SUSPECT: A Murder Mystery by Angel Berry

SUSPECT: A Murder Mystery By Angel Berry

THAT MORNING Alphonso, tired and annoyed, grumbled to himself and cussed Tommy for running off to Staten Island at the last minute and leaving him to handle the details of the job alone. Obviously, Tommy did not care enough about him â&#x20AC;&#x201C; no - had not deemed his old dad valuable enough to stick around and watch his back this time. With a deep frown etched into his brow and his facial features set in determined, pained disappointment, Alphonso sighed and shrugged. Everything will be fine, Tommy had said. To be on the safe side, just go in a few hours early â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a detour from routine. Now as Alphonso rode the highway through morning rush hour traffic, he chastised the 2

windshield wipers with a tongue expert in the art of profanity for their uselessness in the face of such a light downpour because he was forced to squint at the blur of blinking tail lights in their frenzy of stop and go. He laid on his horn and rolled his window down to shout expletives at the car in front of him, grunting as he shifted his weight because his stomach was large enough to easily close the gap between himself and the steering wheel. It was half past six by the time he left the highway â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a chilly, November morning slowly coming to life while waiting for the sun to rise, and he yawned and scanned the street, taking note of the few people standing at bus stops on their way to work early morning shifts. When he made it to the nearly commercial district where he had

worked nearly every day for the last twenty years, he began to whistle, turning on Osher Road, the street where his shop sat and where other businesses thrived as well â&#x20AC;&#x201C; among them a childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s clothing store, a diner, a hair salon, and even a small bakery. For now the street was silent, but later in the day the lane would fill up with people out shopping for the holiday. Again thinking of Tommy - his only child Alphonso sighed as he turned into the narrow drive beside his business and then ventured farther back into the old, paved parking lot which serviced the customers of his shop and the other surrounding stores. In his peripheral, a greasy paper bag sat propped up in the passenger seat beside him. After breakfast, he planned on napping until he had to

open the shop at nine. He parked as near to the steel back door of his shop as he could, and before hefting his heavy body from the car (not because he was worried but simply as a precaution) he quickly scanned the empty lot then grabbed Lucilleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Special from the seat beside him and hurried from the car. He didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t notice the men until he had rounded the hood of his sedan. He was only five paces from the door but there was no way that he was going to make it. How had he missed them? It was as if they had materialized from thin air. Tommyâ&#x20AC;Ś The right side of his jacket was heavy with the weight of his revolver resting in a pocket not far from his reach and his fingers itched to grab for it.

What stopped him was the shotgun pointed level with his face, and though the guy holding the gun seemed a little too jittery to be a pro - or he was a junkie, Alphonso thought – but either way, he decided not to chance it. Shit. What a fine mess this was. Alphonso slowly removed his watch while speaking to the masked man holding the gun. “Aye man, take what you want.” “Before you even reach for the piece, I’ll blow your frickin’ head off. I swear I’ll do it, man,” came the muffled reply. “Is that you, Joe?” Alphonso paused and his brows rose with disbelief. “What the heck you doing?” But Alphonso yelped in surprise as a clap of

thunder sounded and his assailant fell to the ground at his feet. At the instant his head rose, another clap of thunder sounded, louder this time, and he followed suit, falling to his hands and knees before he was overtaken by dense darkness. In death, Alfonso's body moved on the pavement in a grotesque, spasmodic dance. He would have been shocked to see the identity of the hooded figure that appeared from its vantage point at the very back of the small building. He was unaware of the lightning which propelled forward, hitting another man square in the forehead, snapping his head back from the impact, ensuring that he was dead before he hit the ground. The last robber of the trio staggered and gasped as recognition then terror crossed his face, but as aim

was being made for his head, he dove to the ground before scrambling to his feet as two more bullets whistled through the air in search of his soul. He heard the hooded figure call out to him in desperation, but his step did not falter. Instead he made haste to retreat on swift legs, dashing, running in jerky zig-zags, diving for cover, fully conscious that aim was being made for the back of his head. As for Alphonso whose blood soaked the gray, cracked concrete lot behind the Glitter Box, he was oblivious to the cold presence of his murderer the head tilted calmly at an angle to observe blood work - or of the gloved hand that reached down to snatch up the shotgun and Lucilleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Special before turning and vanishing into the shadow of early

morning.

20 hours later He was only about an hour into his shift but Sargeant Wallace Feldman was tired. Though sirens could at times be heard wailing in the distance, the lobby of the small police station was empty and way too quiet. He sat there at the front desk with his arms folded across his chest and wondered at the two short rows of orange plastic chairs and if they were the same exact chairs that had been there when he'd started working at this very precinct thirty years before. As he did every night, he studied the smiling faces on the many photos of the Missing poster board that hung on the wall near the door. From

behind him, the voices of his fellow officers rose with mirth and then again muffled in the background and he strained his ears to hear the conversation going on from the rear office through the cracking noise of the police scanner. So when she burst into the station he was not startled by her sudden, panicked appearance, but more so from her odd behavior. She didn’t enter and approach the desk as most civilians did, but ran into the station and swiftly pulled the heavy glass door closed behind her before pressing her face against the glass, and back and forth her head swiveled in search of her pursuer. “Ma’am?” He watched her thin back and shoulders heave with exertion. She did not acknowledge him.

Feldman rose from his seat, a hand resting on the butt of his Glock, and eyed the door in expectation of trouble while at the same time moving from behind the desk. As he approached, his eyes moved from her to the door and then back again, but to his surprise, the street was empty beyond the glass. As a precaution, he pulled her away from the door and she obligingly backed away, wringing her hands in angst. With furrowed brow, Feldman peered through the rain speckled glass and out to the quiet street. As far as he could tell, nothing stirred but rats. The pavement lay wet from a drizzle which had lasted for nearly a week now and was illuminated by the yellow glow of overhead streetlamps. Searching for signs of movement, he took his time looking over

the street, the darkened doorways of nearby buildings and even squinted at the parked cars which lined the curb. When he finally turned to the young woman she was already seated on one of the lobby chairs and after one last cautious glance out to the street, he walked over and sat down beside her. “Do you need help, ma’am?” She stared back at him with brown eyes flecked with gold and he wondered what she was doing out alone all by herself. He looked her over with experienced eyes – took note of her smooth, coffee complexion, the faded jeans and damp, yellow checkerboard flannel that was too baggy on her slender frame, and of the worn sneakers on her feet, one of which had come untied with the

shoestring laying limply on the tile floor, wet and stained by mud. Her head bowed so that he could only see the quivering of her bottom lip, and as she stared into her lap, she began an erratic snapping of her fingers. “Ma’am?” She looked up at him, puzzled, and shook her head, pointing at her ears. Understanding, Feldman pulled a pen and notepad from his top pocket and wrote on it. As he wrote, she watched him with curious eyes. He handed her the pad and waited. “What’s your name, ma’am?” he’d written. Recognition passed over her face and she gave him a shy smile. “C-C-Corrine.” When she looked up, their eyes met and

Feldman nodded and gave her a smile of encouragement. “How about your last name?” he wrote. Again her expression revealed confusion and after several seconds she shrugged. “How old are you, Corrine?” he wrote. To his dismay, she held up two fingers on one hand and one finger on the other. “You’re twenty-one then?” he wrote, to which she eagerly nodded. “Where do you live?” “I d-d-don’t – I don’t know,” she replied, refusing the pad when he offered her the pen. “You don’t know where you live?” “I mean, I k-k-know but I can’t – I c-c-can’t find my way b-b-back.” “Was someone trying to hurt you?”

