Authors: Catherine Ryan Hyde
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Social Issues, #Values & Virtues, #School & Education, #Family, #General
He heard her slip out and close the door gently behind her.
He woke hours later from a bad dream, with melted ice soaking the sheets and pillow around his head. The pain wouldn’t let him get back to sleep. He’d been dreaming of the cop who gave him the handkerchief. In the dream, he didn’t help. He laughed.
T
he call came in at 7
A.M.
; hard to think of it as a good thing. His girlfriend, Sally, groaned, rolled over, and wrapped a pillow around her ears.
Even through a fog of sleep, Chris recognized the voice immediately. Roger Meagan, a friend of sorts. A cop. An unlikely friend. Overall, Chris didn’t think highly of cops. He’d met some he liked quite well—Roger, for example—but it discouraged him that the only honest, idealistic, unjaded cops tended to be the brand-new ones. He didn’t figure he blamed them for callousing up, not in a world like this one. He fought the tendency himself. Maybe if he could fight it, so could they.
“Sorry, Chris. I forgot you like to sleep in.”
What he liked had nothing to do with it. He rarely got to bed until three. “What’s up?”
“I’m not sure, really. I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Maybe a story. I don’t know. I guess that sounds stupid. Wake you out of a sound sleep, then say maybe it’s nothing. But if it is something, it’s something big. Real big. I just thought it might be a good thing for you to hear it first. I mean, it’s known, but—one little angle of it. If you could break some pattern…if there is a pattern…oh, hell. I’m not making much sense, am I?”
“You’re sure as hell not, Roger, slow down. Let me get my brain cells back in line. One fact at a time.” Were there facts involved? He hadn’t heard any yet.
“You know gang killings have taken a real drop lately.”
“I heard that. But it’s just a fluke, right? I mean, what else could it be?”
“I don’t know, Chris. I figure that’s where a good investigative reporter comes in.”
“So you want the name of a good one?”
“Shut up, man. You’re good. You know you are. Look. Two months ago, the number of shootings drops eighty percent.”
“Drops
to
eighty percent?”
“No.
By
eighty percent.”
“I didn’t know it was that much.”
“Well, everybody kind of wants to lay low about it. Like, you just know it can’t last. Everybody acts like it’s magic or something. We just stay real quiet, like we think we’ll…I don’t know, scare it away or something. Then last month, one gang death in all five city boroughs. One, Chris. Do you realize how remarkable that is? I mean, in a good weekend sometimes we’d get two dozen. I mean, not a good weekend, but…you know.”
“And this month?”
“Everybody’s alive so far. So far as we know.”
Chris felt his brain pull away into the intricate strain he associated with contemplating infinity. Hard enough trying to figure out how things happen. Why things happen. But why they
don’t
happen? Like doing a story on the wind. What would he do, interview people on a street corner in the South Bronx? Excuse me, ma’am, what’s your theory on why you weren’t hit by a stray bullet last month?
“You think there’s a reason?”
“Man, everything has a reason.”
“Want to put your next paycheck on that?”
“There are no accidents in this world, Chris.”
He almost scoffed, but caught himself. Imagine taking the
jaded side in an argument with a cop. “Roger. Where in God’s name do you think I’d begin with something like this?”
“Start with a guy named Mitchell Scoggins. He knows something about something. We picked him up on an illegal weapons charge. Went out to settle a score with some rival banger, but nobody got hurt. He said it was a point of honor. But—what honor? Whose honor? Since when is it a point of honor to go after your enemy with a gun and then not kill him? It’s like a new gang law or something. But he won’t tell me anything about it. I’m ‘the man,’ you know? He’s not going to talk to me.”
“Where’s Mitchell right now?”
“Doing thirty days at County.”
1993 interview by Chris Chandler,
from
Tracking the Movement
MITCHELL
: It’s not a New York thing. I mean, now it is. But it didn’t start here. It started in L. A. I mean, way I hear it. I mean, word on the street. They sayin’ that.
CHRIS
: I hear you know all about it. I hear the whole thing started with you.
