still being shot? Your cousin, for example?”
He had no answer for that because it was true. But there still seemed something phony in all the attention. It was the feeling that the people who were making the most noise were somehow using the shootings, the deaths, the fears for their own profit; and when the profit had been gained, their attention would shift to some other crusade that offered a better cash flow, and not much would have changed on the street. He had tried to explain that to Elizabeth, but she kept coming up with statements like there shouldn’t be any kids with guns anyway, and people should be able to walk the streets in safety, and schools should be places for academics rather than violence. Of course they should, and Wager’s job was to help make that happen. But he couldn’t make Elizabeth see exactly what he meant, maybe because he wasn’t so certain himself. And arguing with her when he wasn’t sure of his own grounds meant setting himself up. She enjoyed argument, she was good at it, and Wager—even at those times when he knew exactly what he meant—could always count on her to find some on-the-other-hand or well-what-about-this reply that left him feeling outmaneuvered. In something like this, when he couldn’t yet find the words to say what he was thinking, he just felt dumb. It wasn’t a feeling he liked, but he didn’t blame Elizabeth for that; what he did was start going over points in his mind that he would bring up when they found time to argue about it again.
He turned off Marion onto 29th Avenue. Three or four blocks down, Fuller Park—across from Manual High School—was one of the places he might find Big Ron. Morrison Park, three blocks to the north and near Cole Middle School, was another. According to Wager’s contacts in Vice and Narcotics, Big Ron wasn’t supposed to be selling to the schoolkids, but the parks—put near the schools by the city planners of a less defensive time—were the favorite gathering places for various neighborhood groups. During the day it was mothers and their kids; when night came, the moms and toddlers fled, leaving the grounds to those who didn’t want to be seen in daylight. By now, the sun had dropped below the mountains west of town and night was slipping into the streets in a purple-red haze of dust and exhaust fumes. Cars were starting to turn on their headlights, too, and traffic was picking up, moving not with that earlier weariness that came at the end of the workday but with the building energy of a Friday night. Payday. Money to spend, things to spend it on, and tomorrow morning for sleeping late. From one passing car came the visceral thud of stereo speakers turned full volume to drum, Wager thought, like some kind of jungle message.
Pulling to the curb near the park, he sat and studied the grassy level with its concrete benches, some still resisting vandalism, and the sodium lights just beginning to glow orange. The area was mostly open: a few trees scattered here and there, a cluster of slides and swings for small kids, few clumps of shrubbery or hedges left that could conceal rapists and muggers. On the asphalt basketball court, two youths wearing their baseball caps backwards took lazy shots at a backboard. Several figures sat on benches or strolled along the walks. A handful of boys played tag football on the worn grass at one open end. They had the high-pitched voices and excited movement that kids get when the world turns magic at dusk. But none of the shapes that Wager could see had the hulk of Big Ron. He gave it another ten and then turned up Franklin toward the narrower strip of Morrison Park. Where Humboldt formed a small cul-de-sac nipped into one side of the park, sat a pair of cars. Their headlights were off, and even from this distance, Wager could tell they were real cockroaches—dented, rusty, no loss to the dealer if they were seized by a narc. Even Big Ron was smart enough not to use his Coupe DeVille for
He had no answer for that because it was true. But there still seemed something phony in all the attention. It was the feeling that the people who were making the most noise were somehow using the shootings, the deaths, the fears for their own profit; and when the profit had been gained, their attention would shift to some other crusade that offered a better cash flow, and not much would have changed on the street. He had tried to explain that to Elizabeth, but she kept coming up with statements like there shouldn’t be any kids with guns anyway, and people should be able to walk the streets in safety, and schools should be places for academics rather than violence. Of course they should, and Wager’s job was to help make that happen. But he couldn’t make Elizabeth see exactly what he meant, maybe because he wasn’t so certain himself. And arguing with her when he wasn’t sure of his own grounds meant setting himself up. She enjoyed argument, she was good at it, and Wager—even at those times when he knew exactly what he meant—could always count on her to find some on-the-other-hand or well-what-about-this reply that left him feeling outmaneuvered. In something like this, when he couldn’t yet find the words to say what he was thinking, he just felt dumb. It wasn’t a feeling he liked, but he didn’t blame Elizabeth for that; what he did was start going over points in his mind that he would bring up when they found time to argue about it again.
He turned off Marion onto 29th Avenue. Three or four blocks down, Fuller Park—across from Manual High School—was one of the places he might find Big Ron. Morrison Park, three blocks to the north and near Cole Middle School, was another. According to Wager’s contacts in Vice and Narcotics, Big Ron wasn’t supposed to be selling to the schoolkids, but the parks—put near the schools by the city planners of a less defensive time—were the favorite gathering places for various neighborhood groups. During the day it was mothers and their kids; when night came, the moms and toddlers fled, leaving the grounds to those who didn’t want to be seen in daylight. By now, the sun had dropped below the mountains west of town and night was slipping into the streets in a purple-red haze of dust and exhaust fumes. Cars were starting to turn on their headlights, too, and traffic was picking up, moving not with that earlier weariness that came at the end of the workday but with the building energy of a Friday night. Payday. Money to spend, things to spend it on, and tomorrow morning for sleeping late. From one passing car came the visceral thud of stereo speakers turned full volume to drum, Wager thought, like some kind of jungle message.
Pulling to the curb near the park, he sat and studied the grassy level with its concrete benches, some still resisting vandalism, and the sodium lights just beginning to glow orange. The area was mostly open: a few trees scattered here and there, a cluster of slides and swings for small kids, few clumps of shrubbery or hedges left that could conceal rapists and muggers. On the asphalt basketball court, two youths wearing their baseball caps backwards took lazy shots at a backboard. Several figures sat on benches or strolled along the walks. A handful of boys played tag football on the worn grass at one open end. They had the high-pitched voices and excited movement that kids get when the world turns magic at dusk. But none of the shapes that Wager could see had the hulk of Big Ron. He gave it another ten and then turned up Franklin toward the narrower strip of Morrison Park. Where Humboldt formed a small cul-de-sac nipped into one side of the park, sat a pair of cars. Their headlights were off, and even from this distance, Wager could tell they were real cockroaches—dented, rusty, no loss to the dealer if they were seized by a narc. Even Big Ron was smart enough not to use his Coupe DeVille for
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