“OK. Which homicide would that be?”
Bob hesitated.
“Good to know in case there’s information there I can use,” Rooble added.
Bob hoped Rooble didn’t notice the amount of time he needed before answering. “It’s on the Saint Paul border so there’s some uncertainty about the jurisdiction. I’ll let you know if I get the case.”
“Okay,” said Rooble. “Nice to talk to you, Bob. Say hello to Alice.”
They ended the call.
Bob glanced down at the newspaper, which was still open to the Help Wanted section. He tore out the page, took a Swiss Army knife from the glove compartment, flipped open the little pair of scissors and started cutting it into strips.
—
Alice stood by the window in the kitchen. She’d made herself a cup of green tea and was looking down at the park. Her thoughts were still preoccupied with her last patient, a teenage girl with an eating disorder. The girl had made progress over the four years she’d been coming. And Alice had too; she no longer saw Frankie in every patient under twenty who entered her office and wondered what her daughter would have looked like now. Alice’s gaze fell on a Volvo parked on the far side of the park. It was the color, not the make, that awakened the memories. Mustard yellow. Bob loved that color, that was why they had agreed that she would choose the make—a family car, strong on safety features—and he—the dandy—would choose the color. She noticed that unconsciously she had begun to smile. But then she recalled the message he had left on her machine three days earlier, about how he was reneging on their agreement about the house, and she stopped smiling. The estimate they’d been given on the house was so high that they both knew Bob couldn’t afford to buy her out, so they’d agreed that she was to get the house at market price while he got the car free of all debt. All that remained were the signatures on the transfer of ownership papers. That would be the last practical link between them. Would she miss him? No, she didn’t think she would. But she could be wrong about that, some days she could be overcome by a feeling of missing him. Missing those times when she left here in winter and got into the warm car waiting outside, where Bob had put on a song he wanted her to listen to, and him looking like she was the one doing him a favor by letting him pick her up and transport her back home like a princess. And nowthis was all that remained after twelve years together, a signature. Could things have been different? If what happened that day had never happened, would they still be a couple?
The car on the far side of the park glided out into the traffic. Alice looked at her watch. Next patient in five minutes. She sighed, took a last sip from her cup and went back into her office.
17
Amigo, October 2016
The time was six in the evening and the sun hung low over the rooftops of Phillips.
Bob had parked by the playground at Bloomington. He sat eating a hamburger in the Volvo and watched the deal going down outside a nearby house. The same three as before. The Latino in the porkpie hat was clearly running the operation. Rich people from the suburbs in the west often drove to these northern neighborhoods, like Jordan, to buy grass, or coke or meth. Here in Phillips customers tended to be local. And the goods harder. Heroin. Crack. It looked like that was what was going down here. The same pas de trois each time a customer showed up. A few words exchanged, cash, small deals changing hands, fists closed to hide as much as possible and always orchestrated in such a way that the bills and the dope were never held by one person at the same time, since the penalty for selling dope was higher than for givingit away, so the one dealing the dope could always claim he’d given it away if no one ever actually saw him taking the money.
Bob finished chewing the last morsel, dried his fingers on the paper napkin and started the car.
He drove to the corner and climbed out.
“Police,” he said loudly, holding up the ID card and a pair of handcuffs he’d rescued from one of the crates in his apartment. “Face the wall. Anyone makes a run for it gets shot.”
The three stared, first at Bob, then to left and right, clearly astonished to see that he was alone.
“Now!” Bob shouted.
Reluctantly they turned, put their hands against the wall and spread their legs. Bob approached the oldest of them, knocked the porkpie hat off his head and jerked his left arm, forcing him up against the wall. Then the right arm, and then holding both wrists behind his back handcuffed him.
“Jamar Clark.”
The words were spoken quietly, but Bob turned toward the young black kid who had spoken.
“What did you say?”
The boy gave Bob a hate-filled stare but didn’t reply. A couple of years ago Jamar Clark, a black man, had been shot and killed by the MPD during an arrest, and the people who wanted to start a riot spread the word that it had happened while Clark was handcuffed. Bob didn’t doubt for a moment that MPD’s reputation for brutality and racism was well deserved, you just had to listen to Hanson and Kjos when they enthusiastically quoted Donald Trump’s expressed view that the police ought to be tougher with people they arrested; but not even the MPD would kill defenseless people.
“Here.”
Bob led Porkpie Hat over to the passenger side of the car and helped him into the front seat and—without irony—made surehe didn’t bang his head on the roof as he got in. He fastened the seat belt across him, then got into the driver’s side and drove off.
“What the fuck is this?” said the man. His accent suggested Mexico, or some other Latino land, just as Bob had been hoping. Bob pressed a finger to his lips.
“Fuck this, man!” Porkpie screamed.
Three blocks later Bob turned into a quiet street and stopped.
“I need a little information, amigo.”
