Raffi Yessayan - 2 in the Hat

Luther sat on the steps of the old Victorian watching the sun set over Highland Park. The Crispus Attucks Youth Center was buzzing, a group of boys playing hoops in the driveway-skins versus the shirts, even in this cool weather-with a few girls cheering them on. Inside the Center, boys and girls were using the computers to do research for school papers or getting tutored by older kids.

Luther checked his watch. Richard Zardino should have been here by now. They had planned to go out tonight and meet with some of the potential clients they had been mentoring on the street, the ones who refused to come to the Youth Center. Luther and Zardino had to meet these kids on their own turf if they were going to get through to them. This was the part of the job that Luther loved, working with the kids everyone else had given up on.

This would be the second time Zardino had blown him off in the last week. What was wrong? Rich was acting different, preoccupied, and when Luther tried to talk to him, he was distant. When they did meet the kids, Zardino wasn’t listening to what they had to say, and listening was the only way to gain their trust.

Luther saw a set of headlights turn the corner onto St. James from Warren and climb the hill. He stood and walked to the edge of the curb. This had to be Zardino.

But it wasn’t.

It was a late model, dust-covered Ford Five Hundred. When it pulled next to the curb, he could see that it had blue lights in the grill and strobes mounted on the dash. Jump Out Boys. Detectives.

Ray Figgs eased himself out of the driver’s seat. He didn’t look like the same Ray Figgs he’d seen when George Wheeler’s body had been discovered or on the night Junior Simpson was shot and killed. He looked more like the Ray Figgs who used to chase Luther and his boys around when they were younger, runnin’ and gunnin,’ before Luther found his calling. More color to his face, more meat on his bones.

“Good evening, Darius,” Figgs said, extending his hand. “Or is it D-Lite? It’s been a long time.”

“It’s Luther.”

“We need to talk, Luther.”

“I tried to talk to you the night Junior got straightened. Said you were too busy. Now you want to talk.”

“ Lot of violence in the city, lately.”

“Always has been.” Luther pointed to the hand-carved and painted sign hanging above the door of the Youth Center. “Crispus Attucks met a violent death. Took two in the chest. March 5th, 1770. Boston Massacre. Right outside the Old State House. Brothers have been dying violent deaths in the city ever since.”

“I’m not talking back in the day. I’m talking about violence caused by a specific gun. The.40 caliber being passed around. Talked about it at the meeting a few weeks ago. Same meeting you and your partner were hiding out in the back of the room.”

“Maybe you should talk to one of the cowboys you got working at the Youth Violence Strike Force.”

“You know more about what’s going on out in the streets than they do. What I want to know is how could one gun get passed around from one gang to the next, causing the deaths of Jesse Wilcox, George Wheeler, and Michael Rogers?”

Luther hesitated a moment before he answered the detective. “You forgot Junior Simpson. He got killed with a Four-o.”

“Different.40, confirmed by ballistics.”

“Word on the street is it was the same gun.”

“Word on the street is wrong. The gun that killed Wilcox, Wheeler and Rogers ended up under the front seat of Stutter Simpson’s car. How could that have happened?”

“It couldn’t have. Doesn’t make sense.” Luther glanced over at the driveway. He didn’t want the kids to see him standing there, talking to the detective, but it was better than talking to him in his car. “They were from different crews, not beefing with each other. Yet they end up shot by the same gun? Then the gun ‘conveniently’ ends up in the hands of the man who supposedly committed the Wilcox murder? All neat and clean for you.”

“What do you know about Stutter?” Figgs asked.

The man seemed genuine. Like he was looking for answers, not just a boy to hang a rap on. “For one thing, he’s old school. He’d use a revolver, not a semi. No casings, no evidence. Why would a seasoned kid like Stutter Simpson have a gun he knew had a body on it? Detective, he’d get rid of that gun, maybe cut it in pieces, spread it around the city. Not ride around like a fool sittin’ on top of a gun.”

When Ray Figgs shook his hand, Luther saw something new in the detective’s eyes. He’d seen the look before, in kids who wanted to get out of the life. Kids who really wanted to change. It was the look of determination.

The living room was dark. Connie opened a crack in the drapes and checked out the street. The fluorescent blue minivan parked at the corner didn’t belong. It had been parked there at odd times over the last couple of days. It had to be Zardino.

It was irritating to have Zardino following him. It interfered with his schedule. He couldn’t go for his run. A run would create an opportunity for Zardino to catch him alone on a quiet, dark street. He could handle Zardino, no problem, in a hand-to-hand situation. But Zardino liked to use a gun.

Connie couldn’t give him any openings. Just one more day was all he needed. Then their roles would be reversed, the would-be-hunter becoming the hunted. Connie had done his homework, fine-tuned his moves. Everything was in place. Zardino would be back where he belonged.

Connie walked through the dark house, making his way to the basement stairs. He needed to go to his work area, sit in the dark, think things through a final time. The banister was cool and smooth under his hand. He could see the headlights of passing cars making swimming disks of light, moving across the room and ceiling. He thought he heard a car door slam.

Then the doorbell chimed.

Alves moved to the side of the door after ringing the bell. This wasn’t a social call, although he wanted Connie to think it was. He rang the bell a second time. He kept his left hand behind his back. Maybe Connie was out.

Another minute and the door opened. Connie was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt.

“Going for a run?” Alves asked.

“Not now.”

Alves swung his left hand out from behind his back, revealing a six-pack of Miller High Life, and extended it toward Connie. “Peace offering.”

“You didn’t need to do that,” Connie said.

“I felt bad about yesterday. I shouldn’t have blown you off. It’s the stress getting to me. And you know how Mooney is.”

“Not a big deal. I shouldn’t involve myself in your investigations. Just thought I could help with this one.”

Alves took a step toward Connie and raised the beer a little higher. “You going to invite me in or are we going to talk through a screen door all night.”

Connie hesitated, maybe a second too long, then said, “Sure, come on in. I was down the basement stretching. Lucky I heard the doorbell.”

Connie turned on the living room lamp and they sat on the couch. The room had furniture and simple curtains but no framed pictures on the walls or knickknacks scattered around. It took a woman to decorate a house, make it look like a home. He tried not to think about his own house, decorated but empty without Marcy and the twins. Alves left the beer on the coffee table.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in here,” Alves said. “The place looks great.”

“Thanks.”

“You do all this work yourself?”

“Everything. Plaster, paint, woodwork, floors.”

“Nice job. How about the grand tour?”