School Days (13 page)

T
HE
S
OUTH
B
AY
S
HOPPING
M
ALL
was tucked in under Southampton Street, just west of Andrew Square across the expressway. It was dark when I got there and met Major Johnson in front of the Home Depot. There were a number of other youngish black men with Major, and none of them seemed impressed with me.

“So,” Major said. “Whitefish, wha's happenin'.”

“ ‘Wha's happenin'?' ” I said. “I keep telling you, Major, you African guys aren't going to integrate with our culture if you insist on talking funny.”

“Fuck you,” Major said.

“There you go,” I said. “White guys say that to me, too.”

Major grinned at me suddenly.

“I forgot what you was like,” he said.

“How could you,” I said. “Jose arrive yet?”

“He be along,” Major said. “Gonna meet us over there by the fence, where the tracks are.”

“Why don't I go over and wait for him?” I said.

“No. Tole him he could come in first, set up like he wanted. We'd walk in on him.”

“Make him feel secure,” I said.

“Sho',” Major said.

“He know about me?” I said.

“Knows there a honkie muthafucka wants to talk with him.”

“Think he'll recognize me?”

Major grinned again.

“As opposed to all the other honkie muthafuckas that be with us?” he said.

“Good point,” I said. “You'll know when he gets here?”

“We'll know,” Major said.

The stores had started to close and a lot of people had left the parking lot when Jose Yang showed up. A smallish coffee-colored kid with tattoos and cornrows came across the lot and spoke to Major.

“He here,” the kid said.

Major turned and looked at the rest of his crew. He didn't say anything, but they moved as if he had, fanning out as they moved across the parking lot toward the railroad fence.

“Le's go,” Major said to me.

There was no concealment in the parking lot. It was brightly lit and sparsely occupied. By the fence at the far side, I could see two cars parked side by side, parallel to the fence, their noses pointed toward Southampton Street. As we walked,
people got out of the cars and stood behind them. Major's crew was now fanned out around them in a semicircle. They stopped about fifty feet from the cars. Major and I kept walking.

When we were maybe twenty feet away, one of the men behind the cars said, “Stop there.”

We stopped. We all looked at one another. The man who had spoken was more Asian-looking than Animal, but I could see the familial connection. He was shorter than Animal, with sloping shoulders and longish arms. His black hair was long. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt, and both his thick arms were heavily tattooed.

“You want to talk with me, Snowflake?” he said.

“More racial animosity,” I said to Major.

“Nobody like you people,” Major said. “You got to unnerstand that.”

“It's so unfair,” I said.

“You want to talk or not,” the guy with the tattoos said.

“You Jose Yang?” I said.

“Yeah.”

“My name's Spenser.”

I was hoping the name would strike fear into Los Diablos.

“So what?” Yang said.

Beside me, Major Johnson snickered.

“I know your brother,” I said. “Animal.”

“So?”

“I need to know if you got him some handguns,” I said.

“Why you need to know that?” Yang said.

“I'm a private detective,” I said. “I'm working on a case. It won't involve Animal.”

“How I know that?” Yang said.

“He say something,” Major said, “it be true.”

“You say so,” Yang said to Major.

“I do. He say something, you can take it right down the First National Bank of Cha-Cha and deposit it.”

Yang nodded.

“I don't know nothing about no guns,” he said to me.

“Would have been last January,” I said. “Four clean pieces and ammo.”

“Why I tell you shit?” Yang said.

“I tole him you would,” Major said.

Yang looked hard at him across the hood of the Chevy Impala he was behind. Major waited. Yang was silent. Behind him, the two carloads of backup stood silently. I spotted at least a shotgun among them. I didn't know for sure what else. They stayed behind the cars. I had no idea what kind of ordnance Major's people had broken out. They were behind us, and I didn't want to violate the moment by turning to look. Far behind me was the sound of traffic on the expressway. In the parking lot, I could hear car doors open and slam, and car engines start up, as late shoppers and store employees headed home.