MITCHELL
: Not even close. Nice try, man. You think I got a ego, huh? I tell you what the word is. Guy named Sidney G. He take credit for the whole thing. Tell you he the guy thought the whole thing up. Not that I ever met him. Hell, Sidney tell you all kinda shit. That’s the word on the street. Others say no. Sidney G. mighta got it started in L. A., but it’s not his. Just picked it up somewheres. Brought it back.
CHRIS
: What? Brought what back?
MITCHELL
: The Movement.
CHRIS
: This is all part of a movement?
MITCHELL
: It moves, don’t it?
CHRIS
: Tell me about it.
MITCHELL
: I don’t know. I don’t see how you one of us. I mean, who the hell are you? Know when I’d tell you? If you crossed me. Then I’d
come after you. But I wouldn’t kill you, not unless I’m all paid back. Forward, I mean. Then I’d say, I come to kill you, but man, did you luck out. Then I would tell you. It’d be, like, part of my job.
CHRIS
: What did you mean, “forward”? You said something about being all paid back, but you changed it to “forward.”
MITCHELL
: You need to go see Sidney G. He like to talk.
CHRIS
: Know where I can find him?
MITCHELL
: Shit, no. Never even met the man myself.
H
E DIRECT-DIALED THE
W
EST
C
OAST
after five, New York time, to save a little money, since this probably wouldn’t work anyway.
“Parker Center.”
“Detective Harris, please.”
“One moment.”
She clicked him onto a silent hold. He sat for several minutes, fidgeting, jiggling his leg. This was such a waste of time. Then there was ringing on the line.
“Harris.”
“Harris. Chris Chandler here.”
“Right, buddy. What can I do for you? Kind of a zoo here. Gotta talk fast.”
“Thought maybe I could call in a favor.”
“If it’s legal and it doesn’t have to be right this second.”
“No, whenever. Tomorrow. Monday. Whenever. Thought you might go through your computer. See if you can find me a banger named Sidney G.”
“Last name?”
“Don’t have it. I know that doesn’t help.”
“What do you need on him?”
“Anything that might tell me where he is. Like, if he had a parole officer, say. Then I’d know how to get in touch.”
“This’ll take me a few days.”
“Whatever.”
“There’ll be dozens of Sidney G.’s.”
“I’ll just have to track them all down, I guess. Just get me a list.”
“Your life, man. Give me three working days.”
H
ARRIS FAXED HIM A LIST
two days later: Sidney Greenaway. Sidney Gerard. Sidney Garcia. Sidney Gilliam. Sidney Guzman. Sidney Guerrera. Sidney Galleglia. Sidney Garris. Sidney Gant. Sidney Gonzales. All gang-involved. Three out on parole. Five with only last-known addresses. Two currently incarcerated.
Chris took two months tracking them all down. He thought it made him feel alive. Sally said he’d become totally obsessed, and moved out, maybe temporarily, maybe permanently. Depending on when he came to his senses. He never found Sidney Gerard. The other nine Sidneys had no idea what the hell he was talking about.
He lost two other writing assignments in the meantime, and eight pounds. And started drinking again, though not all that much at first. It bothered him, thinking he would always know it was Sidney Gerard, because it’s always the one you can’t find.
Looking for a man named Sidney G. Originator of the Movement. Want to make him famous. No personal questions asked. Or anybody else with info on Sidney G. or the Movement. Something about being “Paid Forward” or “Paying Forward.”
Write to C. Chandler at P. O. box below.
Cash reward for right info.
He placed the ad to run for a month in the
L. A. Times,
then decided he’d wasted his money. Homeboys don’t read the
Times.
And he had no money to waste, because he’d done no real work for too long.
He visited his brother and borrowed another grand, which was loaned with no guilt or bad feelings. He’d done it before and had always been good for it.
Then he placed the same ad in the
Valley News
and the
L. A. Weekly.
He opened a P. O. box and tried to work on another story. Every day he checked the box. Every day it was empty. Not even crank letters from impostors out for reward money. Where would he get more money if something broke?
