?” Clarence pointed, and Herb looked closer.
“Silver Lexus,” Herb said. “Sure. It’s all comin’ back. A ’95 or ’96, I think, all tricked out, those fancy wide tires with those gold zenith wire wheels, the ones that cost a couple of months’ rent.”
“People have been killed over wheels like that,” Ollie said. “A couple dozen at least in California last year. What else?”
“Slammed down. Lower than a snake’s belly. Cragared down to the max.”
“Hydraulics?”
“Maybe.”
“Neon lights?”
“Not sure. Don’t think so. Big money though. Figured these brothas didn’t win the lottery. Had to be drugs, and drugs always mean trouble. Fancy black jackets. Gold chains, the whole deal. They just sat there pickin’ at their food, seems like an hour. Thought maybe they were waitin’ for a drug deal.”
“Any gang indicators?”
“Nothing. That was strange too. No visible tattoos—of course they had these black jackets, kept them on even though we keep it plenty warm in here. Plain black baseball caps. The type you buy and put an insignia on, except they hadn’t yet. No hand signs, no rags, no colors.”
“You talk to either of them?” Ollie asked.
“I came over and asked if there was anything else I could get ’em. Nice way of saying, ‘I’m watchin’ you
.’ Gave me that cocky look, like, ‘We own the place.’ Decided to give ’em a few more minutes before I kicked their rears out. Next thing I know, they ghosted. Saw ’em leavin’ in time to check their height. Still didn’t trust ’em.”
“That all?”
“No. Somethin’ else. See, mostly girls work that shift. I usually send the guys out back to the dumpster, but when it’s girls, I take out the trash myself. I remember I did that night because there was that silver Lexus parked by the dumpster, big as you please. Same two dudes, like an hour later. They’d just driven to the back. They were on my turf two hours. Like they were waitin’ or casin’ the place. Kind of spooked me.”
“Look like they were slammin’ or smokin’ weed?”
“No. Eyes looked clear—not drugged out. I thought maybe it was a hit brewin’, so when I went back in I took a good look at my nine, made sure it was loaded. Told my workers don’t go out back. It was strange though, just the two of ’em in that tricked out car. Saturday night, but like they had no place to go. Just waitin’.”
“You sure they had on black leather jackets. Didn’t see any red sweatshirts?”
“No. Red would stick out here on Crip turf. You don’t wear red unless you want people to know you’re Bloods.”
“When did they leave?”
“Don’t know exactly. It was late when I took out the garbage, maybe 11:40? But I checked again before I left, at five after midnight say. They were gone. Think this means anything?”
“It could,” Ollie said. “Thanks for your help, Herb.”
“Any time. I’m on your side of the law, you know. Hey, how about a couple of burritos, on the house?” Ollie’s eyes lit up as though he’d won the lottery.
“Cops are always welcome here. I give ’em free coffee or Cokes, toss ’em a taco or two. Figure if them bein’ here stops one robbery, it pays for twenty years of free coffee.”