“You trust him?” Yang said to Major.

“Man do what he say he do,” Major said. “Like me.”

Yang nodded. More staring. More traffic sounds. One of Yang's men coughed and tried to stifle it. We waited.

“My brother got big muscles and no brain,” Yang said.

“Some question about the size of his cojones, too,” I said.

“Yeah,” Yang said. “I know. Why I sent him out there to East Cow Fuck.”

“Last January,” I said.

“A Browning, a Colt, two Glocks,” Yang said. “No history, extra magazines, lotta bullets.”

“How much?” I said.

“Fifteen hundred,” Yang said. “The works.”

“Cheap,” I said.

“He's my brother,” Yang said. “I didn't make no profit.”

“He did,” I said. “He had three grand to spend.”

Yang was silent for a moment, then he said, “That would be Luis.”

“He say what the guns were for?”

“No.”

“They were used in a bunch of murders out in Dowling.”

“You ain't involving my brother,” Yang said.

“Not if I don't have to.”

“You rat him,” Yang said, “I kill you.”

“I don't want him,” I said. “I'll do what I can.”

“You better do it,” Yang said.

“Don't be threatening my man,” Major said.

“Major, you and me already lived longer than we was supposed to.” Yang's voice was flat. “I said what I said.”

“You fuck with my man,” Major said, “and we see 'bout that.”

“I ain't heavy,” I said. “I'm his brother.”

Major choked off a laugh beside me. Yang gave me a hard look, and then it was over. Our side backed down toward the Home Depot. Yang's side got in their cars and drove out the Southampton Street exit.

“H
EALY SAYS
I
CAN
bend things a little for you,” DiBella told me as he parked his car behind a couple of state highway maintenance buildings off the Mass Pike near Worcester. One was an open-front garage where they stored salt and sand for the winter. We went in and found Animal Yang behind the salt pile with two mean-looking state troopers.

“Here he is,” DiBella said.

Animal had on a black Nike Dri Fit muscle shirt and looked impressive.

“We took a piece off him,” one of the troopers said. He held up a short Beretta .380.

“Hang on to it,” DiBella said.

He looked at Animal. “Got a permit?”

Animal shook his head. DiBella looked at me.

“Want us to run the piece for you?”

I shook my head.

“Unload it and give it back to him,” I said.

The trooper who held Animal's gun looked at DiBella. He was a big black guy with no hair visible under his campaign hat.

“I told you,” DiBella said to him, “when I called you. This is all off the record. If anyone asks you about it, it never happened.”

The black trooper shrugged, took the magazine out of the handle, and put it in his pocket, ejected the round from the chamber, let it lie on the floor where it landed, and handed the gun back to Animal. Animal took it and held it as if he didn't know what to do with it.

“Okay,” DiBella said to the troopers, “you boys beat it. I owe you one.”

“Maybe two or three,” the black trooper said.

They went.

“I'll be in the car,” DiBella said.

He went after them. I was alone with Animal.

“You suckered me out by the lake,” Animal said. “Don't mean you can do it again.”

I hit him with a left hook that staggered him back against the salt pile.

“Does too,” I said.

I took my gun off my hip and pressed the barrel of it hard into the recess under his cheekbone below the left eye.

“Ow,” Animal said. “That hurts.”

“I know,” I said.

“Whaddya fucking want with me,” he said.

“I'm thinking about killing you,” I said.

“I never done nothing to you,” he said.

I kept pressing the gun. He was sweating and his face was pale. I knew it hurt, and I knew he was scared. Which was the way it was supposed to be.

“That cop'll hear you if you shoot,” Animal said.

“Like he'll care,” I said.

“Ow, man, that really hurts, man,” Animal said.

“Like I care,” I said.

“Don't do it, man,” Animal said. “I didn't do nothing to you. Gimme a break. Don't do it.”

He was stiff against the discomfort of the gun barrel.

“You beat up George,” I said.

