“Good luck with those radio instructions, Sarge.” The old guy shook his head. “Just like last time. They’ll send us someplace and then won’t know where we are. You’ll try to get confirmations and you’ll get nothing.”
Next to Salt, Pepper said, “I think it was Tolstoy, ‘Stand by to stand by.’”
To the west the sun had just gone down, giving its last light to some low blue-gray clouds. They didn’t see smoke but caught wafts of something burning.
With her ear to her radio Sergeant Fellows walked away from the group so she could hear the transmissions. She came back to them. “We’ll just stay together. I haven’t been told where they want us yet.”
The radio crackled with constant traffic, officers reporting crowd movements, damage to property, injuries to marchers and bystanders, and requests for the fire department.
“Oh, hell, no!” Suddenly Pepper began squeezing his eyes open and shut. “Shit. Shit. Shit!”
Then she smelled it. “CS.” SWAT was probably only blocks away. Things must be getting dicey.
Pepper wasn’t just sensitive to the capsicum gas but was strongly reactive, always had been. The faintest molecule sent him into fits of watering eyes and sneezing. “You got any tissues, napkins?” He bent over, wiping his eyes.
“Eyewash.” Fellows handed him a bottled water and a package of baby wipes. “I’m with you all the way, dude.” She carried a large packed-full gear bag.
Salt’s phone vibrated again. Ann, Pepper’s wife, said, “He forgot the first-aid kit I put together for him, including the eyewash. I am not going to watch TV or get on the Internet. You’ll be my only source, Salt. Call me.”
“So far we’re just on standby. If they deploy us—” A car alarm sounded close by but out of sight on the other side of the church. Salt plugged one ear and held the phone close. “Nothing, Ann. Just a car alarm. Listen, if we’re deployed we probably won’t be able to use our phones, noise and all.”
“Squad! Form up!” Fellows shouted.
A large plume of black smoke snaked above the lower buildings to the southwest in a valley of streets. The smell of burning rubber combined with the peppery CS odor.
“I’ll call, Ann.” Salt couldn’t hear anything more. She tucked the phone away, secured the straps on her helmet, gathered up her shield, and fell in beside the others.
“Okay, folks.” Fellows raised her voice so she could be heard over the other sergeants nearby also giving assignments to their squads. “We’ve drawn City Hall, the main entrance on Mitchell Street. All we have to do is stand there and look formidable. They don’t know what the crowds will do so they’re assigning us to strategic locations. Squad . . .” Fellows paused. “Forward. March. Whatever.” She led them to the sidewalk and then fell back and walked beside Salt. It wasn’t like they didn’t know the way. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing,” she told Salt out of the side of her mouth.
“I suspect that as long as you know that, you’ll be fine.” Salt grinned. “We got your back, Sarge.”
In the distance came the sound of breaking glass, as though large shards were falling to the pavement from high up. As they turned the corner onto Mitchell Street, less than a block away, a burning car flared, then exploded, shooting flames up, down, and sideways. “Holy shit,” Fellows said, stepping to the front of their group, halted at the sight. She began talking into the radio.
Salt fell back beside Pepper as they walked half a block to the bottom of the two-level steps that led up to the filigree brass doors of City Hall. He sniffed and wiped his eyes. “Your eyes clearing?” she asked. There was another boom from blocks away and another explosion from the burning car. They all instinctively ducked. “They better be,” Pepper said, adjusting his grip on his shield, the surface of which flashed with reflections of flames. The intersection west of them, half a block below, began to flow with people walking mostly south. In the flow were currents, peaceful marchers carrying signs and chanting. Then there were partyers and pranksters, and groups of young males. The squad stood at ease, shields in the at-rest position. They grouped around Salt and Pepper, some of them former academy mates. Jackson Thornton, her friend from the HOPE Team, and a couple of other uniforms from the downtown precinct, two detectives and a brand-new rookie, twenty-two years old and fresh from graduation, made up the rest of the squad waiting there together, protecting the city government’s entrance.
The crowd below continued south. “They want us literally at the front doors,” said Fellows, leading them up the steps where their backs would be against the glass and brass filigree of the locked and chained doors. Standing along the top step, which seemed too narrow for good purchase, the toes of their boots hanging over the next step, they watched the crowd below move by. “No justice, no peace.” Some of the participants turned their heads toward them. “Fuck the police,” as they passed less than a block away.
“Stand by. Stand by,” a commander repeated over and over, emphatically, amidst other radio traffic: “Looting Pryor and Wall . . .” “Stand by . . .” “Ambulance . . .”
“At ease,” Fellows said.
It was getting cold, but on the side of Pepper’s face a single drop of sweat slid along the scar that ran from his temple to his jaw. As if he wouldn’t anyway, Salt knew Wills would have asked him to watch out for her. Instinctively she was comforted by Pep’s presence, that he would be the more likely target just because of his size. Then almost simultaneously she felt ashamed of the feeling. He turned his face to her, eyes moist, twinkling. “Don’t be standin’ next to me, white girl. You got a target on you.” He made a show of backing away, his infectious laugh spreading to the rest.
