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He found himself on the grounds of Park View Elementary. He limped across the weedy field. He found the last quarter of the joint they’d smoked in his pocket and lit it with a match. He had a seat on a swing that he barely fit into and hit the jay. He snorted up the smoke that was coming off its tip and held the whole draw in his lungs.
His parents had finished di
De
His father had listened to him the night before, when De
That plan thing, it was all bullshit, anyway. De
His plan had felt electric last night. It felt like nothing now.
Derek’ll find me something, though, thought De
He wet his fingers and extinguished the roach, putting it into his pocket because there was a hit or two to be had later on. He got up and limped across the field.
Otis Place was up ahead. He could hear the bark of the dogs in its backyards. He cut into a short stretch of alley that joined the long common alley that ran between Otis and Princeton. Behind the corner house, he passed a mongrel named Betty who was growling with her face up against her owner’s fence. Betty knew him by sight and smell. De
He knew every stone in this alley. Didn’t even have to look at his feet to mind the uneven parts. When he and his father had played catch back here in the late ’40s, around sundown on summer nights, his pop would throw him grounders along with flies. Got so he knew when the ball would take a hop, depending on where it got thrown. He could picture his father, the white sleeves of his work shirt rolled up on his strong forearms, the easy motion of his throws. Coming out here and playing ball with his boy, even though he was bone tired from his job.
I didn’t hug my father last night, thought De
Halfway down the alley, a German shepherd mix ran back and forth behind the fence, baring his teeth and gums, barking rapidly. The shepherd’s name was Brave, and De
“Come here, boy. It’s me.”
Brave barked wildly, snatching at the air with his jaws. Saliva dripped from his mouth, and his eyes were feral and desperate. The dog snapped at De
De
“Smart nigger,” hissed a voice in his ear as the edge of a straight razor was pressed against his throat.
Pop, thought De
TWENTY-TWO
ON WEDNESDAY, THE Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. arrived in Te
On Wednesday, in New Haven, Co
On Wednesday, in Washington, D.C., in the evening, five to ten thousand people attended a rally at the corner of 14th Street and Park Road, where Robert F. Ke
At the same time, in Memphis, Dr. King spoke to more than two thousand supporters. Friday’s march had been moved to Monday, but the city was still seeking an injunction against it, in part because of threats made to the reverend’s life.
“It really doesn’t matter what happens now,” said Dr. King. “I’ve been to the mountaintop.”
Very early that day, just around dawn, the body of De
“Lord,” said the man, his voice not much more than a whisper.
He went back to his house and phoned the police, then woke his wife and sat on the edge of their marriage bed.
“Poor Alethea,” said the wife.
“I know it,” said the man, shaking his head. Their words were minimal but mutually understood. He and his wife had grown children of their own.
“You think he was robbed?”
“Of what? Boy never had twin dimes.” The man squeezed his wife’s hand and got up off the bed. “I better get back out there. They’ll be wanting to talk to me, I expect.”
By the time the neighbor had returned to the scene, two squad cars had arrived, and soon thereafter came the meat wagon, photographer, and lab man. Last to arrive was a homicide detective named Bill Dolittle, who was working a double and had the bad luck to catch the case just an hour before break time. Dolittle was a slack-jawed alcoholic, prone to seersucker suits, whose stick never shifted past second gear. He had the lowest closure rate in his precinct. Other cops called him Do-nothing and laughed at the mention of his name. He didn’t mind. He was working for his pension and his next drink.