Jack & Jill

couldn’t, and it was one of the big hurts and frustrations of my life.
    “I’m not fooling around here, now. Who told you that, Loy? You talk to me. Don’t fuck with me on this.
Talk to me, and talk to me now.”
    His face was inches from mine. My mouth was almost pressed against his cheek. All of his swagger and the attitude had disappeared. I didn’t like being a tough guy with him, but this was important as hell.
    My hands are large and scarred, like a boxer’s, and I let him see them. “I’m waiting for an answer,” I whispered. “I
will
take you in. I will ruin your day and night.”
    “Don’t know
who,”
he said between wheezing breaths, “Some people in the shelter be sayin’ it. I just heard it, you know. Old homeless dude. Somebody saw’m hangin’ in Garfield.
White
dude in the park.”
    “A white man? On the southeast side of the park? You sure about that?”
    “That’s right. What I said. What I
heard.
Now, let me
go.
C’mon, man, let go!”
    I let him pull away from me, walk away a few steps.
    Loy regained his composure and cool as soon as he realized that I wasn’t going to hurt him, or even take him in for questioning.
    “That’s the story. You
owe
me,” he said. “I’m gonna
collect,
too.” I don’t believe Loy saw the irony in what he was saying.
    “I owe you,” I said. “Thanks, Loy.”
I hope you don’t ever have to collect.
    He winked at me. “Be all you can be, al-riii!” he said and laughed and laughed as he walked back to the other crack runners.

CHAPTER
39

    AN OLD HOMELESS MAN near the murder scene. In Garfield Park
That was something solid to work with, finally. I had paid some dues and gotten a return on investment.
    A white man. A white suspect.
    That was even more promising. There weren’t too many white males hanging out in the Garfield Park area. That was for sure.
    I called Sampson and told him what I’d found out. He’d just come on duty for the night shift I asked John how it was going on his end. He said that it wasn’t going, but maybe now it would. He would let the others in our group know.
    At a little past five, I stopped by the Sojourner Truth School again. There were several forces strongly pulling me in the direction of the school. The new information about the homeless white man and the constant feeling that just maybe my nemesis Gary Soneji might be involved. That was part of it. Then there was Christine Johnson. Mrs. Johnson.
    Once again, nobody was sitting at the desk in the outer office. The multiracial dolls on the desk looked abandoned. So did some “face doodles” and a couple of
Goosebump
books. The heavy wooden door into the main office was shut tight.
    I couldn’t hear anyone inside, but I knocked anyway. I heard a drawer bang shut, then footsteps. The door opened. It wasn’t locked.
    Christine Johnson had on a cashmere jacket and long wool skirt. Her hair was pulled back and tied with a yellow bow. She was wearing her glasses. Working barefoot. I thought of a line—from Dorothy Parker, I think—
Men seldom make passes/At girls who wear glasses.
    Seeing her lifted my spirits, brought me up immediately. I didn’t know exactly why, but it did.
    It occurred to me that she worked late at the school a lot. That was her business, but I wondered why she spent so much time here.
    “Yes, I’m working late again. You caught me in the act Red-handed; guilty as charged. A friend of yours dropped by the school this morning,” she said. “A detective John Sampson.”
    “He’s in charge of the case,” I said.
    “He seems very dedicated and concerned. Surprising in a lot of ways. He’s reading Camus,” she said.
    I wondered how he had worked
that
into their conversation. Among other noble pursuits, Sampson is dedicated to meeting interesting and attractive women, like Christine Johnson. It wouldn’t bother him that she was married, unless it bothered her. Sampson can be chivalrous to a fault, but only if it’s appreciated.
    “Sampson reads a lot always has since I’ve known him. My grandmother taught him in school, before I met him, actually. He’s the original Pagemaster.”
    Christine Johnson smiled, showed me all those beautiful teeth of hers. “You’re familiar with the movie
Pagemaster?
I guess you must see them all.”
    “I do see them all. Anything the kids
‘have to, have to see, Daddy!’
We gave
Pagemaster
a six. But we’re not as down on Master Macauley Culkin as some people seem to be.”
    She continued