that limited the number and length of time that juveniles, unattended by adults, could gather in public places. The law had been passed in the fifties, long before the mall to the south of town had been built, when downtown Ogontz had still been a thriving business and shopping district. The law had been passed by the urging ofmerchants, whose storefronts had been being inundated by penniless teenagers just hanging out but supposedly scaring away potential paying customers. Today, that law was used primarily by cops pulling a shift on the east end. There wasn’t a store in the sixteen-block area. The police claimed to be disrupting drug deals and gang activity, but all they were really doing was harassing people and furthering the alienation of the black community.
“I live here, Officer. These are my friends,” I called from the porch.
“Uh-huh,” he said, nearly choking on his skepticism before dismissing me. “How about you?” He was talking to Gordon.
“Me?” Gordon touched his chest with both hands.
“Yeah, you and your Beamer. Don’t see your kind around here unless your party planning came up a little short and you need to make an immediate”—he hesitated, then said—“purchase” as he took a long toke from an imaginary joint.
“Purchase, Officer? Why, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m just visiting a few friends, soaking up a little of the local color, if you know what I mean.” He gave Marks a quick wink and made a subtle nod toward the girls.
I stared in disbelief. In an instant, Marks believed that he and Gordon were on the same team. The interrogation was over. He waved Gordon to the squad car.
“You know what they say,” Marks began in a hushed voice. “Once you go black, you never go back.” He laughed at his own cleverness.
“Yeah, but it’s all pink inside,” Gordon said, tapping the roof of the Crown Victoria, signaling it was time for Marksto move on, which he did, but not before doing that dorky thing of pointing to his own eyes and then at T and his friends in my yard.
“What’d he say?” one of the girls asked.
“Nothing. Don’t worry about him,” Gordon said. “He’s an asshole.”
Gordon looked to me on the porch. The temporary diversion had ended, and an earnest look had returned to his face. “Keats, we need to go.”
He was right. It was only a matter of time before Shelly’s disappearance would be discovered. Her father would know exactly who took her, and Claire could identify the car we were driving. Whenever the inevitable call came out over the radio, even Officer Marks would be able to do the simple math and pin us to an exact place and time with a fairly good fix on the direction we were heading.
“We need a different car,” I said.
“Absolutely,” Gordon agreed. “Any ideas?”
“Hold on,” I said before disappearing into the house. Within minutes I was reversing out of our detached one-car garage in the back of the house. I was sitting behind the leather-covered steering wheel of a black ’78 Trans Am with a gold eagle, wings spread, emblazoned on the hood, my dad’s onetime prized possession. Inconspicuous it wasn’t, but it didn’t need to be. The cops and Shelly’s father would be looking for a black BMW.
“Genius,” Gordon muttered. “Fucking genius.”
Without a word, a warning, or a worry, Gordon tossed his keys to T, who, with as many others as could fit, was outthe driveway and into the slowly descending Ogontz night, playing the wild goose.
Inside the Trannie and heading toward Gordon’s once again, I pointed toward the fuel gauge, where the red needle was nearly flatlined.
“No problem,” Gordon said. “We’re running on karma.”
“Right,” I said, and actually believed it.
I asked him, “How’d you know those guys?”
In typical Gordon fashion, he answered, “Just do.”
We left it at that.
6
For Gordon, the month after his expulsion from the Rood began the summer of
Manfred
. His
“I live here, Officer. These are my friends,” I called from the porch.
“Uh-huh,” he said, nearly choking on his skepticism before dismissing me. “How about you?” He was talking to Gordon.
“Me?” Gordon touched his chest with both hands.
“Yeah, you and your Beamer. Don’t see your kind around here unless your party planning came up a little short and you need to make an immediate”—he hesitated, then said—“purchase” as he took a long toke from an imaginary joint.
“Purchase, Officer? Why, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m just visiting a few friends, soaking up a little of the local color, if you know what I mean.” He gave Marks a quick wink and made a subtle nod toward the girls.
I stared in disbelief. In an instant, Marks believed that he and Gordon were on the same team. The interrogation was over. He waved Gordon to the squad car.
“You know what they say,” Marks began in a hushed voice. “Once you go black, you never go back.” He laughed at his own cleverness.
“Yeah, but it’s all pink inside,” Gordon said, tapping the roof of the Crown Victoria, signaling it was time for Marksto move on, which he did, but not before doing that dorky thing of pointing to his own eyes and then at T and his friends in my yard.
“What’d he say?” one of the girls asked.
“Nothing. Don’t worry about him,” Gordon said. “He’s an asshole.”
Gordon looked to me on the porch. The temporary diversion had ended, and an earnest look had returned to his face. “Keats, we need to go.”
He was right. It was only a matter of time before Shelly’s disappearance would be discovered. Her father would know exactly who took her, and Claire could identify the car we were driving. Whenever the inevitable call came out over the radio, even Officer Marks would be able to do the simple math and pin us to an exact place and time with a fairly good fix on the direction we were heading.
“We need a different car,” I said.
“Absolutely,” Gordon agreed. “Any ideas?”
“Hold on,” I said before disappearing into the house. Within minutes I was reversing out of our detached one-car garage in the back of the house. I was sitting behind the leather-covered steering wheel of a black ’78 Trans Am with a gold eagle, wings spread, emblazoned on the hood, my dad’s onetime prized possession. Inconspicuous it wasn’t, but it didn’t need to be. The cops and Shelly’s father would be looking for a black BMW.
“Genius,” Gordon muttered. “Fucking genius.”
Without a word, a warning, or a worry, Gordon tossed his keys to T, who, with as many others as could fit, was outthe driveway and into the slowly descending Ogontz night, playing the wild goose.
Inside the Trannie and heading toward Gordon’s once again, I pointed toward the fuel gauge, where the red needle was nearly flatlined.
“No problem,” Gordon said. “We’re running on karma.”
“Right,” I said, and actually believed it.
I asked him, “How’d you know those guys?”
In typical Gordon fashion, he answered, “Just do.”
We left it at that.
6
For Gordon, the month after his expulsion from the Rood began the summer of
Manfred
. His
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