Many of them had started the day earlier than their usual shift times, later for some, all of them tired from the tension of waiting, and now being on post was getting to them. They sat on the steps. Pepper, flexible from his aikido practice, easily folded his long legs crosswise. He was wearing his uniform boots, the sole of one separated at the toe. Fellows sat down next to Salt. “You find out why that grandmother waited so long to report the girl missing?”
“We just barely got a preliminary interview with her before this detail. She said she didn’t want Mary to go back into custody.”
“It occur to you that this”—Fellows nodded at the marchers—“began all in the name of, as a demand and a call to action for, women and the right to be safe? And here you are not solving the case of a murdered girl.”
“People want their voices heard,” Salt said, shrugging.
Pepper leaned over. “You two gonna solve the world’s problems or get me something to eat?”
“Eat!” Fellows got on her phone.
The marchers dwindled to a few stragglers. Fire trucks pulled up to the car down the street and began hosing it down, steam rising from the scalding spray. A paddy wagon delivered bags of cold burgers, wilting fries, and boxes of watery coffee. The granite steps grew hard and chilling as the night wore on.
THE HOMES
Across the short, quiet street from Sister Connelly’s old house, two surveyors in orange vests were taking readings, positioning their tripods at various locations around two dilapidated apartment buildings, most of the units boarded up. Sister was sitting on one of the bottom steps to her front porch, eyes closed, face turned up to the early morning sun. Her waist-length white hair, loosened from its usual braid, was spread over a towel around her shoulders. Salt stood at the gate admiring her winter garden. “I’m glad I brought pecans and not some of Mr. Gooden’s greens. Looks like I’d be bringing coals to Newcastle.” She held up the bag she’d brought.
“Mornin’ Sarah. Come on in. I don’t want to miss the best of the sun.”
Sister, the an informal neighborhood historian, was old as in no-one-knew-how-old. Nothing much happened around The Homes that Sister didn’t know about or at least know who the people involved were, and who they were
related to.
There was little activity on the street, no cars, no pedestrians, no one out except for the men across the street now taking photos of the apartment property. One of the top apartments was where Mary’s mother, Shannell, had been found shot through the chest, a crime scene photo capturing forever the sprigs of wisteria from Sister’s garden, blooms and petals strewn on the grimy kitchen floor.
Salt sat down on the steps and stretched her legs. She was already tired, and the sun turned her body to sludge. A warm coconut fragrance radiated from Sister’s hair. “You look like one of those picture-book fantasy goddesses with your hair down. I’ve never seen it unbraided.”
“Well, my magical power tells me that right now you ain’t stoppin’ by just to bring me nuts.”
“No way to put this but to come right out and say it, Sister. We found a body, a young girl, shot to death. We believe it’s Mary Marie.”
Sister didn’t move a hair, a muscle or even seem to breathe. Then, without looking at Salt, she straightened, pulled the towel from her shoulders, gathered her hair in one hand, and asked, “What do you mean, ‘believe it’s Mary Marie’?”
“The body was decomposed. We’re testing for a DNA match with Mrs. McCloud and Lil D.”
“I ain’t got to hear no more.” Sister stood and shook the towel. “I guess you didn’t have to come tell me in person. Thank you for the pecans.” She started up the steps.
“I thought you’d blame me.” Salt stood.
Sister, up on the porch, turned to Salt. “I should never have told you what I saw—Mary and her mother.”
“I knew anyway and kept after you. You helped me find out how Mary’s mother died.”
“You still houndin’ me—always comin’ ’round asking your questions. Just like your daddy when he policed ’round here.”
Salt picked up the brown bag and put it on the top step in easier reach for Sister. “I’m sorry,” she told her, and turned to go. Fastening the gate, looking around the garden at faded stalks and stems composting around the winter vegetables, Salt remembered Sister telling how Shannell would come sneaking into her yard, picking any old bloom for bouquets to give Mary. “We’re both hounded, Sister.” But the old woman had left the porch and gone inside.
• • •
The Homes had been built on rolling hills, its many buildings at varying elevations. Salt drove in from Pryor Street looking up at the blocks and blocks of what once was the most densely populated housing development in the city. In the distance Shaw Street ran along the highest hill, where now only three buildings still stood, their stripped windows and doors like dark eye sockets and mouth holes, a Golgotha. Most of the residences along the winding avenues had been reduced to hill-size mounds of brick rubble, but here and there some still stood and were inhabited.
Latonya lived on one of the small side streets that had not yet become part of the teardown. Salt rapped on the rackety screen door. After repeated knocking, the inner metal door opened a crack. Latonya, toddler on her hip, peered out and then yelled back into the dark apartment. “D!” The kid screeched in reaction to his mother’s loud voice and Latonya abruptly shut the door. Salt waited. Lil D opened the door and came out rubbing his face and holding the towel he always wore around his neck to cover the wine-colored birthmark shaped like a continent.
“You got a reason for showing yourself here?” he said, but his tone was mild.
“Word will be out, D,” she said. “I’ve got bad news.”
“What could be bad news? All’s I care ’bout here and they cool.” He jerked his head toward the apartment.
