Jack & Jill (Alex Cross 3)
“Just trying to do the right thing.”
“Ah, yeah, you’re trying too hard, then.”
“That’s why you love me.”
“Yes, it is,” Sampson said and finally grinned. “If lovin’ you is wrong, I don’t want to be right,” he talk-sang a familiar lyric.
We met Roadrunner Alvin Jackson around the corner. Sampson and I had occasionally used Alvin as a snitch. He wasn’t a bad man, really, but he was living a dangerous life that could suddenly get much, much worse for him. He had been a decent high school track star who used to practice in the streets. Now he was running a little base and selling smoke as well. In many ways, Alvin Jackson was still a man-child. That was important to understand about a lot of these kids, even the most dangerous and powerful-looking ones.
“Thalilshanelle,” Alvin said as if the three words were one, “you still lookin’ for information on who ice her and alladat?”
Alvin’s car coat was unbuttoned. He was sporting the current fashion look that’s called jailin’, or baggin’. His red-and-white pinstriped underwear was visible above the waistband. The look is inspired by the fact that a prisoner’s belt is taken away in jail, tending to make the trousers droop and the underwear be accentuated. Role models for our neighborhood.
“Yeah. What have you heard about her, Alvin, but no Chipmunks?” Sampson said.
“Man, I’m tryin’ to do you a solid,” Alvin Jackson protested in my direction. His shaved head never stopped bobbing. His hoop earring jangled. His long, powerful arms twitched. He kept picking his Nike-sneakered feet up and putting them back down.
“We appreciate it,” I told him. “Smoke?” I offered Alvin a Camel. Joe Cool, right?
He took it. I don’t smoke, but I always carry. Alvin had smoked like a chimney when he was a high school road-and-track man. Things you notice.
“Lil’ Shanelle, she live in my auntie’s building. Over in Northfield? I think I know ’bout somebody maybe ’sponsible. You unnerstand what I’m sayin’?”
“So far.” Sampson nodded. He was trying to be nice, actually. A head of lettuce could follow Alvin Jackson’s patter.
“You want to show us what you got?” I asked him. “Help us out here?”
“I’ll show you Chucky myself. Howzat?” He smiled and nodded at me. “But only cuz it’s you and Sampson. I tried to tell some a them other detectives, months back. They wouldn’t have none of it. Man, they wouldn’t listen to jack shit. Didn’t have the time of day for my airplay.”
I felt like his father or uncle or older brother. I felt responsible. I didn’t like it so much.
“Well, we’re listening,” I told him. “We’ve got the time for you.”
Sampson and I went with Alvin Jackson to the Northfield Village projects. Northfield is one of the most dangerous crime areas in D.C. Nobody seems to care, though. The 1st District police have given up. You visit Northfield once, it’s hard to blame them completely.
This didn’t seem like a very promising lead to me. But Alvin Jackson was a man on a mission. I wondered why that was. What was I missing here?
He pointed a long, accusatory finger at one of the yellow-brick buildings. It was in the same shabby state of disrepair as most of the others. An electric-blue metal sign was over the double front doors: BUILDING 3. The front stairs were cracked and looked as if they’d been hit by lightning or somebody’s sledgehammer.
“He lives in there. Ak-ak city. Leastways, he did. Name’s Emmanuel Perez. Sometimes he works as a porter at Famous. You know, Famous Pizza? He goes after the little kids, man. Real freakazoid. He’s a nasty fucker. Scary fucker, too. Don’t like it none when you call him Manny. He’s Ee-man-uel. Insists on it.”
“How do you know Emmanuel?” Sampson asked.
Alvin Jackson’s eyes suddenly clouded over and looked hard as rocks. He took a few seconds before he spoke. “I knew him. He was around when I was a little kid. Buggin’ back then, too. Emmanuel always been around, you unnerstand?”
I got it. I understood now. Chop-It-Off-Chucky wasn’t a chimera anymore.
There was an asphalt-topped playground across the quad. Young kids were playing hoops, but not very well. The basket had no net. The rim was bent this way and that. Nobody any good played on these particular courts. Suddenly, something in the playground caught Alvin Jackson’s eye.
“That’s him over there,” he said in a high-pitched whine. Fearful. “That’s him, man. That’s Emmanuel Perez doggin’ those kids.”
He had no sooner said the words when Perez spotted us. It was as weird as a bad dream. I saw that he had a longish red beard that stuck out stiffly from his chin. It was something distinctive about him physically. Something people would have remembered if he’d been seen in Garfield Park. He leveled Alvin Jackson with a dark, scary look. Then he took off in a dead run.
Emmanuel Perez was a very fast runner. But so were we; at least, we were the last time I checked.
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