“Y-y-yeah. Sure was.” She sighed heavily and tears brimmed eyes filled with frustration. When her head again bowed, Feldman pitied her. Poor girl, he thought. He rested a sympathetic hand on her shoulder before again pressing the pen to the already scribbled on pad of paper. “Why don’t you come on back and I’ll get you some soda. We can talk about it. Okay?” At this, her dull eyes brightened and she smiled and gave him another energetic nod, so without another word, he urged her from her seat and guided her to an office at the back of the station.

“Hi, Corrine. My name is Lesley and I 15

interpret using sign language. Sargeant Feldman says that the two of you are having trouble communicating, so I’ve been asked to come here and help you speak with the police.” Feldman leaned against the wall in a corner of the interrogation room and watched Lesley sign to Corrine who now seemed calm and was watchful of the other woman’s hands as they moved. He had never worked with Lesley before but he had been relieved when the petite, strait-laced young woman strode through the door in the fashion of one who understood the meaning of the word ‘emergency’. Then with sober attentiveness, she gave occasional curt nods of her head as he filled her in on the situation. They had been lucky to find someone at such a late hour. She had arrived at

nearly the same time as Detective Sandy had. One of Feldman’s favorites, Rochelle Sandy, always bright eyed and bushy tailed no matter the time, sat on the other side of the desk and doodled on a legal pad while stealing quick glances of Corrine and Lesley as they interacted. Tough and athletic, young and attractive yet intelligent with a wild streak, she sported bronze tinged bangs that complicated her cocoa skin. She sat quietly, though at times looked up from her drawing with patient, observant eyes. Feldman could tell that she was anxious to begin. He was glad that she’d caught the case. “Okay. I’ll talk to you,” Corrine signed with trembling hands. Lesley turned to Detective Sandy and nodded.

Sandy gave Corrine a welcoming smile to put her at ease. “My name is Detective Sandy. Officer Feldman here says that you think you may have witnessed a murder this morning. Is that right?” “Yes.” “Why don’t you tell us what happened.” Corrine paused, seemingly puzzled. “Tell you what happened?” “Yes. Where were you?” “I was waiting in front of the Sanctuary for Ms. Mary to come. I couldn’t go inside ‘cause they don’t open the doors until seven.” “At the homeless shelter on Lafayette?” “Yes,” Corrine signed. “Do you know how early you were?” Shrug.

“Where had you been before then?” “Riding the subway.” Sandy paused in her note taking. “For how long?” “All night,” Corrine signed but gave Sandy a huge grin. “I love riding the subway.” “Did you have a friend with you?” “No.” “Okay. How about while you waited for Mary outside of the shelter? Was anyone else waiting with you?” “Nah. It was too early.” “Okay. So tell me what you remember.” “Well, I didn’t have nowhere else to go and I was cold. Sometimes if it’s cold out, the best thing to do is move around to stay warm. Did you know

that?” Corrine's fingers moved swiftly for Lesley, but her eyes moved back to Sandy. Her questioning gaze was serious. “Yes, I know.” “So I decided that the best thing to do was walk, so I started to walk around.” “Where did you go?” “First I walked straight up the block then I turned at the corner, then I turned, then I turned. I got lost thinking about Magic Willy.” “Who’s Magic Willy?” “A magician. He pulls rabbits out of hats. One time he pulled a coin from behind a girl’s ear. You know Willy?” “No, sweetheart. I don't know Willy.” “He’s always down by the tracks. I see him all

the time.” Sandy nodded. “Were you thinking about Willy the whole time that you walked?” “I did until I saw Myron and Joey and their friend.” “Okay. Do you know their friend’s name?” Shrug. “But you’ve seen him at the Sanctuary?” Nod. “Who’s Myron and Joey?” “Sometimes they live at the Sanctuary too. Ms. Mary takes care of us all. I like them. They’re nice.” “Can you describe them for me?” “Joseph is real tall.” Corrine giggled. “He has a big ole gray beard. Like a bald head Santa Claus.”

“What about Myron?” “He’s tall too. He has really, really long dread locks. That’s how I knew it was him even though he had a mask on. I saw his hair.” Sandy nodded and pulled two mug shots from her file and placed them on the table in front of Corrine. “The men in these two photos, Corrine, do you know them?” Sadness filled her eyes as she stared at the photos and she placed a shaky index finger over one and said to Sandy, “This is - is Myron,” then her finger hovered over the next photo, “A-a-and that’s Joe.” Sandy nodded her understanding and gathered the photos. “Thank you, Corrine. Now can you tell me what they were doing when you saw

them?” Corrine took a deep breath and faced Lesley. Her hands began moving. “Just hanging around, I guess. I wanted to talk to them so I tried to run and catch up. I did catch up too, but then came the lightning and I was scared.” “What do you mean?” “A sizzle in my ear. Like when lightning strikes. But then the air felt quiet and I thought maybe they were lighting firecrackers and there I was looking like a big goofball missing all the fun, so I hurried up and walked fast around the building. There's a jewelry box on it that has nice sparkles and glitter. But when I got around back I was terrible scared ‘cause everybody was dead – Myron, Joe and

another big ole fat man. They were lying on the ground bleeding and Myron had a hole in his forehead. The killer man was there too. When I seen him I was so scared that I just took off running. I tried to find my way back to the Sanctuary but I kept getting turned around and I thought I got away but he saw me. He's been after me ever since.”

“What do you think?” Sandy asked Feldman while he poured coffee into her mug. “It’s too bad what she’s been through. I mean to actually chase her through the streets after he's just committed a triple homicide – this guy has balls. She’s lucky she made it here,” Feldman replied with a shake of his head. “What a mess.” 24

“What do we know about this girl?” “Lesley is working with her to find out a last name. She’s twenty-one. Parents died years ago. Homeless obviously.” “Hmm,” Sandy grunted and took a sip of the hot, bitter liquid in her cup. “This woman that runs the Sanctuary, Mary Ann Hernandez, she’s on her way down. Tommy Paro is on his way in as well.” “Great,” Feldman said. “Maybe we can finally get some answers.”