Dear C. Chandler,
Somebody I know see your ad in the
Weekly
and show it to me. Sidney G. didn’t invent nothin. Not in his whole life. He left me with two bastard kids. He don’t care. He is such a asshole. He got that thing from somebody he meet in Atascadero. He hide out there when things get hot. But it don’t work forever.
Last I hear his sorry butt in jail. I don’t know where or care. But his name ain’t Sidney nor G. that just what he call himself. His name Ronald Pollack Jr. No wonder you can’t find him. I hope you got more trouble for him. I hope it’s a trick. That’s why I write this. Not for money. But I need money real bad, with these two kids. If you want to send some.
Yours Truly,
Stella Brown
1993 interview by Chris Chandler in Soledad State Prison,
from
Tracking the Movement
CHRIS
: You could be a famous man. Right here in prison.
SIDNEY
: See how much you know. I’m already famous in this prison. Legendary.
CHRIS
: I mean famous all over the world. Could help your situation.
SIDNEY
: In what way?
CHRIS
: You know, go up before a parole board, and there it is on your record that you made this huge contribution to society.
SIDNEY
: I don’t even come up for parole till ninety-seven.
CHRIS
: That could change too.
SIDNEY
: What I gotta do?
CHRIS
: Tell me how this Movement started.
SIDNEY
: I tol’ you. Started in my head.
CHRIS
: You must be a really smart guy.
SIDNEY
: I am.
CHRIS
: How did you think of something this big?
SIDNEY
: Just kinda come to me. I just saw the way things kept going all around me. I thought, Somebody’s gotta do something different.
Change this mess. Then I thought it up.
CHRIS
: Wow. I’m impressed. You didn’t even hear or see something similar? You know, to put the idea in your head?
SIDNEY
: Nobody put ideas in my head but me. So, how you gonna make me famous? I mean, even more than I already am.
CHRIS
: Well, I produce freelance stories. I’ll have to get a video camera in here. I’ll have to go through channels for permission. Then, when we have a spot together, I can sell it to
Weekly News in Review.
They take almost everything I do.
SIDNEY
: Think the fools that run this place’ll do it?
CHRIS
: When they find out they have a star in their midst.
SIDNEY
: Maybe the governor’ll pardon me. When he see it.
CHRIS
: You’re not exactly on death row, Sidney. I wouldn’t count on a pardon. Maybe early parole.
SIDNEY
: Yeah. Well. You do what you can for me, white boy. I’m sure you can see I don’t belong here. Big contributions I could be makin’ on the outside. The world need me out there.
CHRIS
: Yeah. Absolutely, Sidney. I can see that.
C
HRIS ARRIVED BACK IN HIS APARTMENT
in New York about 7:00
A.M.
Right away he called his cop friend, Roger Meagan, woke him up. That’s justice.
“You did me a good one, buddy. I owe you. I think this is go
ing to be big. I don’t know why I think that. No, I don’t even think it. I know it. I just know somehow. Maybe it isn’t big yet, but it will be. And by then it’ll be my story. Not that I’m at the bottom of it yet. But I will be.”
“Who the hell is this?”
“It’s Chris. Did I wake you?” He knew damn well he had.
“Chris, what the hell are you talking about?”
“That story you put me onto.”
“You got to the bottom of that?”
“I told you, not yet. But I will. Tracked it to this small-time banger calls himself Sidney G. He says he thought the whole thing up. He’s full of shit, of course.”
“Thought
what
whole thing up?”
“The Movement.”
“This is all part of a movement?”
“It moves, doesn’t it?”
Roger groaned. “I don’t know what the hell it does, Chris. I haven’t even had my morning coffee. Want to loan me some of your energy?”
I wish I could, he thought. He pulled off his shoes while he talked, and fixed himself a drink with the cordless phone clamped under his chin.
“It’s like this, buddy. So far as I can tell. Somebody got it in their head to pass this thing along. It’s like a pyramid scheme, only it never goes back to the originators. People just keep doing amazingly nice things for people, and it just keeps going forward. It never goes back.”
“So, what’s the angle?”