Free Shades of Black: Crime and Mystery Stories by African-American Authors by Eleanor Taylor Bland Page A

things you better off not knowing.”
    â€œEverybody takes chances,” Ant said. “I take a chance every time I step out in the street, doing what I do and all. Peaches knew what she was getting into, what she was putting on the line when she started talking to you. She knew it just like she knew what she was getting into first time she stepped off the curb, into some trick’s ride.” Then he smiled in a way that showed he still held on to some measure of hope, despite everything he had seen, despite everything he had revealed to me. “We’re reporters, yo. No risk, no reward. Hell, I’m taking a chance talking to your ass.”
    I nodded. “You mean T-Rex?”
    He ditched the happy face. “I mean, how do I know I can trust you, D? This phantom drug king motherfucker. I mean, he could be anybody.” He narrowed his eyes to laser focus, as if he was trying to pierce my consciousness. “Could be you, for all I know.”
    My eyes tried to conceal what my mind was flashing. Was this a joke? Was it an elaborate scheme? I thought about Jennings again. Had he been right? Had the kid flipped the script on me? Was Ant setting me up? For sure this kid was double dealing. What I couldn’t be sure about all of a sudden was exactly who the trick was in this game of deception. T-Rex, orme? Shit! The more I thought about it, the more I could see all the moves in some game this kid could have put me in. What the fuck had I gotten myself into? Just as all the alarms were sounding in my consciousness, Ant took it down a notch. He gave up that smile again. Only thing was, now I found little comfort in it, now I was back on guard.
    â€œYo, man, I gotta bounce. Before T starts wondering what’s taking me so long up here.” He stood up, reached into his pocket, and I reached into mine.
    â€œSo, let’s see now,” he said, almost as an afterthought, dropping another rock into the cigar box, snatching up another twenty. “How much do reporters make, anyway?”
    I snorted a laugh. “Probably not as much as you’re making off me right here.”
    â€œDamn.” He held a beat. “Well, do they buy drugs, too?”
    We both laughed. But he laughed the most. Left me wondering if the joke really was on me.
    One of the detectives wearing rubber gloves bent over Ant’s body, pulled the nine millimeter from his waistband. But the real chill for me came next. It was Ant’s cell phone.
    â€œBet that don’t make it to the evidence room,” Carver said, spitting the words more than speaking them. “Cops . . .” He shook his head. “Nothing but gangbangers with a badge, yo.”
    That wasn’t the part I was concerned about. I knew what Carver couldn’t possibly have known. Just a push of the “redial” button and they would know the last call Ant had made.
    Seemed like a dream at first. Then I thought Ant had somehow let himself into my apartment. It was all a blur as I sat up listening to his voice. Then it hit me.
    â€œCome on, D, pick up,” he said.
    It was the answering machine. Before I could pick up the phone, he started saying what he had called to say.
    â€œI’m coming past the crib, yo. Wake your tired ass up. You are not going to believe this shit. The phantom drug dealer, man, it’s MoMo. Now we gotta figure out who the fuck that is.”
    I checked the clock. It was one forty-five. I tried to call him back on the cell, but there was no answer. So, I just rolled over listening for the door. I closed my eyes, thought about Ant and what he was putting on the line. I thought about how I had doubted him, suspected him, feared him. For a minute. And how now I had come to care about what happened to him. And how I didn’t want to. Everybody I ever cared about got hurt. Dakota, my brother Isaiah, Peaches. Besides, this was an assignment. I had work to do.
    I must have drifted off again.