With a face void of emotion, Mary sat and stared blankly at the photos of Myron and Joe – both now dead. This wasn’t her first merry-goround so she hardly blinked. She had learned long ago that she could only save the ones that wanted

to be saved. God helps those who help themselves. That was her motto. Mary shrugged and sat back in her seat. All’s well that ends well and a few rotten apples will spoil the bunch. Sandy calmly watched as Mary nonchalantly perused the photos. The woman was in her midforties, stocky with curly brown hair and wirerimmed glasses. She had a no-nonsense look about her and when she had opened her small purse to give Feldman her I.D., Sandy had noticed that every item was carefully placed neatly inside. No wrinkled tissues lay carelessly draped over pink compacts, no runaway ink pens or lipstick smudged receipts. Everything in the side compartments were also neatly stacked. Sandy was impressed. “What do you know about these two?” she

said, nodding toward the photos. “Myron Jones and Joseph Smith. They’re in and out of the Sanctuary on a regular basis.” “Trouble makers?” “No more than anyone else.” “You know them for any drug use?” “We don’t allow it in the shelter. If a resident tries to check in high, they’re turned away to find another place to sleep. But I can’t control what they do when I’m not around.” “How long have you known these two?” “Joseph’s been in and out for the last year and Myron popped up a few months ago.” “These fellas run together?” Mary nodded in response and her eyes fell again to the photos of Myron and Joseph, both

posing for their mugshots with grim faces. “Anyone else you see them sticking close with?” “Jerry.” “Jerry? That is?” Mary hesitated and Sandy sat forward and clasped her hands on the table in front of her. “You seem reluctant, Ms. Hernandez.” “Jerry’s a good kid. I don’t know what those two got him into but –“ “Do you know anything about the jewelry store shooting that happened early yesterday morning?” “I do. It was some streets over but everyone knows the spot. Nothing better than a low rate pawn shop if you ask me.”

“So you weren’t a fan of the Glitter Box?” “All I’m saying is that these people have enough problems trying to deal with their sickness without some old fart with a bad toupee giving them an excuse to steal.” “Their sickness?” “Yes. Drug addiction. It’s nothing to play around with, Detective. A crack addict will rob his mother for a hit. And Mr. Paro knew that – trust me. It wasn’t a bullet that killed him. It was greed. If you ask me, it was bound to happen. I don’t know why anyone is surprised. I guess the old saying is true - you reap what you sow.” “Ms. Hernandez, can you tell me where you were the morning that Mr. Paro was killed?” “At home getting ready for my shift at the

Sanctuary. Why?” Mary asked with raised brows. “Were you alone?” “I was.” Mary leveled her gaze on Sandy from over her glasses. “You don’t think I killed him?” “Just a question I have to ask.” Sandy hid her amusement behind hands raised in defense. “Tell me what you know about Corrine.” At mention of the girl, Mary’s demeanor changed - her eyes brightened and a broad grin lit up her face. “It’s too bad that poor girl stumbled into that whole incident. She is the sweetest thing, isn’t she?” Sandy smiled. “How long have you known her?” “Oh, little over a month maybe. I always try to keep a bed open for her just in case she shows up.

Her momma and daddy died some years ago in a car accident and left her all alone. That girl has no family.” “Do you know her last name?” Sandy asked. Mary shook her head and tsked. Her eyes were filled with pity. She leaned forward and whispered in a secretive tone. “She’s nearly deaf, but you know that. She definitely doesn’t have the mind of a grown woman - that’s for sure. I must say that my skin isn’t as thick as I thought it was. I do worry about her.” Sandy paused before asking the one question that she knew made Mary uncomfortable. ”Tell me about Jerry.” Mary sighed heavily and the shadow of agitation again settled on her face and rested in her

eyes. “Jerry Harris is a nineteen year old kid. His father kicked him out of the house because he’s gay, but he’s a smart, sensitive boy. If he’s somehow tied up in all this, I can assure you that it’s not his fault.” Mary folded her arms and sat back in her seat. “If I were you, I’d be looking into Tommy Paro. Alphonso was only guilty of exploiting what nose in the airs like you call ‘junkies’. But Tommy, he’s a snake.”

“Mr. Paro, first let me start by extending my condolences.” Instead of looking up when she entered the room, Tommy Paro instead sat and smoked his cigarette with downcast eyes. Her only

acknowledgment was a cool nod that could be seen through a haze of swirling, silver smoke, so Sandy sat in the seat across from him with her hands resting in her lap and waited. Tommy was of average height with a bulky build. He wore a red and black lumberjack flannel over a black, hooded sweatshirt. His broad jawline was covered in dark stubble and when he lifted the butt of his cigarette to his mouth, Sandy could see that oil stained the skin around the edges of his fingernails â&#x20AC;&#x201C; that his hands were large and calloused, the pale knuckles springing curly, black hairs. An entire minute passed with the two of them sitting across from one another in silence. Sandy was curious about his demeanor. For a man whose

father had just been murdered, he seemed unusually calm, and she had expected to be bombarded with questions before she could even get the door open - maybe an irate son swearing vengeance, or at the very least, the wholly grave, dense feel of managed grief pervading the surrounding space, but there was nothing – just a simple nod. Above their heads, and to Sandy’s irritation, the overhead light buzzed and sometimes flickered and she wondered if the bulb would die before her conversation with Paro even began. “It seems that we’ve had some trouble getting in touch with you. Did you know that the police have been trying to reach you since yesterday morning?”

After carefully propping his cigarette in the ashtray, Tommy finally looked up at her. With his brows raised in appreciation, he openly admired what he could see of her seated form. Sandy wondered if he was attempting to throw her off her game. “Yeah. I know. I've been in Staten Island for the last few days.” In the dim light, the fine hairs covering his neck seemed almost too dark. His cheeks were marred by the scars of old pock marks and dark circles surrounded his sunken in eyes. Though in his late thirties, his full head of hair was jet black with not a hint of gray. “Doing?” “Nothing in particular.”

“You look tired.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I was partying, the usual tom fuckery. You know.” His eyes were bold, intent on her face and she returned his stare. “You’re pretty hot for a cop.” “Hmm,” Sandy grunted in response. “Tommy, when was the last time you spoke with your father?” The flirtatious grin disappeared from his face. “Night before last.” “What’d you talk about?” “Nothing important. Told him I’m be back sometime this week and that was it. I've been laid up with a broad for the last couple days. Battery died on my phone...” he shrugged and seemed to avoid looking her in the eye.

