He was saying, ‘Then her heart quit – in fact, that’s really what got her in the end.’
‘That’s really what gets everybody in the end,’ I said.
‘Not around here. In this damn neighborhood it’s lead poisoning.’
We were between two Richmond police cruisers with lights flashing red and blue in a motorcade carrying cops, reporters and television crews. At every stop, the media manifested its Christmas spirit by shoving past with notepads, microphones and cameras. Frenzied, they fought for sentimental coverage of Sheriff Santa beaming as he handed out presents and food to forgotten children of the projects and their shell-shocked mothers. Marino and I were in charge of blankets, for they had been my donation this year.
Around a corner, car doors opened along Magnolia Street in Whitcomb Court. Ahead, I caught a glimpse of blazing red as Santa passed through headlights, Richmond’s chief of police and other top brass not far behind. Television cameras lit up and hovered in the air like UFOs, and flashguns flashed.
Marino complained beneath his stack of blankets, ‘These things smell cheap. Where’d you get them, a pet store?’
‘They’re warm, washable, and won’t give off toxic gases like cyanide in the event of a fire,’ I said.
‘Jesus. If that don’t put you in a holiday mood.’
I wondered where we were as I looked out the window.
‘I wouldn’t use one in my doghouse,’ he went on.
‘You don’t have a dog or a doghouse, and I didn’t offer to give you one to use for anything.
Why are we going into this apartment? It’s not on the list.’
‘That’s a damn good question.’
Reporters and people from law enforcement agencies and social services were outside the front door of an apartment that looked like all the others in a complex reminiscent of cement barracks. Marino and I squeezed through as camera lights floated in the dark, headlights burned and Sheriff Santa bellowed, ‘HO! HO! HO!’
We pushed our way inside as Santa sat a small black boy on his knee and gave him several wrapped toys. The boy’s name, I overheard, was Trevi, and he wore a blue cap with a marijuana leaf over the bill. His eyes were huge and he looked bewildered on this man’s red velvet knee near a silver tree strung with lights. The overheated small room was airless and smelled of old grease.
‘Coming through, ma’am.’ A television cameraman nudged me out of the way- ”
‘You can just put it over here.’
‘Who’s got the rest of the toys?’
‘Look, ma’am, you’re going to have to step back.’ The cameraman practically knocked me over. I felt my blood pressure going up.
‘We need another box . . .’
‘No we don’t. Over there.’
‘. . . of food? Oh, right. Gotcha.’
‘If you’re with social services,’ the cameraman said to me, ‘then how ’bout standing over there?’
‘If you had half a brain you’d know she ain’t with social services.’ Marino glared at him.
An old woman in a baggy dress had started crying on the couch, and a major in white shirt and brass sat beside her to offer comfort. Marino moved close to me so he could whisper.
‘Her daughter was whacked last month, last name King. You remember the case?’ he said in my ear.
I shook my head. I did not remember. There were so many cases.
‘The drone we think whacked her is a badass drug dealer named Jones,’ he continued, to prod my memory.
I shook my head again. There were so many badass drug dealers, and Jones was not an uncommon name.
The cameraman was filming and I averted my face as Sheriff Santa gave me a contemptuous, glassy stare. The cameraman bumped hard into me again.
‘I wouldn’t do that one more time,’ I warned him in a tone that made him know I meant it.
The press had turned their attention to the grandmother because this was the story of the night. Someone had been murdered, the victim’s mother was crying, and Trevi was an orphan. Sheriff Santa, out of the limelight now, set the boy down.
‘Captain Marino, I’ll take one of those blankets,’ a social worker said.