Oh, man, you don't know how sorry you gonna feel Richard thought. Cause what I'm gonna do is sell you to the police. I'm going to trade your ass for money, boy, whatever the traffic will bear. Cause this is to be a big bust, three rich white kids from a fancy school suffocating a white hooker? Oh, this is a bust, cops up here in the asshole of the universe kill for a bust like this one, never mind just layin out three, four large from a slush fund they keep handy hot information like this. Might be worth even five grand, information like this, three rich white kids?
Can see the motherfuckin cops salivatin. Just got to keep clear of it, is all. Keep myself out of it.
Make it plain I had nothin to do with it. I only seen them do it.
Which, anyway, is the truth.
"I wish you'd stop smiling that way," Richard said. "You look like a hyena."
Oh yes, Richard thought.
There was something that kept troubling Jamal about the picture the cops had shown him. Well, sure, Yolande being dead and all, that was very troubling.
Laying on her back there in the alley, skirt hiked up over all that blood on the inside of her legs, plastic bag over her head, that was troubling. To see her that way. Beautiful young girl, dead that way.
Man, you never knew.
But there was something else troubling him about that picture and he didn't realize what it was until he was back in the apartment again, telling Carlyle all about his encounter with The Law.
"Thing they do," he said, "they tries to wait me out, like I don't know they got some reason to have me up the precinc, like I'm some dumb nigger frum Alabama visitin Granma in the big city. They finey gets aroun to Yolande…"
"Are you telling me she's dead?" Carlyle asked. Sitting at the kitchen table eating one of the croissants he'd brought back from the All Night Bakery on the Stem. Sipping coffee the color of her skin.
Cafe au lait was what you could call Carlyle. Yancy, who was Sarah Rowland when he first met her fresh and sassy at-nineteen. Twenty years old now, a fire-cracker pussy and a dedicated crack addict, thank you, Jamal Stone.
"Yes, she is dead," Jamal said, affecting a pious tone and a mounful look. Carlyle kept eating her buttered croissant. She appeared thoughtful for a moment, bad failing for a hooker. You never wanted them to start thinking about the perils of the occupation. But then she gave a slight shrug and took another bite of the croissant. Jamal went back to his tale of Derring-Do the Face of Imminent Arrest and Incarceration.
"They had these two big dudes from headquarters there, I knew this was something big even before they brung up Yolande's name. Then they lays her on me, and asts when I seed her last and whut she wearin an all that shit, and they throws dis pitcher of her dead in a alley on St. Sab's, bleedin her snatch."
"Urgh," Carlyle said, and bit into the croissant again.
"Yeah," Jamal said, "with a plastic bag over her fuckin head."
Carlyle got up and went to the stove. She wearing just this little silk wrapper he'd got her Victoria's Secret, floral design on it, all laven looking, and high-heeled bedroom slippers, looked as delicious as any of the croissants on the table. Man, he loved this girl. Yolande had been good money-maker, but this one he loved. Even if never again made a dime for him, he'd keep her take care of her. Well, maybe. He watched her as she poured more coffee into her cup. Watched her tight little ass, actually. Wouldn't care if she never brought home a nickel, this one.
Which was when he realized what was wrong with the picture the cops had shown him. "The bag," he said.
Carlyle turned from the stove, puzzled. "Yolande's bag. That red bag she has."
"The patent leather," Carlyle said, nodding. "She was carryin it last night."
Carlyle sipped at her coffee. "But it wasn't in the pitcher."
"What picture?"
"The one they showed me. Ain't them crime scene pitchers spose to show jus how everything was?"
"I don't know."
"They can't touch nothin before they take they pitchers, can they?"
"I don't know."
"So where was the bag?"
"Whoever done her must've taken it," Carlyle said. "Yeah, with my fuckin money in it," Jamal said.
He started making his calls at ten minutes past ten.
"Hello," the recorded voice said, "welcome to the Mayor's Action Center, the front door to city government If you are calling from a touch-tone phone and you want to continue in English, press One."