And Sandy watched him without speaking. “So what happened? Junkie snatch his wallet?” he asked in a flat tone while taking another hit from his cigarette. With a nod, Sandy opened her case file and grabbed the shots of Myron and Joe, pushing them across the table toward him. With calm deliberateness, he slowly stubbed his cigarette in the station's only ashtray with the pad of a calloused, yellow thumb, barely giving the photos a cursory glance. “Do you know these two men?” Sandy waited as Tommy finally looked down at the photos, indifferent recognition crossing his face, but still several seconds passed before he answered.

“I seen them around.” “They ever pawn anything at your shop?” “Maybe.” “Maybe?” Seemingly agitated, Tommy gave a hard yank to the lobe of his ear. “Listen, lady, I don’t keep track of every dope fiend that comes in and out of the Box.” Sandy opened her mouth to speak then paused, waiting – and while she waited, she retrieved the photos from across the table and placed them back into one of the files in front of her. Because she could sense nervous tension and because she could feel Tommy’s eyes boring into her, she took her time – lingered in her perusal of

the contents of the tan folders because she knew that her silence unnerved him. “So what’d they get off him?” Tommy asked, his tone low. “Nothing,” Sandy replied. “His keys, wallet, gold watch – all still on his person.” To Sandy, it seemed that Tommy had been caught off guard, but any expression of perplexity on his part quickly vanished a second after it had appeared. “That’s it?” “Should there have been something else?” “You tell me,” he said with a wry smile and began to rummage through his jacket pocket. After a few seconds a crumpled pack of cigarettes appeared. Sandy switched course. “How was your

relationship with your father?” “You're asking me if I did something to him, right?” “Did you?” Mildly indignant, his voice was tight with controlled anger. “Do I need a lawyer?” “I’m not accusing you, Tommy. But it’s my job to ask.” “I didn’t kill him.” Tommy held the small cardboard box in his hand, one cigarette half out of the pack and pinched between his fingertips. His eyes were filled with warning. “Okay, Tommy,” Sandy said, staring him directly in the eye, a sheepish, apologetic smile on her face. “I’m sorry. You’re grieving and here I am

practically accusing you of shooting your own father down in the street in cold blood like some mangy dog. My bad.” Tommy’s eyes narrowed at her words. “But just to be on the safe side, I’m going to have my witness take a look at you. You don’t mind, right?” “You got a witness?” he asked, his mood again shifting – this time from anger to delighted disbelief. His eyes crinkled attractively at the corners in spite of the coldness of his smile. He placed the cigarette between his lips with one smooth gesture. Sandy leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table. “And here it is, I thought that news would make you happy.”

Tommy sighed and rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

“What’d the ME say?” Sandy asked Feldman once he ended his call. “They’re backed up. Says they’ll try and have something for us by morning. What about the video?” “Nothing. Tommy says that while the cameras are there, they haven’t been used in years. Weird for a jewelry store, eh?” “Or convenient,” Feldman replied sarcastically. “Where we at with this Jerry kid?” “We’ve got units keeping an eye out for him. Thing is, kid doesn’t have a record, so all we’re working with for now is a description.” 42

“That’s alright. We might catch a break with this one.” “How’s that?” “Well, I’m pretty sure there was something else that Alphonso was holding; that Tommy is hiding something. On top of that, Tommy swears that he was in Staten Island, but Ms. Hernandez says the night before Alphonso was shot she saw Tommy drop Joe Smith off across the street from the shelter.” “And she’s sure?” “Well, she was sure it was his car, a Camaro, which she says is a rather loud shade of red.” “Is that right?” “Mm-hmm,” Sandy grunted and bit into a fresh, glazed donut. “And Corrine only recognizes

him from the neighborhood. She says flat out that he wasn’t the one popped Alphonso.” “You sure?” Feldman asked, brows raised in bashful, shamed doubt. “I believe her.” He shrugged. “Still doesn’t mean he don’t have nothing to do with it.” “There’s something else.” Feldman nodded. “It always gets good once I leave the room.” Sandy gave him a sly wink. “So I tell Tommy – I say, Tommy, the way I hear it, you were outside the Sanctuary with Joe the night before Alphonso was murdered. He slams his fist down on the table and says to me – no hesitation, nose flaring – Mary Hernandez is a liar.” Sandy twirls in her seat and

throws dramatic hands into the air. “I ask what makes him think that Hernandez is the one told me and he says that she’s had it out for him and his dad for years now. Says she threatened him over the summer.” “Really?” Sandy nodded. “Yep. But Mary says that Tommy had some of the boys from the shelter stealing cars and that he was flipping them through his body shop.” “How’d she find out?” “Two kids got shot trying to jack some guy’s Benz. One of them - some kid Mary calls Red – got away but saw it all go down. He says this particular Benz was handpicked by Tommy – that he always chose the vehicles. Thing about it is the owner of

the Benz,” Sandy turns to her computer and brings up an image, “is this unsavory fellow, Marion Prentis aka Rambo.” Feldman wrinkles his nose at the tattoo covered face staring back at him. “Look at this – guns, drugs, violence - the trifecta.” Sandy nodded. “So anyway, this kid, Red, runs straight to Hernandez and tells her everything. Says Prentis popped him, popped his friend then got out of the car and sat on the kid’s chest until he gave Tommy up. Red says he got up and ran off - left his friend there. Hernandez says she patched Red up the best she could and he took off. She hasn’t heard from him since. When I look the other kid up – sure enough Mary’s right, but all this kid got was a funeral. No witnesses came forward. Mary

confronted Tommy and he told her to piss off.” “Sandy, they say I can retire soon.” Sandy looked Feldman over. His dark brown skin was smooth; his hair only lightly peppered with gray. “Pay attention.” Feldman sighed. “I think we’ve gotten about all we can out of him for now. Cut him loose.” “What?” “Hernandez too. Cut them both loose.” Sandy frowned. “Hernandez says she saw him with Joe.” “His car - not his face. He has tinted windows, it was dark…Any minute some high end lawyer is going to blow through here and tell us there’s no crime in Tommy knowing Joe especially since they occupy the same neighborhood.” Feldman paused

and Sandy gestured for him to finish. “Tommy is tough as nails. Right now he thinks that we have diddly squat and so he’s only going to give what he wants us to have. Hernandez claims she saw him with Joe,” Feldman said, raising a finger. “Suspicious, maybe, but not criminal. His lawyer is going to say, hey, there’s a hundred red Camaros coming in and out of the area all the time. Plus, our overly righteous Mary Ann Hernandez has a five year old misdemeanor marijuana charge. When Lawyer Poindexter finds that out coupled with the fact that she hates the Paros…” Feldman let out a low whistle. “…could she have mistaken the streetlamps for strobe lights from an extra-terrestrial spaceship – lights that reflected off the car just right enough

to cause some weird glare that turned Paro’s Camaro a glowing, martian red or some bullshit.” “Maybe Hernandez hit a joint some weedhead was smoking in the shelter restroom he’ll say?” Sandy joked. “That’s right, my love. You know how they are.” “And Corrine didn't recognize him as the shooter.” “What if she did?” “Aw, come on, Feldman,” Sandy protested. “Hey now. Be real. It would be Tommy's word – his money - against Corrine, a woman with the mentality of a ten year old. You know how they’d treat her. But now that she says Tommy's not the guy,”