“We found a body, a girl. She’s been dead some months, shot. Your grandmother had reported your sister missing. I believe it’s Mary Marie.”
Lil D looked off. He made a fed-up clicking sound with his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He swiped at his face.
“We’d like to get a DNA sample from you and your grandmother to make the final identification.”
“That ol’ bitch been told?”
“Yes. I didn’t even know Mary was out, much less back in her custody.”
“Mary out but she ain’t stay there. Damn.” He released a long breath, sighing.
“Did you see her after she got out? I didn’t get the idea you were close.”
“Naw, but she still my sister, only kin I count now ’sides my boy.”
Salt held out her card. “On the back I’ve written the address for the DNA lab. It won’t take five minutes. They just swab your mouth.”
“I know. I seen that shit on CSI.” He pocketed the card and stood looking down at the concrete stoop, shifting his weight from side to side. “You gone find who killed her?”
They stood there on the stoop, a history between them but without day-to-day touchstones. Salt had seen him grow up in The Homes. His family. Their tragedies. He’d probably saved her life while she’d been trying to save his.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Salt said again. “I’ll do my best.”
Lil D, first lieutenant of The Homes gang, drug dealer, now entrepreneur in a strip club business, working for Man, the local source for everything black market—drugs, guns, prostitution.
“You still got my mobile number?” she asked him.
“I can find it.”
“Here”—she held out her hand—“gimme the card.” He handed it back. “Just in case.” She wrote her number on the card. “What about you? You got a number where I can reach you?”
“No, man, Latonya got to move out. She ain’t found no place yet, and I ain’t gone have no poleese in my phone.”
She handed the card back, tapping the address. “It’s that blue building at Five Points. If you lose the card, Man has my number.”
“That Man’s bidness who he talk to.” He looked at the card, turning it over, back and forth, a couple of times.
“How are things for you these days? Since I’ve been in Detectives I feel like I’m behind on the news. Looks like The Homes will be gone before long.”
The door squeaked and tiny fat fingers squirmed through the opening at the level of Lil D’s knees. One bright eye peeked out from the dark inside. “Get your ass back in there, Danny T,” Lil D said, harsher than needed, to the child.
Dantavious seemed to find some playfulness in his daddy’s tone. He cackled, shut the door, and pried it right back open.
“They love hide-and-seek, don’t they?” Salt leaned down and made wide eyes at the boy.
“I gotta help Latonya pack.” Lil D shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He adjusted the towel, holding the ends with both hands, ducked his head, and turned to the door.
HISTORY
“Ann’s been reading more and more of the city’s history.” Pepper unwrapped a sandwich from the carryout box on his knees. They were again stationed at the doors to City Hall.
“She knows more about this city now than any of the natives.” Salt peered over at his sandwich. “Trade you my ham for your turkey.”
“No thanks.” He took a big bite. “Okay,” he said, handing it to her and taking her still-unwrapped sandwich.
“Gosh, Pep. Thanks.”
A young white woman, peacock-blue streaks in her unnaturally black hair, on her way to join the ongoing protest forming up the street walked past hoisting a sign: MANDATORY DIVERSITY TRAINING FOR COPS. Skirt swinging above Doc Martens, she cut her eyes briefly at the squad eating on the steps. Pepper, cheeks fat with food, smiled and waved his sandwich. She averted her eyes and kept going.
“You know ’bout the riot in 1906?” Pepper asked Salt but looked in the direction of the other cops on the steps, including them in the question.
Salt chewed and swallowed a bite of the dry sandwich. “Not much. Just that there was one.”
“Same old story. Black men report
ed to be raping fair flowers of the South. White men running for governor trying to out-redneck each other for the benefit of newspaper coverage. Black people killed, arrested, and one police shot. No white citizens were harmed in the making of the riot.”
Salt nodded in the direction of the woman with the sign. “We’re easy and obvious targets for their impatience—they want justice right now. We represent the status quo.”
“Like canaries in a mine, that’s what we are.” Pepper chewed his sandwich. “Like those pathetic redneck supremacists. They’re just another group of have-nots. If the haves can just keep the have-nots focused on the police or another group of have-nots, then they get to keep us all in the mines.”
“Yeah, well, keeping us on this detail sure keeps me from finding justice for one little have-not.” Salt started to close her lunch.
“You gonna eat the rest of that cookie?”
“Trade.” Salt helped herself to Pep’s apple.
• • •
Dr. Marshall had one of those desk toys, a rack of small hanging steel balls that demonstrate some law of physics about the transfer of energy. Salt plucked one of the balls as she sat down. “You from Atlanta, Doc?”
“All my life except for college and grad school. Why do you ask?”
“Just that once you start to learn about the city’s history, you see how one event”—she lifted one of the balls again—“impacts on something else you might not expect it to.” She let the ball drop.
“It was Faulkner I think who said, ‘History isn’t dead. It isn’t even past.’”
“True dat.” Salt slumped back in the cushioned chair.
“Are you thinking of some event in particular, Sarah . . . Salt? Which do you prefer I call you?”
Old Bones Page 6