Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

o-do people go there,” I said. Filthy rich people, I thought. The kind who would look at me with disdain or, even worse, pity as a child living in the worst part of Brooklyn.

“My family was well-to-do.” She spit the words at the window. “Is, I should say. Money hasn’t been a problem for a long time. My parents have made sure of that. They were raised to become better than their own parents.”

I nodded, even though she wasn’t looking.

“All their money, their influence, their good friends,” Jamila continued. “But they can’t change one thing. They’ll never be white. And neither will I.”

I grimaced. “You don’t want to be white. It’s boring.”

A grin twisted the corners of Jamila’s lips. But when she turned to me, the grin had gone lopsided. “I could stand for that kind of boredom right about now.”

“I know. Believe me, I do.” I looked her in the eye. “I’ve told you about how I used to be the only white kid in Bed-Stuy, right? Would it shock you to know that I used to wish I was black?”

Jamila shook her head. “You don’t want to be black. It’s anything but boring.”

*****

The next day, we planned to spend time hanging around Assateague. Jamila hoped to catch a glimpse of wild ponies or egrets or blue herons. It all sounded very charming, as long as we brought along enough mosquito repellent and sunscreen. I wish I could call myself a nature lover, but I tend to go more for pictures of the great outdoors than its actuality.

After smearing my exposed skin with SPF-80, I pulled on a floppy hat to keep the sun’s rays from barbecuing my face.

“Do I need to bring a machete?” I asked.

“You are a laugh riot,” Jamila said, inserting a last barrette. “Don’t worry. We’ll stick to the trails.” She had her hair pinned up and was decked out in jeans, a short-sleeved shirt and sturdy hiking boots appropriate for a Borneo jungle trek.

We gathered our goods—water canisters, a camera, binoculars, granola bars, fruit rollups, and a couple of packages of M&Ms (my contribution)—and made our way down to the parking lot. Which looked to be asshole free.

As we crossed the lot, the candy-apple red Corvette pulled into the driveway. Billy Ray and his cohorts making a return appearance.

“Oh, fuck!” I muttered, between gritted teeth.

“Ignore them,” Jamila said, as we proceeded to the car.

Instead of pulling all the way into the lot, the Corvette stopped in the entrance.

Billy Ray leaned out the window. “Hey, you guys going somewhere?”

Well, duh! “We can’t go much of anywhere if you don’t move your car.”

“You really shouldn’t have called the cops on us,” Billy Ray goaded.

And you should shut your fucking mouth and leave us alone. God, I was dying to say it.

Billy Ray opened the door, unfolded himself from the car and began walking toward us.

“I realize niggers can be slow, but you gals really need to understand your place here.” He swaggered as he spoke.

“That’s it!” I pulled out my cell phone and hit 911.

“Whatta you think you’re doing?” Billy Ray asked.

“Calling the cops, shithead. You’re blocking a public thoroughfare. I’m sure there’s a ticket in it for you somewhere.”

Billy Ray ignored me and swaggered right up to Jamila, who looked frozen in place. I noticed his gang huddled in the car, watching.

“Well, don’t you look nice?” he said, grinning in her face.

Jamila merely stared back, eyes blank.