Feldman shrugs. “They'll love her.” Sandy's lips purse with disapproval. “Trust me, right now we have enough to deal with. Hernandez’s word against Tommy’s that he was in Staten Island…” Feldman shook his head. “He's going to say that Hernandez is holding a grudge against him. And to top it all off, he’ll find some big breasted ditz to back his alibi. They’ll blow Hernandez’s 'I saw him' all to hell before we even leave the station. Tommy Paro, the mourning son, being mistreated by the police blah, blah, blah. But mark my words - if we keep an eye on Paro for just a little while he’ll slip up. Right now we need Tommy to think that we’re looking elsewhere. Let him bury Alphonso. He's not going anywhere.”

“Okay, smartie. And what about the girl? Lesley is asking for a coloring book or something for Corrine to write with. She’s drawing on the table with her soda.” “Oh, geez.” Feldman chuckled. “Mary offered to keep Corrine at her house until we find this guy, but I told her it was too dangerous and that we’d already made other arrangements. She seemed disappointed.” “Did Fairmont have a bed?” “Yep. She can stay for up to 72 hours. That’ll give me enough time to find somewhere safe for her until we wrap this up.” Feldman nodded. “The van’s in the garage. I’ll take her over. Go home and get some rest, Sandy.”

Accomplice #3 51

Jerry sat in the bathroom of a friendâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s raggedy motel room with his teeth clenched about the strap of a worn leather belt and grimaced as he tried again and again to pierce his vein with the needle. When the poison finally entered his blood stream, he removed the belt from his arm and allowed his head to fall forward. As he rode euphoria there slumped on a cool, cracked toilet seat, he also beat back guilt. He had been clean this time for four months - had kicked the dope all on his own. Better not lie to yourself, Jerry. After meeting up with Chuck, he had known it was just a matter of time before he was searching for a clean needle. And Chuck had offered no resistance â&#x20AC;&#x201C; sat on the edge of the bed scratching at an abscess that had set up shop on the inside of his calf. Chuck

had disapproved of him going straight and even gave him a triumphant smirk when he asked him for the burnt spoon and a baggie of poison. For a few seconds Jerry had fought temptation – hated the sticky carpet and filthy bedspread, the taint of freshly smoked cocaine, the bedside table filled with dead spoons and ashtrays overflowing with month old cigarette butts. This was where he was heading back to – destination zero. And Chuck who was a cynical realist, skinny and missing his teeth - a great friend as long as Jerry understood that he didn’t support his sobriety, watched him with knowing eyes. With his tail tucked between his legs, Jerry retreated to the bathroom to escape Chuck‘s grin. It’s your own fault, Jerry baby. You were born bad.

Dizziness turned to nausea and Jerry leaned forward, gulped stale air, and let his head fall between his knees. One small, greasy, brown paper bag. It was supposed to be a piece of cake – like taking candy from a baby. But they fucked up. He watched the images play out in his head - over and over again in his mind. He should’ve seen it coming. What goes around comes around, Mary Hernandez would say. On the very day that Joe had let him in on the plan he had been on his way to a job interview at a restaurant in Manhattan, but the promise of quick, easy money forced him to forget his plans – lured him away - and the promises he had made himself were easily forgotten.

And to his credit, Joe was very persuasive. Jerry learned fast that Joe was just that way – loud with a raucous sense of humor. He still wore the same ratty, blue sweat shirt that he had worn now for weeks on end and his coat was so small that he couldn’t zip it. Jerry could tell that he wore a pair of jeans underneath his sweat pants. They stood outside the Sanctuary sharing a butt because Mary wouldn’t let them smoke inside. Joe bounced excitedly shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he spoke. He was the kind of guy who always called other men ‘dude’ or ‘mac’ instead of addressing them by name; the kind of guy who always seemed to be standing too close. Joe was the kind of guy who always found a reason to touch during conversation.

“It’s a ten carat ruby that was in a necklace owned ages ago by some Hungarian broad – a countess or something. The guy who owned it, some oil tycoon from Texas, well, he sells it off to this British dude for four fucking million dollars,” Joe said, grinning at him with nicotine stained teeth. His weathered skin looked to Jerry like leather especially when he smiled and the flesh wrinkled in folds around his eyes and forehead. “I don’t know the exact details, but before it could be on its merry way to London, there’s an ambush. The stone, which was once securely seated in a small briefcase that was once handcuffed to a now murdered courier along with several of his armed guards, is now on the way to its new owner somewhere in Canada. Its first means of

transportation? The perfect disguise - tucked tight in the middle of a deluxe cornbeef sandwich. One of Lucille’s Special’s making its second to last stop on the black market route.” Joe’s laughter came out in small wheezes. “You can’t make this shit up.” Who would have guessed it? Jerry allowed his lids to fall closed and though no sound escaped him, he laughed to himself. Son of a bitch. But they had been double crossed. All day he had been hiding out here with Chuck who was glad for his company while he slung rocks and heroine to jittery ‘custoes’, as he called them. But darkness had fallen and Jerry knew that it was best for him to be on his way out of town. It was too dangerous for him to linger any longer. By now, the wrong people knew that Alphonso was dead -

that Myron and Joe got burnt. By now, there were savages roaming the streets searching for he and An eerie quiet suddenly gave him pause. The air seemed colder and the fine hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood on end. He was suddenly aware of a muffled whimpering coming from the next room and his hazy mind was forcibly cleared by paranoia. Jerry froze as the low tone of a familiar voice met his ears and his gaze instinctively lowered to the open denim purse which sat between his feet on the dingy tile and he eyed a silver .45 through droopy lids while keeping his ears tuned to the voices beyond the door. “There’s no one here but me,” Chuck was whining, his voice trembling with fear. “I told you, I ain’t seen him.” 58

