Free Now You See Her by Cecelia Tishy Page A

train her to hunt rabbits, but I’m on a different hunt. The dog is my magnet.
    All five blocks of Angus are a mix of apartment houses, weedy vacant lots, duplexes, one corner store. A German shepherd lunges
     at a chain-link fence and snarls as I pass with Biscuit on her leash. Kids just out of school, however, gather to pet her,
     which is my plan. Setting books and backpacks down, they stroke her ears and scratch her belly as she obligingly rolls onto
     her back.
    “She a girl dog.”
    “She lick me! Lick my fingers!”
    “She sweet, she don’t bite.”
    It’s during this petting-zoo moment that I ask about Kia Fayzer. At the name Kia, a boy in black jeans with white piping nods
     and grins. Two teen girls in flowered jackets repeat the name as if Kia is a cousin. Bingo!
    “Which house?” I ask. They suddenly look puzzled. “Which apartment is Kia’s?” The boy starts to laugh. The girls giggle. “Where
     does she live? Which building is Kia’s?”
    Three girls in plaid uniforms start to hum a tune. “Does she live in the brick one?” Now a dozen children laugh, elbowing
     and egging each other on. “Kia,” I say again, and they grin as if I’m a Pied Piper of the funny bone. I don’t get it. They’re
     singing about “my neck, my back.” They all know the words.
    And it dawns on me: there’s a recording artist named Khia. She’s one-name-only, like Cher and Madonna. I say, “Fayzer,” and
     the kids all shake their heads and go blank. The girls get a jump rope and start double Dutch. The German shepherd is frantic,
     and Biscuit whines until I carry her in my arms three blocks up to the corner store, Fern Market.
    The steel-grilled door stops me. Ads for Kools and Newports plaster the front glass so I can’t see inside. “Market” sounds
     harmless, but what of Stark’s warning about an armed escort? What if I walk in on something—a drug deal, a gun buy? No Tsakis
     brothers will greet me here. No Nicole Patrick will run interference. My lily-white hide is on the line all by itself.
    Move it, Reggie. A man sits year after year in prison for a murder he possibly did not commit. Get going. So I step into the
     small market, which smells of Fritos and chicken. The sound track is hip-hop, which is hideously familiar from my Jack’s teen
     years when our whole house was hammered by Tupac Shakur and Puff Daddy. Decent music ended with the Bee Gees, Marty insisted,
     one of the few points on which we agreed. Fern Market sells cigarettes, malt liquor, lottery tickets, and bobbleheads of Celtics
     and Patriots team members. I buy a scratch card and ask a solemn clerk in a ribbed sweater about Kia Fayzer. “I just want
     to talk to her for a few minutes.”
    He shrugs. “Can’t help.”
    “It’s about a family matter.”
    “Be anything else?”
    Biscuit whimpers, and I hold her close and leave. In front of the store, two young men in dark suits with rumpled white shirts
     hang out. They eye me while pretending not to, and I eye them the same way. “I’m looking for Kia Fayzer.” Their eyes go blank,
     and they turn away, which is my cue to exit their space. Instead, I linger. What have I got to lose? “I want to talk with
     her for a few minutes. LaBron says she lives here.”
    A minute passes. “Which LaBron that be?”
    “From Roland Street. Here in Mattapan.”
    “You lookin’ for LaBron?”
    “No, for Kia Fayzer.” They sway, and I realize they’re either drunk or stoned. Their shirts puff out of their pants, and their
     pockets gape. I spell “Fayzer” and say it again.
    “Sure am dry,” says the taller one. “Dry as a desert.”
    The shorter one rubs his throat. “Colt 45 wet me down good.” I remember the malt liquor from Jack’s teen drinking. The shorter
     one gives Biscuit a little scratch. “What you want with Kia?”
    “Just to talk a few minutes. It’s about family. Nothing official.”
    “Maybe if somebody be good to us, take care of our thirst and maybe a