The Vigilantes Part 26

Curtis steered the minivan off the curb. Because Mutter was a one-way street northbound, he headed for the next street up, c.u.mberland.

"No! No!" Michael began shouting.

Will slammed on the brakes, forcing them both against the shoulder straps of their seat belts. The FedEx cap flew off Michael's head and landed on the dashboard.

Michael pointed over his shoulder and said, "That way."

Curtis pointed out the winds.h.i.+eld. "This street is one-way."

Michael looked at him with an expression that suggested the statement was meaningless to him.

"He live that way!" Michael then said, pointing south again.

Well, Curtis thought, Curtis thought, he probably only knows how to get there by walking. he probably only knows how to get there by walking.

If I drive around until I find a street that has southbound traffic, he may not have the first idea where he is.

Oh, h.e.l.l. "This is a one-way street, Officer? But I was only going one way."

Will Curtis drove up on the sidewalk, checked his mirror for traffic, then cut the steering wheel hard left to make a U-turn. He had to back up once to make the turn on the narrow street.

Curtis was somewhat surprised that they'd had no trouble driving the wrong way down Mutter, then the wrong way down Colona Street. And at Mascher Street, he was relieved to find that it was a one-way going the right direction, south. But then, a block later, at Susquehanna Avenue, they reached a dead end.

They were looking at a park.

Curtis turned to his navigator, who was pointing straight.

"There," Michael said.

"Through the park?" Curtis said, incredulous. "Oh, for chrissake!"

"That way!" Michael said.

Well, h.e.l.l, that's the way he walks.

Then that's the way we'll drive.

Curtis checked for traffic, then drove across Susquehanna Avenue and hopped the curb. There was a concrete walkway crisscrossing the park, and he followed it.

Michael Floyd seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the drive. He scanned the park as they cut across it. About three-quarters through, he suddenly pointed to a small stand of maple trees.

"Gangstas," he said.

Curtis looked. There in the maples' shadows were four or five tough-looking teenage boys, hoodlums in baggy jeans and hoodie sweats.h.i.+rts and sneakers.

Those must be the ones who beat him.

He expected Michael to recoil, or at least hide, but the next thing he knew the kid was rolling down his window and throwing the bird with both fists at the punks.

Then Michael Floyd yelled at the top of his lungs, "f.u.c.k you, gangsta m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kas!"

Now what the h.e.l.l else is going to happen? Will Curtis thought. Will Curtis thought.

That Tourette's, if that's what it is, is going to get him killed. . . .

He accelerated, not waiting to find out if there would be any gunshots from the gangsta m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kas.

At the far end of the park he picked up Mascher again and, following Michael's pointing, drove south another nine blocks. Crossing Oxford, Curtis noticed that the block on his left, south of Oxford, was somewhat like the 2400 block of Mutter Street-basically barren but for a clump of the last remaining row houses.

"There," Michael said, pointing to the end of the block.

Will Curtis followed the direction of Michael's finger and saw that there were five houses altogether on the southwest corner of the block.

He also saw that there were police squad cars everywhere.

"There?" Will Curtis repeated. Will Curtis repeated.

He stood on the brakes and studied the scene.

He saw other emergency vehicles, including a big van with CRIME SCENE UNIT lettered on its side, and a bunch of heavy equipment-a tall demolition crane, a big Caterpillar bulldozer, and heavy-duty dump trucks.

"Wow!" Michael said, pointing at them.

"What the h.e.l.l?" Will said aloud.

Ahead at the next intersection, Jefferson Street, was a squad car, its every exterior light flas.h.i.+ng white or red or blue. It was parked at an angle to force traffic onto Jefferson and away from the other emergency vehicles. A policeman in uniform was beside it directing traffic. He signaled for the FedEx van to keep moving down the street toward him.

"Don't like no cop," Michael said. "LeRoi say cop bad news."

Curtis looked at him.

No surprise there.

And no surprise that generation after generation in the ghetto grows up hating cops-it's all they know, all they're taught.

Then Will realized he hadn't considered what he would do with Michael if they actually caught up with LeRoi.

I can't let him see me take LeRoi out. Michael's done nothing to deserve that.

The only lesson he needs to learn from this is: You do bad, you pay a bad price.

s.h.i.+t. I'll have to figure that out.

Will Curtis reached over, grabbed the FedEx cap from the dashboard, and put it on the boy's head.

"That'll keep you hidden from the cop, Michael."

Michael considered that, then nodded once.

As they rolled up to the intersection, the traffic cop waved for the van to take the turn. Curtis did so, and avoided making any eye contact.