Pop, pop. Jerry leapt to his feet and stood still â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a heat from fear started between his shoulder blades and spread throughout his upper body and his heartbeat pounded in his ears. He was trapped. Someone was cryingâ&#x20AC;ŚChuck? Jerry slowly reached for his purse, and as quietly as he could, he stepped into the tub and inched the shower curtain closed behind him. Sweat trickled down his sides from beneath his armpits, and with great agitation he scratched at his neck, upset at himself for hiding in a place where he could be so easily found. After he climbed into the tub, he counted ten seconds before the bathroom door was kicked open, and as the flimsy door slammed into the wall behind it

and splintered wood fell to the floor, he swallowed hard. Instinct made him press his body to the cold tile behind him, holding his breath as two heavy steps crossed the tile and stopped just short of the tub. Jerryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nerves screamed in anticipation and he held the gun out before him with shaky hands. Strained seconds of silence followed before Jerry imagined an explosion of light, and certain that a bullet made its way toward him, he pulled the trigger twice, cursing as his shoulder jerked from the recoil. Hard panting met his ears then the scrambling, tripping noise of one fleeing, and Jerry took a deep breath before tearing the burned curtain back, cursing as he realized that he had only succeeded in tearing holes in the opposite wall. Unsure of his next move, Jerry knelt in the

bathtub, eyes as large as dinner plates, the gun pointed out in front of him. The ringing in his ears reminded him of sirens and was the motivation that he needed to finally leave the tub, and cautiously, heart pounding, gun out in front of him, he moved into the next room terrified that someone waited to blow his head off. The sight of Chuck who lay wide-eyed on the bed in a pool of blood, his chest exploded from the force of a shotgun blast shocked him, and for a moment he stood mesmerized to see his friend lying so still, but outside voices rising with the warning that police approached snapped him out of momentary shock and though he knew that the cops could arrive any second, Jerry searched the pockets of his dead friend and took the few crumpled bills that he could

find. As he made his way to the door he stumbled and tripped over his feet, falling face first onto the dirty carpet before finally fleeing the room, the only thing on his mind is that a friend, now an enemy, was more than likely lurking in the dark waiting for the opportunity to kill him. Judas As he steadily made his way down the corridor and away from the room he slowed his step, not wanting to draw attention to himself, and as he passed, Jerry ducked his head to avoid meeting the eyes of a man that stood in a nearby doorway. By the time he reached the stairwell, Jerry felt as if predatory eyes dogged his every step and he paused when he reached the stairwell, his hand inside his

pocket resting on the gun while he nervously searched the dark corners with alert eyes before cautiously descending the stairs. The soft pitterpatter of rain could once again be heard as the wail of sirens ceased, and he stood beside a nearby vending machine trying to appear nonchalant as squad cars crowded the lot, the twirling blue and red lights illuminating the ragged faces and hunched, retreating shoulders of the motelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s loitering residents. Feeling as though he had a bullâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eye on his back, but fearful that sooner or later he would be pointed out as having been in the room where Chuck now lay in a mess of his own blood, Jerry pulled a black, lint covered cap out of his pocket and adjusted it on his head while casually sauntering away from

the motel. As he walked, he kept a vigilant lookout behind him, and once he was a fair distance away from the motel he exhaled a pent up breath, but still silently hoped that he could make it to the bus station without catching a bullet in the back. Lucky for him, in spite of the rain, people still moved about on the street, some with umbrellas and others tolerating the drizzle with chins tucked into raised collars, and as Jerry made his way to the subway station, he stayed near the lighted doorways of restaurants and store fronts, always aware of the people moving around him, placing an eye on passing faces, searching for anyone who seemed too interested in him while also keeping his other eye out for the familiar, cold gaze which had deceived

him into giving his trust. Once he reached the subway station, he relaxed slightly under the bright glare of the underground lights, relieved to see that the station was as busy as usual, and his nerves calmed once he finally settled into his seat, confident that none of the other passengers meant him any harm. As the train jerked and grinded its way along the tracks, Jerry stared at his reflection in the opposite window. His skin was pale and dark circles shadowed his eyes. He ran his hand through his hair, smoothing back an unruly lock, then blew a provocative kiss at his reflection. Maybe he would make it out of this after all. He had an old aunt in Jersey who might be willing to take him in for a while provided he could

stay clean. He was sure that no one would find him there. When Jerry left the train with several other passengers and made his way toward the exit, taking the steps two at a time and even whistling to himself as he decided on the easy life in Jersey, he failed to notice the hooded figure that fell in easy step behind him. As his feet led him toward Times Square, he thought he knew where he could find a guy to score some smack from â&#x20AC;&#x201C; just something to tide him over on his journey, he told himself. So he moved swiftly along the pavement, smoothly weaving in and out of small crowds of people while his mind remained intent on scratching an itch, but the sudden, hard jab of a pistol being shoved into his side slowed his

stride. Jerry’s first instinct was to run – surely he wouldn’t be shot dead on the street in a crowd of people. But then Jerry was also curious. Maybe he could recoup what he had given up as a loss. What did he have to lose? There was a price on his head anyway. So without arguing or putting up a fight, Jerry allowed himself to be threatened and then coerced into a taxi, and his heart burned in silent fury with every mile they covered enroute to Harlem. He was not surprised when they approached the west side where the ruins of abandoned dwellings loomed dark and forgotten, and neither did he care. His every sense was attuned to the person seated beside him. He needed his damn share.

As directed, the cabbie pulled over to a dark corner and they exited the taxi. As its tail lights blinked at the corner then turned and disappeared, Jerry turned with a sneer. “The fuck! You killed Myron and Joe? You fucking tried to kill me!” Icy, dark eyes glared at him from a face that seemed set in stone. A familiar hand gave him a shove and spat, “Walk.” Now intent on scheming, his mind weighing the pros and cons of his predicament, he was glad for the cold steel that sat in his waistband and rested against his spine. “Where’s the stone?” he queried while allowing himself to be steered toward a trio of abandoned apartment buildings, the middle one sitting back several feet from the street. Jerry knew that once they crossed over into

the entrance of the litter filled courtyard they would be enveloped in darkness and he would be at a disadvantage – would be shot in the back – so he stopped just short of the curb and turned to find a gun in his face. Refusing to be cowed, his tone was confrontational. “Why did you come back for me?” No reply. “And why the fuck did you pop the old man? That wasn’t part of the plan. Knock him around a little, yeah, but you blew his head off.” Silence. “You know they’re looking for us, right?” Jerry asked, pointing a steady finger. “It wasn’t supposed to go down like that. They’re gonna kill us both.” A lone raindrop fell from his hat, escaped beneath his collar and ran an icy trail from the nape

of his neck and downward between his shoulder blades causing an involuntary shudder to move through him. His eyes narrowed at the calculated calmness in the voice that responded. “Think about the guy that the stone belongs to and then tell me you really believe that any of you were going to be alive this time next week.” To Jerry, the eyes of a black heart stared him directly in the face. “You were all so stupid. No matter how it turned out, anybody with half a brain could see who planned the robbery. But nobody knows anything about me, right? Because you guys were gonna cut my back out. Right?” “I can’t believe you popped Chuck.” “Fuck Chuck.”

