someone else does.”
W The thieves cut through a parking lot, then through another alleyway. Brazil broadcast
their every step, on their heels like a border collie herding sheep. Neither young man
could legally buy beer, and both had been smoking dope, stealing, lying, and jailing since
they were old enough for their pants to fall off. Neither was in premier shape. Shooting
hoops and boogeying in front of their friends and on street corners was one thing. But
running wide open for blocks was definitely another. Devon, especially, knew one lung,
and possibly both, would rupture any second. Sweat was stinging his eyes. His legs
might buckle, and unless he was having vision disturbances, too, the flashing red and
blue lights of his childhood were closing in like UFOs from all corners of the planet.
“Man!” Devon gasped.
“Let’s drop it! Run!”
“I am running, man!”
As for To, whose name was short for something no one could recall, he would be damned
before he would relinquish what he had his arms around. The TV alone would keep him
in rocks for a week, unless he traded it in on a new pistol, this time one with a holster.
The Smith &: Wesson stainless-steel . 357 revolver with its four-inch barrel jammed in
the back of his baggy jeans wasn’t going to stay put much longer. To could feel it
slipping as sweat blurred his vision and sirens screamed.
“Shit,” To complained.
The gun was completely submerged, now, and working its way down. Oh Lord, he
hoped he didn’t shoot himself in some private place. He would never live it down. The
revolver slid through layers of huge boxer shorts, burrowing down his thigh, his knee,
and finally peeking out at the top of a leather Fila. To helped it along by shaking his leg.
This was no easy feat while running with half the Charlotte Police Department and some
crazy-ass white boy in a BMW about to run To down.
The gun clattered against pavement as the circle of white cars with flashing lights was
complete around Devon and To. The two bandits simply stopped in their tracks.
“Shit,” To said again.
^y W In all fairness, Brazil’s reward for his valiant contribution to community policing
should have been the pleasure of cuffing the suspects and tucking them into the back of a
patrol car. But he had no enforcement powers. For that matter, he was on the
newspaper’s payroll this night, and it was no simple matter to explain why he happened to
be parked in a dark alleyway behind a Radio Shack when the burglary occurred. He and
Officer Weed went round and round about this as Brazil gave his statement in the front
seat of Weed’s cruiser.
“Let’s try this again,” Weed was saying.
“You were sitting back there with your headlights off for what ?”
reason;
“I thought I was being followed,” Brazil patiently explained again.
Weed looked at him, and had no idea what to make of this one except that she knew the
reporter was lying. All of them did.
Weed was willing to bet the guy had parked back there to sleep on the job, maybe jerk
off, smoke a little weed, or all of the above.
“Being followed by who?” Weed had her shiny metal clipboard in her lap, as she worked on her report.
“Some guy in a white Ford,” Brazil said.
“Wasn’t anybody I knew.”
It was late by the time Brazil rolled away from the Southpark scene, without a word of
thanks from any officer there, he noted. The way he calculated it, he had about an hour
to kill before he needed to get back to the newsroom and write up what he’d gotten during
his eight-hour shift, which wasn’t much, in his mind.
He wasn’t far from the area of Myers Park where Michelle Johnson’s horrible accident had occurred, and for some reason, Brazil was haunted by that awful night, and by her.
He cruised slowly past the mansions of Eastover and fantasized about who lived inside
them and what they must feel about the neighbors who were killed. The Rollins family
had lived around the corner from the Mint Museum. When Brazil was in front of their