“Who?”

“George, one of your girlfriends.”

“I just gave her a couple whacks, man. You . . . ow, man, that hurts man . . . ease it up man, please. I didn't do nothing!”

“You got one miserable chance to live,” I said.

“Man, I'll do whatever you say. Ow, man. Stop it.”

“If you ever touch her again,” I said, “I'll kill you on sight. I'll find you and I'll kill you.”

I twisted the gun barrel a little. He groaned.

“You understand?” I said.

“Yeah, man, I'll never touch her. I promise you, I'll never go near her.”

“If anything happens, if somebody you don't know bumps into her on his bicycle and knocks her down, anything. I will find you and shoot you into little fucking pieces.”

“Man, I'll never hurt her, I promise. I promise. I won't let no one else hurt her. Honest to God, I won't.”

I took the gun away from his face and held it at my side. He put both hands up to his face to rub the sore spot, and realized he was still holding the empty Beretta, and dropped it on the floor and pressed his hands against his face. He started to cry.

“You got the guns from your brother,” I said.

“Wha?”

“I talked with him, your brother Jose. He sold you the four guns for fifteen hundred dollars. You sold them to the two kids for three thousand dollars.”

“What kids?”

I slapped him hard with my left hand.

“Grant and Clark,” I said. “One or both.”

“Grant asked me. Clark kid had the dough.”

“And you taught them to shoot,” I said.

“Yeah.”

I brought my gun up suddenly and fired into the salt a foot to the left of his head. He screamed. I fired into the salt a foot to the right of him. He doubled up, screaming, “No, no, no, no, no.”

“Don't you even look at that girl again,” I said. “Ever.”

I put my gun away and walked out of the garage.

“You shoot him?” DiBella said.

“No,” I said.

“Probably should have,” DiBella said.

I nodded.

“Probably,” I said.

I
DROPPED
G
EORGE
in Dowling Center. “I'll drive you home,” I said.

She shook her head.

“Might be a good place to sort of crash a little while,” I said.

She shook her head again.

“And you're sure Animal won't get me?”

“He won't,” I said.

She got out of the car and lingered for a moment on the sidewalk with the car door open. Her bruises had started to yellow. Her lip was down. She was looking better.

“Thanks for, like, helping me,” she said.

“You're welcome,” I said.

She took my card out of the pocket of her jeans and looked at it for a moment.

“Call me if you need me,” I said.

She nodded and looked again at my card.

“Bye,” she said.

“Bye.”

She closed the car door and turned and walked away, still holding my card in her hand. I watched her until she turned the corner past the town green and disappeared behind the Town Hall. Then I pulled away and found a parking spot near the Coffee Nut and parked and went in to see if the gang was around.

They were.

“Hey,” Janey said as I came in.

She was sitting with her friend of the white top, whose name turned out to be Erika, and Carly Simon, looking crisp in a green polo shirt and tan shorts.

“Coffee?” he said, and nodded at the empty seat in the booth.

I sat. Other kids in other booths looked at me covertly. Animal had made my rep, bless his heart.

“Is George, like, okay?” Janey said.

“She's fine,” I said. “Animal has promised me that he won't bother her again.”

“You shake him up again?” Carly said.

There was in his voice an implication of shared knowledge, as though he had shaken up a few people in his time, too. I
smiled. I had known Major Johnson when he was only a little older than Carly. Different planets.

“We reasoned together,” I said. “Talk to me a little more about Jared Clark.”

“What's to tell,” Carly said. “He didn't bother us; we, you know, didn't bother him.”

“Did he get bullied much?” I said.

The girls both deferred to Carly. It's good to be a football hero.

“No,” Carly said. “Like, he didn't play ball or nothing, and he didn't joke around, and most of the time, he wasn't, like, even around. But nobody bothered him much.”

Carly looked at Erika and Janey.

“You think?” he said.

“No,” Erika said. “He was just, like, around, and nobody really noticed him much.”

