Джеффри Дивер - Ninth and Nowhere

Fromm wondered if that was still street slang for “money.”

“Yessir. Can I go, sir? My daughter’s got a recital. I can still see the last half.”

“Sure. Detectives’ll be in touch.”

Carlos walked off, circling wide around the bloodstains.

Fromm looked at the scene. He noticed Jamal was flexing and unflexing his hand. The gun had been a small-frame.38. Stung like hell to shoot.

There was another convenience store up at the corner. He’d give the kid some money and have him buy a cup of ice and some baggies, for the pain.

Fromm sent a text to Martha’s caregiver, explaining that he might be a little later than planned. Something had come up at work.

Esmerelda texted back that was fine and he could take his time. Martha was having a good day. Another line followed.

She say to tell her handsome husband she loves him.

Finally.

Some kind soul had given him a ten.

The woman, midfifties, trim and wearing shoes that matched her beige raincoat, explained that her son had served in Iraq. She’d deduced Adam was a vet too. Was she right?

“Yes, ma’am.”

He’d endured her rambling discussion of her son’s PTSD, how it slowed his advancement at an investment banking firm on Wall Street. He didn’t get the bonus he’d hoped for.

“But he’s coping,” she’d said.

Adam had struggled for patience, even asking polite questions about the man and successfully reining in his urge to scream. A ten is a ten.

Ah, the things we do for the things we need...

With Hamilton in his pocket, the wasps didn’t go silent but the keening buzz dipped a few decibels. Ever frugal, Adam slipped his paper cup into his jacket and walked toward Ninth Street, and the Quik Mart, where his breakfast wine awaited.

But when he turned the corner, he stopped fast. The street was blocked off by police cars and ambulances and there were a number of cops milling about, along with reporters and camera people and spectators.

A shooting.

In the center was the orange-shoe kid who’d given him the money, talking to a uniformed cop, an older guy. A sign in the door said, “Closed,” though that wasn’t really necessary because the police had strung yellow tape all around it. And there were bloodstains on the ground.

Adam felt his breath coming a bit faster, his heart tapping urgently. And, of course, the wasps were back, a whole fucking hive of them.

God, I’m sorry, Todd. Forgive me.

Tears welled.

Breathe, breathe, breathe...

Okay. Got it. Barely.

Wine detail now. Quik Mart was out. But at the intersection where he stood was a chain convenience store. Much more expensive. His money wouldn’t go as far but at least he’d get his bottle.

He paid for his purchases and started out, glancing at a TV behind the clerk. He stopped fast, staring at the story, a local report of a shootout on Ninth Street — at Quik Mart!

On the screen was the kid in the orange shoes. He was Jamal Davis, the daytime manager of the shop. How our prejudices stay wound tight as a wet knot. Adam had been sure the kid was a gangbanger. Davis had shot and killed a man who’d been about to murder a customer. Possibly a robbery, possibly some other motive. The police were still investigating.

Adam was thinking: Damn. If he’d gotten enough money for the bottle at Quik Mart forty-five minutes ago, he would have been inside when the shooting happened. Fate is one bizarre fucker.

He stepped outside, unscrewed the bottle and had his first glorious sip of the day.

Okay, one more.

As he was about to turn around and head back to his begging station, he glanced across the street and noted some movement in an alleyway. Somebody was there, a man, in the shadows, hiding.

Did this have anything to do with the shooting?

The man stepped to the entrance of the alley. Well. It was the skinny black guy — Hoodie Man, the one who’d asked about the kid, Jamal.

Hoodie Man stuck his head out and looked toward Quik Mart. Adam followed his gaze and saw Jamal taking some money from the cop and walking this way. Maybe to buy something at the convenience store. Jamal was on his mobile, not looking around. Hoodie Man ducked back into the shadows and drew a pistol from his pocket. A Glock, it looked like.

He was going to kill the young man. Maybe he was a witness? Maybe the man Jamal had shot was Hoodie Man’s friend.

Adam closed his eyes briefly. And he thought of what was sitting on his table in his apartment. His own gun, the Colt. Often, he carried it with him, just in case the moment came when he was in a park, at night, or by the river. Alone. The wine gone, the wasps buzzing louder and louder and louder... And he’d kiss the muzzle.

Today he could’ve used it for something else.

Ah, well...

He took one long sip of wine and, as he charged toward Hoodie Man, flung the bottle into the alley, beyond him.

It crashed onto the ground, and Hoodie Man turned toward the sound. But only briefly, then the wiry man’s instincts seem to kick in. He spun toward Adam, who was shouting, “Jamal, run!”

Whether the boy ran or not, he couldn’t tell. Hoodie Man fired at Adam as he dove forward. He felt the hot gas on his cheek as he crashed into the man.

In the army they teach you that hand-to-hand combat is nothing like the karate fights you see in the movies. It’s grappling, wrestling, struggling to use a weapon or take a weapon away. It’s kicking, biting, gouging.

This is what Adam did now, fiercely gripping the man’s shooting-hand wrist, digging nails into his skin and flaying away with his left hand.

The gun fired again.

Like with the first shot, he didn’t know if he’d been hit or not. His face and neck were numb. From the fierce muzzle flash? Or had the 9 mm slugs actually torn into his body and opened vessels?

No matter, he decided. Wounded or not, he still had strength, from some reserve somewhere, and his grip was sure. He controlled Hoodie Man’s shooting hand and kept the weapon pointed safely to the ground.

“Motherfucker,” Hoodie Man muttered, then yelped in pain as Adam’s left fist collided with his nose. The gun fell to the ground and Adam dragged the man away from it. He smelled pot and sweat and some kind of biting aftershave lotion. His own unpleasant body scent too.

He took a few oblique hits to the ear and cheek, and subdued Hoodie Man completely with an elbow to the face. But then the police were all over them, dragging them apart and cuffing both.

Medics attended to them. Adam had not been shot, though he did have burns from the flash and powder embedded in his cheek. His right ear sang from the loud report of the gunshot — though a tone lower than the wasps. A young technician, a woman, sat close, ignoring the odor, and dabbed salve on the spot. After the treatment, he sat on the curb while the older police officer — a nice-enough guy named Arthur Fromm — checked his and Hoodie Man’s records. He listened to Adam’s story and ordered him unshackled. Jamal walked up and thanked him, looking him straight in the eye and shaking his hand.

Adam nodded but gave no other response.

Hoodie Man, whose name turned out to be Lester Banks, was apparently the head of a gang in a neighborhood not far away. He’d done time but had no current warrants, Adam heard. He was arrested for a handful of offenses.

Officer Fromm asked Jamal, “You ever see him before?” And he asked it in the kind of way that told Adam that the cop was absolutely certain the boy and Lester had seen each other before.

“No, sir.”

An answer that, Adam was sure, Officer Fromm was absolutely certain he’d hear.

“Okay,” the cop said.

“I gotta get to my grandmother’s.”

“You go on. I’ll be in touch. But put ice on that hand.”