“Permit pushed through,” he blurted. “Saint took it to City, came back stamped. Mayor’s boy?—”
“Say his name in here, I’ll make you scrub your tongue.” I let the word hang a second, soft as a wire. “He’s White Lie when you’re stupid, Whit when you’re correct, and nothing when you’re near a wire. Today you ain’t correct.”
Mouse flinched. “Copy.”
I slide the manila folder closer with two fingers. Photos inside. People never looked up. They always think the picture-taker is taller than he is. These were taken from car windows and rain hoods and a pair of drunk sunglasses with a lens cut out the side. Money spent well. I lay them out like cards.
Nova on the sidewalk, church coat in a storm that don’t end. Kid on her hip. Saint’s shadow at the curb where the street tries not to know him. Cruz’s neon breathing red like a bad heart. Then Ro—helmet under his arm, that gold rope chain catching a light that didn’t belong to him. He got bulk since he left. Looked like a wall until you saw the crack in the middle. He stood like a man who forgot which way was forward.
Mouse craned his neck. I slapped the back of his head, easy. “Eyes up. Learn to clock a room without counting the floor tiles.”
He stared at the wall like that’s where the answers lived. I let him.
Tino rumbled in from the side door with a folder of receipts and a grin he earned in county twice. “Rain’s got the boys in mood,” he said. “Bars are fat, wallets thin, mouths wide.”
“Good,” I answered. “Mouths keep me warm.”
He laughed. Stopped when I didn’t. Dropped the receipts on the corner I pressed down earlier. The desk stayed still. Even wood learned if you made it.
“Ro’s circling,” Tino said. “You want me to put a leash on him?”
I shook my head. “Leashes are for animals. We give him mirrors. He’ll walk himself into one.”
Mouse cleared his throat like he got a ticket to speak. “He pulled up to Cruz’s with some girl.” He shrunk when my eyes slid over. “Not Nova.”
“I know,” I stated, and drop another photo—her face half-laugh, half-dare, Oakland written in the way she stood. Tarnesha. The kind of girl men use to pretend they ain’t lonely. “She ain’t the knife. She the napkin.”
“Napkins catch blood,” Tino muttered.
“Then make sure it’s someone else’s,” I voiced.
I let the silence sit. Men talk too much when they don’t know what to do. My trick’s simple. Make a room quiet, and the lies float. I can skim with a spoon.
Mouse couldn’t help himself. “That White— Darius—he’s riding brazen. Ducati like a billboard, cops wave at him like he throwin’ a parade. You sure we want him near Friday?”
“Want?” I rolled the word like I was checking its teeth. “Need. He brings a camera you can’t buy, and a budget you can’t spend. He wants a show. We give him a script.”
“What about Saint?” Tino asked. “He ain’t the one who claps. He the one who counts.”
“Good,” I countered. “Counters close the drawer when they done. I like a man who shuts things.”
I pushed the photos back into the folder. My thumb paused on Nova’s face. Strong. Not pretty like some magazine girl—real pretty, the kind you don’t brag about if you want to keep your teeth. I respected a woman who could carry a room withoutbegging it for permission. I respected her enough to break her last.
“Get your coat,” I instructed them. “We got rounds.”
The rain fattened the city, made it shine so even trash looked like jewelry. My Hayabusa waited where the light leaks under the sycamore. I don’t name machines. Men who name machines name bullets too, and then they cry when the wrong one hits the ground. I swung a leg over and listened to the breath before the engine caught. Everything got a breath before it’s loud.
We rolled—me, Tino on his Road King, Mouse in the Civic that runs like a rumor. Down Central, left under the faded billboard with the teeth whitener ad, past the car wash that never shuts off the soap. Lyon Crest’s got polish now, but polish is a liar. Wipe it once and the dirt tells you its government name.
I idled across from Cruz’s and kill the noise. Neon Cruz sign hummed, window fogged, silhouettes arguing with forks. A boy in a Raider jacket rides a BMX too small for him, looks both ways like a prayer, not a habit. He disappears into the wet.
“Five minutes,” I told Tino. “Then the bowling alley. If I ain’t out in twenty, run your mouth so loud a cop writes it down.”
He nodded because he knew I wasn’t joking.
I didn’t go in. I walked the side, where the establishment was breathing through the brick. The alley dripped fat. A back door with a chain across it—a Cruz chain, not a hardware store chain. It was a difference. I shifted the chain with two fingers to let the door know I knew it. I slid a white envelope under the lip. No name outside. Names invite imagination. Inside, a copy of a citation with the date already picked by someone who wears a badge like a necktie. Also inside, a tea bag, mint, hospital brand. Lani liked tea when she’s mad. I knew because she drunk it faster. I didn’t want her scared. I wanted her efficient.
Back to the streets, helmet on, engine up, we coast. Bowling alley next—new carpet, old pins, a manager who learned to tell time by favors.
