James Sallis - Eye of the Cricket

Now it was a school. Fleurs-de-lis and stylized coat-of-arms medallions high on the walls had been highlighted in peach, as had miniature, rooklike turrets at the roofline. The remainder of the building was light blue. Behind the building, riverside, half a dozen aluminum trailers squatted on high cinder-block foundations with stairways out front, intended to be temporary, auxiliary classrooms, now permanent.

The school on this late Saturday afternoon looked abandoned.

The front fence, facing on Joseph, was impassable, looped in lengths of chain and padlocked. Around to the side near the back, though, was an old delivery entrance. Roots from a nearby oak had shattered its drive to plugs of cement sitting all on different planes, vaguely geodesic, with shoots of giass and weed between them. The gate stood agap. There was a long groove in the cement where the gate had been forced open until it would go no farther, forward or back, and had remained so ever since.

I was crabbing through this gap, thinking I'd come too late, no one's here, it's a waste of time, when a young woman appeared outside a utility shed lodged at the lot's far corner. After a moment others began to emerge, individually, in pairs or small groups. Most wore gym clothes. Fleece shorts, sleeveless Ts and sweats, warm-ups. A few in skintight biker's shorts or cutoff jeans.

I watched as they slipped through the fence on their way back to cars, cups of coffee, Blockbuster videos, showers, drinks, apartments, homes. Stragglers included an elaborately coiffed fiftyish woman in silver warm-ups, a pair of black-clad silent teenagers, an elderly male so bent with arthritis that his face was parallel to the ground.

Was that it?

I waited.

Faint strands of music from inside. Something with a % beat, heavy bass.

The music shut off, and moments later a man stepped out. He wore an unreconstructed silk sportcoat over maroon T-shirt and chinos, carried a backpack and portable CD player. Pulling the door shut behind him, he glanced my way, but his eyes passed on. Then he seemed to remember something he'd forgotten or left behind, and went back into the building.

Towards which I was moving, fast.

I went through the front door just in time to see, out a back window, the chain-link fence rebounding where he'd gone over. It still sang against its posts. The window was never intended for exits, sudden or otherwise. Its frame hung by a corner, tapping alternately at fence and building side, snap-in plastic shutters dropping one by one to the ground.

A quick movement off in trees, worthy of Bigfoot or Deerslayer.

You live the way Rauch does, you better have good instincts and reflexes.

Somehow he'd sensed I was there. Knew I was there.

I went back inside. The floor, which also served as foundation, was cheap cement, poured quickly, pitted and uneven. Exercise mats were scattered about, folding steel chairs pushed together helter-skelter at the back. Two or three were capsized. Rauch had gone up over them to get to the window.

I'd reconnoitered before coming in, of course. The trees, half a block of them, were there to close the school off (symbolically, but it's a city of symbols) from streets behind. Those treeless streets bore derelict rows of single-family residences divided and redivided into housing for double, triple that or more. Front porches sinking like elephants onto their knees, foi'saken appliances, crippled furniture and tireless cars forever at curbside. Sun's fingers peeling paint off the sides of houses. Bodies of rats and squirrels bloating on sidewalks, beneath houses, in the mouths of sewer drains.

The city's tradition of corner grocers lived on here, though, and through the trees, connecting school and spurned neighborhood, where at Mr. Lee's store burgers, tacos, nachos and fries could be purchased, electronic games be played, years of students had worn and maintained a path.

I went over the fence and along that path and emerged just moments after Rauch.

As he came out of the trees, a black Honda Civic swung around the comer from Joseph and pulled in at the curb before him. Rauch peered into it-to all appearances as surprised as I was to see Shon Delany there in the car-and got in.

I was half a block off when the Honda pulled away. In the rearview mirror Shon watched me sprint towards them, slow and stop. I jotted down the license number in my notebook. These days, I trusted very little to memory.

I went back through the trees to the outbuilding, where I failed to find the clues any good detective surely would have, then took a bus home, where, before leaving again for dinner with Deborah and (as it turned out) her play, I sat at the kitchen table looking up at Zeke's note on the refrigerator door and thinking about prison.

Over the years I've spent scattered weekends and overnights in jail, three or four longer layouts as convenient suspect, detainee by caprice, material witness. But there's also one extended stretch-not on record, but floating around if you know where to look, who to ask, in some Platonic shadowland between the ideal and real.

What happened was, I got picked up on Dryades, half a block down from my rented room, for matching the description of someone who had held up a store on Jackson and shot its owner when he pulled a lead pipe with tape on one end out from under the counter.

Matching the description was a joke, of course. Cops (those days white, the only kind) were on the lookout for a young black man. Big and dangerous looking, reports said. That was, what? 65 percent of anyone out on the street in that part of town? Eye of the beholder. But there I was, fortunate enough to be stumbling along as the prowl car drove by. And since I was drunk-this may have been one of my earliest blackouts-not only couldn't I answer questions to their satisfaction, I was so befuddled I didn't even know what was going on.

One moment I'd been doggedly slogging my way towards home, the next I was facedown on the sidewalk with arms behind me and an officer's knee in my kidney. Some of it came back to me later in bits and pieces, fragments, like a series of unrelated snapshots.

When I woke up hours later on a steel bench, two guys were leaning over me. Hard to believe human breath could smell that bad. One had eyes set at the sides of his face like a fish's and a nose that looked like a new potato. The other's eyes were set so close only his hatchetlike nose kept them apart. These guys had about six teeth between them.

"Nigguh comin'roun', Bo."

Answered by a grunt.

The first speaker was the one whose bladderlike hand covered my throat. The grunt came from farther off. I tried to flex my legs and couldn't. He was holding them down.

"Been a while since we had us dark meat."

Something between giggle and gag by way of response, footwards, from the other.

I reached up suddenly, without opening my eyes, and snapped the first one's thumb. As he reflexively pulled away, I seized his forearm and hand, and broke the wrist between them.

Then I did the fastest sit-up of my life-easier with him holding down my legs like a good coach-and snagged number two's hair in my hand. His head bent back, his arms loosened on my legs. I took him down to the floor, falling on top. Drove my fist into his throat. He tried at the same time to scream and draw a breath, and couldn't do either.

Everything in the cell had stopped, gone on hold, for the eight seconds this took. Now people started moving again, conversations started back up.

Nobody saw anything, of course, when the Man asked. What fight? Hey, they'd all been asleep.

I spent almost two weeks, shuttled from cell to cell, in the cement belly of that beast, habeas corpus nowhere on the horizon.

It was Frank ie DeNoux who found out where I was and sent his lawyer to pry me loose. Frankie was a bail bondsman I sometimes worked for, and I spent a few weeks then working for his lawyer, writing letters, tending files and running errands, until I'd paid off what I owed him. My place on Dryades had beenrented out to someone else while I was gone, so Frank ie's lawyer let me sleep in the supply room.