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

Thought I was dreaming when I heard the pop of a gunshot. Same sound you would hear in The Root a half-dozen times a night. But this time, the reality started setting in, slowly, and I opened my eyes again, and I thought about it, trying to clear my head of dreams and nightmares. This time it seemed different from all the other times. This time, the gunshot was a lot closer to home. My home. Not on the next block or some far away block in the neighborhood. Then I heard the sirens, heard them getting louder and louder, screaming down my street. That’s when I jumped out of bed, looked out the bedroom window onto Woodridge Street, and saw the first of the squad cars to pull up to the curb outside my building, next to the body. Ant’s body.
    As I watched the detective examine the phone, push the redial button, there was the sound of a gunshot. Thought I was dreaming again, until I realized there were screams from the crowd. It spooked me. I had been watching that phone so intently that it seemed the cop had pushed some weird-ass sound effects button that triggered everything, like a recording, of what I had heard in my sleep. As it turns out, the sound came from the next block over and about a half-dozen cops started running toward my building, heading for the gangway to take a shortcut to the crime scene. The screams of more sirens started up in the distance and made their way to our neighborhood.
    It wasn’t long before word started drifting from the next block that there had been another murder. This time it was nine-year-old Sloopy Taylor. Already, word was that it was all gang-related. Sloopy had been hooked up with the Imperial Viceroys and had put it to Ant. Then somebody offed him to keep him quiet. That’s the way of the world in The Root. Soon some of the cops started making their way back to our street. A couple went straight to the Gator, tapped on the window, made T-Rex get out for questioning. Just then, another cop made an appearance. It was Detective Moore. He walked right by us through my gangway from the other block, started talking to the cop holding Ant’s cell phone.
    Carver turned toward me. “Shit, I know I’m out now.”
    â€œWhat’s up?” I asked, thought about how Moore had been stalking Ant, T-Rex.
    â€œI do not want to be in the same time zone with that monster muthafucka.”
    My body went cold.
    â€œShow a little respect, young man,” Mrs. Sampson snapped.
    â€œNo, wait a minute. Say that again,” I said.
    â€œDon’t you dare,” Mrs. Sampson said.
    I moved down the steps as Carver started to hop away on his crutches. I grabbed at his arm, spoke softly, firmly. “What did you call him?”
    He jerked his arm away, almost fell in the process. “Monster muthafucka,” he said, almost in a whisper, partly out of respect for Mrs. Sampson, but mostly, I knew, out of fear of the cop. Maurice Moore. MoMo.
    Carver started hobbling off. But it was too late. Funny thing about a murder scene. Stick around too long, you’re a suspect. Try to leave too soon, the chase begins.
    â€œHold up.” MoMo pointed straight at Carver, stopping him in his tracks. He looked back at the phone as the other cop pushed a button again. Then they both looked in my direction. MoMo made his move.
    Most of the other cops were distracted, still across the street, still interrogating T-Rex, who looked like he was unfazed.
    â€œWhat’s your rush, niggah?” MoMo was talking to Carver, but he kept looking back and forth between him and me, like he was holding us both, frozen in place.
    â€œI ain’t doing nothing,” Carver said.
    â€œYes, you are,” MoMo said. “Looks like you trying to leave without asking permission.” Then he looked at me. “What’s your name?”
    I looked away, down the street, trying to avoid the inevitable. Just then, I caught the eye of one of the reporters on the scene. He was from