Michael suddenly yelled: "Don't like no cop, m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka!"

"Michael!" Curtis barked.

He checked his mirror and saw the cop look at the van, but only for a second before he turned back to directing traffic.

If the cop heard that, probably wasn't the first time.

At least the kid didn't throw him the bird, too.

Curtis, his heart beating fast, shook his head.

That was close. . . .

He looked over at Michael, who now was pointing down Jefferson to the next intersection, Hanc.o.c.k Street.

"There LeRoi house!" he said, indicating the boarded-up row house on the corner. "Got wood window."

And just beyond the house, Curtis saw someone peer out from around the corner.

He drove on, and as they came to the corner, Curtis saw that there was more than one person. Standing in an alleyway behind the boarded-up row house were three young black men, including a great big one with droopy eyes and a trimmed goatee.

"And there LeRoi!" Michael said excitedly.

Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned.

He's been standing and watching those cops work that scene back there. Just hiding in plain sight.

And the cops don't have any idea that there's a fugitive living just fifty yards away.

But then, how could they? So d.a.m.ned many punks in this city, there's no way to keep track of them all.

Michael suddenly moved quickly, rolling down his window again. He stuck out his head, the hat hitting the top of the car's frame and falling to the floorboard.

"Lookit me, LeRoi!" Michael shouted, pumping his right fist. "I be riding, riding, m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka!" m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka!"

LeRoi Cheatham was momentarily caught completely off guard. He did not immediately know how to react to the sight of his twelve-year-old nephew hanging out of a FedEx delivery vehicle and yelling his name at the top of his lungs. Especially with who the h.e.l.l knew how many cops only a block or so away.

But the two other teenage punks standing with LeRoi were more quickwitted. In a flash, they hauled a.s.s across Hanc.o.c.k Street and disappeared into a wall of huge, thick bushes that had grown wild on the deserted lot.

Curtis saw LeRoi watching his buddies run away. Then LeRoi looked back at the van, then back to the bushes. As LeRoi started to cross Hanc.o.c.k to follow his buddies, Curtis held up the big square envelope to the winds.h.i.+eld and tried to mime that it was intended for him.

It didn't work. LeRoi kept walking.

"Michael," Curtis said as he turned the minivan onto Hanc.o.c.k and drove up on the cracked sidewalk, "tell your uncle he's got a package."

Michael yelled, "You gots a package, LeRoi!"

LeRoi slowed and warily looked over his shoulder.

Curtis motioned again with the envelope, stopping the minivan at the alleyway and putting it in park. He rolled down his window and with a raised voice said, "This is my last try to find you. You don't sign for it, the check gets sent back today!"

At the mention of money, the expression on LeRoi's face changed.

As LeRoi Cheatham started back toward the alley, Curtis felt for his Glock under his s.h.i.+rt, then opened the driver's door. He walked around to Michael's door and opened it.

"What up?" Michael said.

Curtis took a ten-dollar bill from his wad of cash and showed it to Michael as he watched LeRoi coming closer.

"You know what a lookout is?" Curtis asked.

"For cops?" Michael said. He nodded. "Yeah. LeRoi pay me to say if I see one."

"Right," Curtis said, folding the ten-spot and handing it to the kid. "Go stand around the corner and let me know if any cop comes this way. I will come tell you when we're finished here."

Michael nodded once, took the money, and ran back to Jefferson Street.

Will Curtis turned in time to see LeRoi Cheatham come around the front of the minivan.

"What this s.h.i.+t about a check?" LeRoi said, looking at him hard.

Those are some seriously bloodshot eyes, Curtis thought. Curtis thought.

Wonder what he's on?

"You're LeRoi Cheatham, right?"

"d.a.m.n right." He nodded his head once.

So that's where Michael got that nod from.

"Need to see some government ID. . . ."

"s.h.i.+t, man," he said, staring at Curtis with a look of disgust. Then he turned and spat behind him into the alley. He turned back and, as he began digging in the front pocket of his pants, said, "Just gimme my d.a.m.n check." man," he said, staring at Curtis with a look of disgust. Then he turned and spat behind him into the alley. He turned back and, as he began digging in the front pocket of his pants, said, "Just gimme my d.a.m.n check."

Curtis remembered what he had thought when Shauna Mays realized there was no money in the envelope. This time, as Curtis pulled the Glock from his waistband and aimed it at LeRoi's chest, he said it.

"Sure. Here's your reality check."

Then he squeezed the trigger. Twice.

LeRoi fell backward into the alleyway.