Jerry took a step back and his fingers inched toward his waistband. “I was your friend. I never would’ve hurt you.” “You’re a liar,” that familiar voice tightened with anger. “And a loose end. Now walk.” Jerry started to move again but tried to visually measure how many steps he was from the ragged walkway of the large, dilapidated stone building. His hat was cold and soaked with rain. He was desperate. As he was unexpectedly shoved into the shadows, he quickly turned with a swift, hard kick, satisfied when he heard a grunt of pain and he ducked and took off running as the first bullet barely missed his head, whizzing past him and striking brick.

Footsteps fell in behind him so he ducked into the entrance of the building, shivering just beyond the doorless threshold until he heard hesitant steps approaching. Shattered glass from broken windows crunched beneath Judas' feet. For the second time that night, Jerry aimed at a target he could hardly see and fired, cringing as the loud boom from the .45 tore through the quiet of night. He was satisfied by a yelp and then a loud clatter echoed through the dark as steel collided with the ground and Jerry squinted and aimed again as the shadowy figure bent at the waist to retrieve the fallen weapon. He fired but again missed and cursed in disappointment as he caught sight of the shadowy form fleeing the courtyard and heading

back toward the street, ducking and weaving to avoid a bullet. Jerry waited, counting to three before he gave chase. Before leaving the courtyard, he hesitantly peered around the building and into the street in just enough time to see Judas rounding the corner. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Hey,â&#x20AC;? he shouted, knowing that he now had the upper hand because the abandoned pistol lay on the crumbling pavement of the building behind him. When the fleeing figure would come into view Jerry would take aim, letting off a round loud enough to split the calm evening, but in the end he was forced to hide his gun in the pocket of his jacket and several times cursed because of the people that he encountered on the street. The jewel was all he cared about and he became giddy at the thought of having

it all for himself. But Jerry was not as swift as his prey and he wondered at the items that he passed laying haphazardly on the pavement after having been hurriedly discarded â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a dark hooded sweatshirt, a black skullcap which was identical to his own, black gloves laying several feet apart. And then the rattle of a fence being scaled and Jerry admonished himself to pick up the pace. The pounding of his heart and the barking of a startled dog flooded his senses as he fought to keep up. Again Judas hit a corner, disappearing momentarily before Jerry would catch up enough to get a full view of a retreating back, of a head turning to gauge his distance. Together they raced into traffic, barely missed by the bumpers of cars that

swerved to avoid hitting them and their ears met with frustrated curses spat through rolled down windows, car horns honking, and brakes screeching in protest. And then for the second time in 24 hours, Jerry was shocked into wide-mouthed speechlessness, this time because he watched Corrine’s slender body escape through the glass doors of a police precinct.

The Last Hour “Good morning. Yes, this is Detective Sandy...Uhhuh…what do you mean, she’s gone?” Sandy sighed and slumped forward at her desk, head in her hand. “How long ago was that?” Irritated, Sandy ended the call without saying goodbye. 75

Damn it She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, forcing herself to calm though she saw red. Tight lipped and sporting a frown of highest pisstivity, she stood at her desk to yank the sleeves of her coat up and over her arms, snatched and tied a scarf about her neck then pulled her gloves on before irritably stomping from the precinct.

Not far from the Harlem River sat a scrap yard that stood alone on a lane that scrappers and junkmen called â&#x20AC;&#x153;the tracksâ&#x20AC;?. There all week long one could find disheveled men of all kind dumping loads of scrap metal â&#x20AC;&#x201C; old refrigerators, cars long broken down, and other useless, miscellaneous crap. When Sandy pulled the unmarked Explorer up to the curb and parked, she

sat for several minutes in the warmth of the car, engine idling, and tried to check her temper by watching the people leaving in and out of the gates of the yard. Once she left the car, heat still warmed her cheeks in spite of the cold, and as she approached the gate she was almost ran down by a rusty pickup truck whose bed was filled to capacity with assorted junk. At her frown, the driver waved and gave her a sheepish grin before rumbling past, sending mud flying toward her boots. In the grimy office of the yard, she tapped hard on the silver, metal bell and waited for someone to arrive at the desk. From outside, the voices of grown men arguing cut through the grinding noise of corroded metal being smashed. She counted two

minutes before help arrived in the form of a barrel chested man in oily coveralls. He entered the small room through a back door and seemed genuinely surprised to see her standing there. “Can I help you?” Sandy flashed her badge. “Detective Rochelle Sandy. I was hoping that maybe you could help me. Do you know a Magic Willy?” They stared at one another for seconds – him with an amused grin and Sandy daring him to crack a joke. “No,” came the stiff reply. “Are you sure,” Sandy asked impatiently. “He supposedly hangs around here all the time – does magic tricks.” He stared at her this time with an incredulous

look on his face and Sandy wanted to box his ears, but she knew how foolish she sounded. He shrugged and shook his head. “Thank you,” Sandy replied, turning on her heel and leaving the small office with still flushed cheeks. When she made her way back to the gate she stopped and surveyed her surroundings, deeply inhaling the river air before heading toward her vehicle with the intention of taking a tour of the neighborhood, but she paused mid-step when she spotted two women standing on the corner at the curb. “Hi,” Sandy called out as she approached. The women turned and assessed her with disinterest. To Sandy, the two look so much alike that they could be sisters – both dark and frumpy, pinched

faced with shrewd expressions. “Either of you know a Magic Willy?” One smirked. “Why you askin’, sista?” Sandy offered her a smile. “I’m looking for a friend of his.” “Who’s the friend?” “A young, deaf woman named Corrine. Do you know her?” They exchanged a secretive glance and responded simultaneously. “No.” “Come on. You know something.” Sandy fished in her pocket and produced two twenty dollar bills. “Right?” Her tactic was effective. Their interest was instantly piqued. “Yes, we know Magic Willy. Funny you should come looking for him. Heard a rumor he

came into some money. They say he left town this morning in a hurry.” “What about Corrine?” “Don’t know a Corrine.” Sandy slowly twisted the green bills between her fingers so they knew that she still had the upper hand. “Sure you do. Stands about this tall, dark skinned, deaf, speaks with a real bad stutter.” Their eyes met and widened and together they burst into laughter. “What’d she get you for?” Sandy sighed. “What do you mean?” “Only deaf, stuttering person I know is Ash. He been around here a long time too. He sell penny candy to the kids on their way to school – sometimes he do magic tricks for’em…” her voice trailed off and she shook her head in pleased dismay.

The more unfriendly of the two women eyed the bills and spoke in a tone which suggested to Sandy that she wanted her to move on. “There’s a girl he been taking care of since she was little. Her parents use to sell dope out here. Got murdered though. They found her mama’s body under the bridge over there covered in newspaper,” she said. “You probably heard about it. Never found her daddy. Real sad.” “Sho’ was,” the other solemnly agreed. “So this girl that call herself Ash’s niece - she dark skinned, but she ain’t got no stutter and she sho’ as hell ain’t deaf.” Sandy’s heart skipped a beat. “The girl – what’s her name?” “Monie. I see her sometimes at the food and clothing drives that go on at the shelter on Lafayette.