“Girlfriend?” I said.

Janey shook her head as she thought about it.

“I mean, he never asked anybody out,” she said. “That I know about. Erika, you know anybody?”

“Nope.”

Erika had longish nails with the tips painted white, and she admired them unconsciously while she spoke.

“I suppose he might have hooked up with one of the loser girls, you know?” Erika said. “But we wouldn't know that anyway. None of them hang with us.”

“Was Jared a loser?” I said.

Janey thought about the question carefully. Evidently, loser was a precisely defined category.

“Well,” Janey said, “no, not exactly, I guess. I mean, he was shy and everything. And he wasn't popular, but he wasn't a geek. He was like more of a loner.”

“But people weren't actively cruel to him?”

All three of them shook their heads.

“How about Wendell Grant?” I said.

“He played ball,” Carly said.

“Any good?” I said.

Carly shrugged.

“He was okay,” Carly said. “Big, you know. Took up a lot of room. But he was really dumb. Couldn't remember the plays. And clumsy. Coach designed a sweep right for me behind Dell, and Dell could never pull and get out there. He, like, messed it up every time. Coach finally forgot about it.”

“Was he dumb in school?”

“Oh, you better believe it,” Erika said. “He was in my geometry class and he called that guy from olden times—you know, Pythagoras. He called him Py-tha-gor-us, and we all, like, broke up, you know? Even Mrs. Root couldn't keep from laughing. Dell was pissed.”

“That sort of thing happen a lot?” I said.

Erika shrugged.

“We all thought he was pretty dumb,” Janey said.

“He useta carry a knife,” Carly said. “You know, one of those big hunting jackknifes.”

“A buck knife,” I said.

“Yeah. Like that. Comes in a little leather case?”

I nodded.

“He ever use it?” I said.

“Naw. He used to flash it around a lot when there was no teachers. But that's all.”

“He date much?” I said.

“Ick!” Janey said.

“That would be a no?” I said.

“He was creepy,” Janey said.

“Like?”

“Like, you know he'd say stuff. . . .”

“Hey,” Erika said, imitating a boy, “you girls like it rough?”

“Did he play rough.”

“He was the kind of guy, you're standing in line in the cafeteria and he's rubbing up against you, trying to get a feel,” Janey said.

“Yeah, one of those guys
accidentally
bumps your boob with his elbow,” Erika said, making quote signs with her forefingers around “accidentally.”

“And he was always talking about fighting and guns,” Janey said, “and, you know, like, how tough he was.”

“Was he?”

Again, the girls deferred to Carly. He shrugged.

“He's big, but, like, he's a fucking buffoon, you know? Nobody was scared of him, 'cept a few pussies he could pick on. Guys on the team told him fuck off.”

“Did he pick on Jared?” I said.

“Not that I seen,” Carly said.

“He hung out at the Rocks?”

“Yeah,” Carly said. “Animal was his freaking hero.”

“You surprised he shot up the school?” I said.

“Hell, yes,” Carly said. “I didn't think he had the balls, you know?”

“How about Jared,” I said.

Carly shrugged. He looked at the two girls. They shook their heads. He shook his head.

“He didn't seem the type,” Carly said.

“He was just like going about his business,” Janey said.

“He tight with Grant?”

“Him and Dell? No,” Janey said. “I never saw them hanging, you?”

Erika said, “No.” Carly shook his head.

“Jared get along with the faculty?” I said.

“I don't know,” Carly said.

“I never heard about him getting in trouble,” Erika said. “I think he's seen Miss Blair a couple times. She's, you know, the guidance lady.”

“I know,” I said. “You know why he saw her?”

“Oh, Christ,” Janey said. “They send you to see Blair if you're late twice. Make sure you don't have, like, a fucking emotional problem.”

“You've seen her?”

“Sure. I told her I didn't have a problem. The school had a problem, it was fucking borrrrrring.”

We all laughed.

“I remember it well,” I said.