Free Black Water Rising by Attica Locke Page A

talked to her.”
    â€œYou do?” Jay feels the panic again, and he has a sudden thought of Jimmy’s cousin, the boat’s captain. It’s the first time Jay has considered him since the night of the boat ride. And it now occurs to him that the old man might have seen the same blurb in the paper and gone straight to the police. He’s so caught up in what that might mean for him, wondering if the cops already have his name, that he almost misses the next words out of the groundskeeper’s mouth.
    â€œDude’s pants were coming down,” the man says.
    â€œWhat?” Jay asks, not immediately comprehending.
    â€œThe dead man,” the groundskeeper says. “The belt, the fly…his pants was wide open. The cops was all over it. And they was taking pictures of the ground over there.” He points to the dirt and grass where Jay is standing. “There were footprints, real small-like, you know, like a lady’s shoe.” Jay remembers the woman’s bare feet on the boat, her missing earring too. “But we don’t really know it was a woman,” the groundskeeper says. We, like he’s in on the investigation, like he and the cops are working this one together. “We don’t know what that man was into. Hell, when I seen him, he was wearing leather in August, had on gloves up to here,” he says, demonstrating high on his forearms. “Ain’t no telling what kind of freaky shit was going on. That mighta been why he was hiding out here in the first place.” He lowers his voice, speaking the seemingly impossible. “I mean, it coulda been a dude he was with.”
    The groundskeeper helps himself to another Carlton. “Now ain’t that some shit,” he says. His expression has cooled somewhat, and he seems to have turned his investigative gaze on Jay, taking a second look at Jay’s soiled clothes and his missing shoe, seemingly calling his whole presence at the crime scene into question. Jay doesn’t like the way the man is looking at him, or what he thinks the man may be insinuating. It would be ridiculous, the idea of Jay being in any way involved in a murder, if it weren’t so…plausible. Even a rookie cop knows that more times than not, the perpetrator returns to the scene of his crime.
    â€œYou with the Chronicle or the Post ?” the groundskeeper asks.
    â€œI freelance,” Jay answers, a little too quickly.
    â€œMaybe I could get your name, in case I remember something else.”
    The smirk is faint, but impossible to ignore.
    The groundskeeper stares at Jay, waiting for an answer.
    â€œErnest Pennebaker” is the first ridiculous name out of Jay’s mouth. He delivers it as convincingly as a practiced closing argument, thanking the man for his time and reaching for his car keys. He nods good night as he slides into his front seat. Through the dusty windshield, the groundskeeper watches him, the Skylark’s headlights carving deep shadows beneath the man’s suspicious eyes. Jay throws his car into reverse, driving faster than he should, churning up reddish brown dirt across his rear window, creating a blinding haze of smoke.
    He rolls up his window and turns on the radio, trying to shut out the noise in his head. The box is set to 1430 AM, black radio. They’re in the middle of another hour of Confessions . Wash Allen is talking to a woman, a caller who’s sleeping with a married man, has been for years. She’s wondering if he’ll ever leave his wife, and if he doesn’t, where in the world will that leave her? The show is call-and-response, a rhythm borrowed from blues or the church, where black people come to lay down their problems. The callers have on-air names like CB handles. “This is Stormin’ Norman calling…” “Yeah, Wash, this is your girl Sunshine…” “Dark ’n’ Lovely here, Wash, and I got something to say…”