Maybe you can find her there,” she said, impatiently holding her hand out for the bills. “But if you give me another twenty, I’ll show you where their trailer sits.”

THE CULPRIT “Ugh. You stink,” Melanie said and placed a dramatic hand over her nose while rolling her eyes at the poorly dressed young woman seated to her left. “Naw, she don’t, Mel.” Jocelyn turned in her seat and smiled. “She just look like she stank.” Though undisturbed by the looks of pity and embarrassment on the faces of her classmates, Monie still lowered her gaze to where her hands rested in her lap instead of responding or returning the insult of the pretty, brown-skinned girls seated

at the desk in front of her own. As if on cue, their English professor returned to the room, gave last minute instructions on a paper due the following week and dismissed the class early, but Monie did not move right away and instead remained seated, waiting for the last student to depart before leaving her desk. She watched the retreating backs of Jocelyn and Melanie as they joined the procession of exiting students. They chattered happily together - their torture of her now forgotten and she patted herself on the back for controlling her temper. As Monie made her way down the empty hall of the community college, her eyes remained fixed on the worn, dirty material of her tennis shoes. She kept her books pressed tightly to her chest and

donned her cap before gently sliding up the zipper on the old fatigue jacket that she had borrowed from Ash long ago but had yet to return. At the door, she stopped to pull the hood over her head before stepping outside. During the walk to the bus stop, Monie thought of her parents. She always thought of them on days such as these when it was rainy and cold â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the same type of day that it had been when they disappeared, and she counted the dead leaves that littered the sidewalk as she went. Soaked through with rain, they clung to the concrete in shades of burnished red and brown. At times the wind would blow in light gusts, moving with enough force to shake the mostly empty branches of the trees and causing more

leaves to fall by the wayside, floating and twirling through the air, and she followed their descent with solemn eyes. As one thought in her mind passed to the next, she lingered on the mental images from the bus ride that she had taken earlier that morning â&#x20AC;&#x201C; earlier when decent folk were up preparing for their mundane 9 to 5 jobs. It had been nearly eight o'clock, and just like clockwork, she'd spotted them at their usual posts hiding in the shadowy corners of wet doorways attempting to go unnoticed. Her eyes told her that nothing going on outside the rain spattered window was remarkable. The old man had just been pulling around back of the jewelry store and the tail lights of his white

sedan blinked at her through the busâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dingy windows. She passed the greeting along, secretly winking at the hooded figure that leaned nonchalantly against a stop sign oblivious to her searching eyes because his own remained glued to the flashing neon lights of the Glitter Box. If everything went as planned, the old man would be arriving with something special early tomorrow morning. If lady luck smiled down on her, he would follow his usual routine of pulling his car directly up to the gray, dented metal door of the shop, jump out as quickly as his wide girth would allow and disappear into the building with no one being the wiser. And word had it that he would do this all by himself. Monie had made her way back to Ash with a

smile on her face. Now as she stood in the field where Ash's trailer sat, she was jittery with excitement and continued to go over the plans in her head. They lived behind the old market district which had years before been left for dead and Monie glanced over her surroundings with disinterest. Today she could care less about the rundown buildings. She was filled with a feeling of hope instead of her usual emotion which was something akin to despair. Ash tried his best to keep the area around the trailer clean, but squatters from the long ago abandoned structures and those who lived along the railroad tracks threw trash out into the open field so that broken liquor bottles and hypodermic

needles lay scattered in places along the ground. When she approached the old, lop-sided trailer, she took note of the lingering smoke that still swirled from the large can which Ash used to burn wood, and she paused near the red brick which served as a makeshift step to pat Sadie, the old mutt who sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d never seen Ash without, before pulling the rickety door open and stepping inside. Monie stood in the doorway and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimness of the beat down interior of the trailer. As she waited, she inhaled the familiar damp, moldy odor, knowing that there was a slight leak in the roof of the raggedy box that Ash had attempted to cover with a sheet of plastic, but to no avail. The plop, plopping of water dripping into the pail on the kitchen floor was a familiar

sound as she moved throughout the cluttered space. She didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remove her hat or jacket because of the coldness within the trailer, and as she neared the pail, she cupped her hands over her mouth and blew warm bursts of air into her palms before reaching down to grasp the bucket handle. Once outside, she saw him walking toward the trailer and she waved and smiled. She had known that he wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t far â&#x20AC;&#x201C; no way would Sadie let him out of her sight for too long. A full grin broke across his dark face and he returned her wave, arms swinging erratically as he broke into a slow jog to meet her. When he drew near, he pulled her into his arms and she relaxed against him and buried her face in the broadness of his chest before staring up at him. The salt and pepper hair covering his face was bushy

and he was as unkempt as usual, but the loving kindness in his brown eyes was all that mattered to her and she allowed her lids to fall closed as he bent to place a kiss on the tip of her nose. “H-h-hey, Monie,” he greeted her and watched her lips for a reply. “Hey, Ash. How you doing?” “I b-b-be okay. I missed y-y-ou this morning, dd-didn’t I?” he responded with his usual thick tongued accent. “Yeah. I didn’t wanna wake you up. I know you ain’t been feeling too good,” Monie said and looked him over with concerned eyes. “N-n-no. I been f-f-feeling better now. Just needed me some rest.” They stared at one another for a few moments

before Monie freed herself from his embrace and grabbed the pail, again entering the trailer. Ash followed her inside and plopped down on a ragged car seat that had been ripped from an old junk car years ago and stared forlornly at her while she moved about the small space they lived in. “T-t-tomorrow the day, a-a-ain’t it?” Monie nodded, turning to look at him as she spoke. “I didn’t take everything, Ash, but I left some clothes there just so everything seemed normal.” “Don’t d-d-do it, Monie.” “I have to Ash. We can’t keep living here in this funky ass lot. We deserve better.” “Y-y-you sho’ you coming back?” The sadness of his tone broke her heart but she swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to

add cheer to her voice. “There’s no way I’m leaving you alone for too long, Ash. You know that.” And she paused in her movements and went to kneel in front of him. “C-c-cause we thick as t-t-thieves, ain’t we, Monie?” Ash asked with trust filled eyes. “Always have been. You’re my best friend, Ash. You know that, right?” Ash nodded but still wiped away tears with the back of a calloused hand. “I can’t lose you too,” she whispered. “Remember what we talked about, Ash. I need you to hang in there for just a little while longer while I get this thing done, then we’re outta here. Okay?” “Okay. I p-p-promise.”