Free All in One Piece by Cecelia Tishy Page A

nearly shout, the stupid tactic across a language
     barrier.
“What-does-this-mean?”
He looks at the photos and says, “Door. You door. You want wonton wrap?” I’m not yet outside when the conversation bursts
     anew.
    Next stop, a produce vender, an aproned woman with wispy bangs who tumbles ginger into a bin while her little boy stacks some
     sort of fuzzy root. She smiles broadly. A mother, good. I flash the photos. She nods, looks closer, takes one photo out into
     the sunlight and studies it closely. Her son looks too, and they exchange words. Frowning, she returns and says, “Not have
     this.”
    “But what does it say? What is ‘this’?”
    “Not have.” Her bangs move as she shakes her head no and turns back to the ginger.
    At the corner, I go into a gift shop featuring satin pajamas and the black cotton slippers my Molly loved as a child. No clerk
     appears, however, so I’m down the block to another grocery where a young couple uncrates what look like charcoal briquettes
     but are salted duck eggs. This is the Ling Pan store, in which I’m the sole customer. Once again, the photos. Once again,
     the conferring in Chinese. Then much discussion, debate, hand gestures, and pointing at the photos, followed by further debate
     worthy of the U.N. To my ears, there’s not a familiar syllable. Finally agreement is negotiated between the couple. Both smile,
     nod yes, and fetch me a pineapple.
    “Pineapple?”
    Beaming, they nod. They insist. The decision is final. My best effort to decipher the blood marks from Steven’s murder gets
     me one overripe pineapple.
    “Reggie, sit yourself down. You get light duty today, no heavy lifting.”
    “Nicole,” I say, “I’m fine.” Which isn’t really true because it’s been wrenching to describe the murder, also wrenching to
     see horror deepen on the face of Nicole Patrick, my boss. We’re in StyleSmart, the Roxbury clothing store where I work two
     days a week. It’s Thursday, just past ten. I’ve summarized the last two days for Nicole.
    “That poor young man, and Jo not gone a year. What a vicious thing, an evil thing. May justice be done. May God have mercy.
     You need some tea right now.” Nicole brings me a cup of Earl Grey from our refreshment nook, her stance and stride confident
     in slingbacks, an ankle-length black skirt, and carnation-pink silk jacket. She’s about five-eight, hair up in a braid arrangement
     that sets off teardrop gold earrings. Her features are broad, her figure ample. She’s somewhere in her forties, her skin between
     milk and bittersweet chocolate.
    “Sip it slow, Reggie.” Nicole’s gaze is empathy itself. “You feelin’ the psychic spirit about this?”
    My still-sore head is too much to go into, so I say no.
    “I bet you haven’t slept a wink all week.”
    Not true. The sound of a certain motorcycle circling Barlow Square in the depths of last night lured me into deep slumber,
     as if the crackling exhaust of Stark’s Harley played Brahms’s lullaby. “Actually I feel better today.” We’re in the sofa area,
     Nicole on a tufted chair.
    “How ’bout getting iron bars for those first-floor windows of yours? Locks are good, but bars mean business.”
    “I don’t know, Nicole.” Her goodwill makes my heart sink. StyleSmart, like every other business here on Warnock Street, has
     a steel front grate for nighttime lockdown because of Roxbury’s crime rate.
    “Nowadays they make ’em decorative, Reggie. Vines and leaves hide the bars. I can recommend a welder. You owe yourself the
     best protection.”
    “I’ll think about it.”
    “Police, you can’t just count on them. They got too much to do. You got to protect yourself. You hear?”
    “I do.” I nod and set my cup on the coffee table with current issues of
Working Woman, Jet, Essence, Ebony.
I’d hoped for an escapist morning. StyleSmart, you see, outfits women who are recently off the welfare rolls. Nicole and
     I are fashion consultants