Read Online Done for a Dime by David Corbett - Free Book Online
Authors: David Corbett
Tags: Mystery
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him.
“Fair? Come on, Tobo. Your daddy, I like him, you know that, but his life ain’t nothing nobody would say, ‘Oh, please, one more time.’ Looks back, he’s bitter. Looks ahead, he’s scared. That what you want for yourself? Be honest.”
Like heading for New York will change that for us, Toby thought. Francis turned the corner onto his street, then braked so hard they both lunged forward toward the dash.
“Jesus motherfucking God.”
Four police cruisers sat down the block, lights swirling in the darkness, splaying across the housefronts and through the branch-work of the trees. Two cops were holding back the crowd while another two stood in the open gateway to Toby’s father’s house, looking in at something on the ground.
“Oh Lord.” Toby reached for his horn case and valise, swiped clumsily at the door handle.
Francis snagged his arm. “You can’t say my name, Tobo, understand?” Panic hiked the pitch of his voice, his eyes crazy. He stared at the cruisers down the block, still clinging to Toby’s sleeve.
Toby fought to free himself. He opened the door. “Francis, let go.”
Francis clung harder. “This ain’t no joke. I ain’t here. I ain’t the one drove you home. Tell me you got that.”
4
T he seven-year-old—barefoot, in pink pajamas, her hair twined into bow-tipped pigtails—bumped her hip gently against the doorjamb, staring out at the living room where Murchison sat. The girl’s mother, Marcellyne Pathon, sat on the sofa, reviewing the faces in Hennessey’s Polaroids as, in the background, a song titled “Ain’t Got Time to Die” played softly on the radio, turned to KDYA: “Gospel by the Bay.”
“Like I told you, these here are Mr. and Mrs. Toomey. They all lived up here for years.” She pointed to the older couple in their robes and slippers standing on the edge of the crowd in the street outside the murder scene. “Same as for the Carvilles and the—Where are they? There. Mrs. Ripperton and her sons. Went to school with Jamal Ripperton. All these folks been living up here the longest. Nothing strange about it.”
“Okay, Marcellyne. Good. But these guys.” He pointed to the trio of young men unable to duck away from Hennessey’s flash quick enough, their faces caught in quarter angles. One of them wore a skully, his hand raised to hide behind. His accessorizing gave him away—three gold rings on the fingers of the upraised hand, at least four gold chains around his neck. “Diamonds and gold and just paroled” was how Hennessey put it.
Marcellyne licked her lips as she took a shallow breath, adjusted her glasses. “Hard to see their faces here.”
“I realize that.”
She spun around. “Don’t make me get up, Daijha.”
The seven-year-old stared back at her, moody, fearful. Marcellyne made a move to stand up and the girl slid back into her room, rejoining her four-year-old sister.
“The name Arlie Thigpen ring a bell?”
Hennessey had pointed out his own hit parade from the crowd. There were several ballers, including the guy in the skully, from Long Walk Mooney’s crew. Long Walk, a San Quentin grad, dealt in town, had for years, but now he hid behind the guise of party promoter. His parties tended to be wild, sometimes violent, so he moved them around, like the crews he had on hand to sell product—most recently brown tar heroin dissolved in water and sold in popper vials, and gooey balls, hash-laced Rice Krispie treats, favorites with the rave crowds. So went word on the street, at least. The police had no hard evidence, and they’d yet to come close to catching Mooney doing anything they could arrest him for. There’d been reports of an event that night down around the warehouse district, but the Carlisle murder had taken place before anyone could bother with breaking up a dance.
These young men here, in the photograph, probably worked bank. No one but juvies handled drugs on a Long Walk crew. Though he’d recognized faces and had
“Fair? Come on, Tobo. Your daddy, I like him, you know that, but his life ain’t nothing nobody would say, ‘Oh, please, one more time.’ Looks back, he’s bitter. Looks ahead, he’s scared. That what you want for yourself? Be honest.”
Like heading for New York will change that for us, Toby thought. Francis turned the corner onto his street, then braked so hard they both lunged forward toward the dash.
“Jesus motherfucking God.”
Four police cruisers sat down the block, lights swirling in the darkness, splaying across the housefronts and through the branch-work of the trees. Two cops were holding back the crowd while another two stood in the open gateway to Toby’s father’s house, looking in at something on the ground.
“Oh Lord.” Toby reached for his horn case and valise, swiped clumsily at the door handle.
Francis snagged his arm. “You can’t say my name, Tobo, understand?” Panic hiked the pitch of his voice, his eyes crazy. He stared at the cruisers down the block, still clinging to Toby’s sleeve.
Toby fought to free himself. He opened the door. “Francis, let go.”
Francis clung harder. “This ain’t no joke. I ain’t here. I ain’t the one drove you home. Tell me you got that.”
4
T he seven-year-old—barefoot, in pink pajamas, her hair twined into bow-tipped pigtails—bumped her hip gently against the doorjamb, staring out at the living room where Murchison sat. The girl’s mother, Marcellyne Pathon, sat on the sofa, reviewing the faces in Hennessey’s Polaroids as, in the background, a song titled “Ain’t Got Time to Die” played softly on the radio, turned to KDYA: “Gospel by the Bay.”
“Like I told you, these here are Mr. and Mrs. Toomey. They all lived up here for years.” She pointed to the older couple in their robes and slippers standing on the edge of the crowd in the street outside the murder scene. “Same as for the Carvilles and the—Where are they? There. Mrs. Ripperton and her sons. Went to school with Jamal Ripperton. All these folks been living up here the longest. Nothing strange about it.”
“Okay, Marcellyne. Good. But these guys.” He pointed to the trio of young men unable to duck away from Hennessey’s flash quick enough, their faces caught in quarter angles. One of them wore a skully, his hand raised to hide behind. His accessorizing gave him away—three gold rings on the fingers of the upraised hand, at least four gold chains around his neck. “Diamonds and gold and just paroled” was how Hennessey put it.
Marcellyne licked her lips as she took a shallow breath, adjusted her glasses. “Hard to see their faces here.”
“I realize that.”
She spun around. “Don’t make me get up, Daijha.”
The seven-year-old stared back at her, moody, fearful. Marcellyne made a move to stand up and the girl slid back into her room, rejoining her four-year-old sister.
“The name Arlie Thigpen ring a bell?”
Hennessey had pointed out his own hit parade from the crowd. There were several ballers, including the guy in the skully, from Long Walk Mooney’s crew. Long Walk, a San Quentin grad, dealt in town, had for years, but now he hid behind the guise of party promoter. His parties tended to be wild, sometimes violent, so he moved them around, like the crews he had on hand to sell product—most recently brown tar heroin dissolved in water and sold in popper vials, and gooey balls, hash-laced Rice Krispie treats, favorites with the rave crowds. So went word on the street, at least. The police had no hard evidence, and they’d yet to come close to catching Mooney doing anything they could arrest him for. There’d been reports of an event that night down around the warehouse district, but the Carlisle murder had taken place before anyone could bother with breaking up a dance.
These young men here, in the photograph, probably worked bank. No one but juvies handled drugs on a Long Walk crew. Though he’d recognized faces and had
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