victim?”
“I doubt it. Les wasn’t much into antiques, unless maybe they were old baseball cards.”
I explain to the lieutenant my connection to Les Hacker.
“He’s a damn reporter,” Gillespie says.
I tell the lieutenant that it’s all off the record, that I’m just here because Les is family.
“I doubt if Finlay was the shooter,” I tell them.
“How come?” Gillespie asks.
“He’s on vacation. Won’t be back until Wednesday.”
Custalow told me. Rand asked maintenance to hold his mail until April 11. Said he was going to some place in the British West Indies for a month. Virgin Gorda, I think. Antiquing must be doing better than newspapers.
“Well,” the lieutenant says, “somebody apparently broke in. Whoever it was must’ve used a silencer, because nobody heard anything. And he left everything here. Winchester .30-30, spent shell, everything.”
I WONDER out loud why he didn’t shoot more than once, if he went to all that trouble.
“C’mere,” Gillespie says, beckoning me to the window.
He points down to the park.
“See that big oak tree there?”
I nod.
“Well, when the victim got shot, he rolled forward, and that tree was between him and the shooter. He couldn’t hit him, and we guess he didn’t feel like he had a lot of time to waste up here.”
“Les Hacker didn’t have an enemy in the world,” I tell them, “unless maybe it was some base runner he threw out trying to steal second in 1964.”
“Well,” the lieutenant says, “I’d say he had at least one, wouldn’t you?”
I am warned that all this is on the QT. I promise not to publish it, but I don’t promise not to tell Les and Peggy as much as I’ve been able to ferret out about this whole screwed-up affair.
I’m still there when the chief, L. D. Jones, shows up. His full name is Larry Doby Jones, named after the guy who was the first black player in the American League. Old farts like me, though, we still remember him from high school days as Long Distance Jones, second-team all-state guard from Maggie Walker. We go way back. These days, he looks like he’s smelled spoiled meat every time he sees me. My second time around as night cops reporter has led to some unfortunate conflicts of interest between the chief and me. L. D. wants to keep every single detail of every case buried deep until he can call a press conference and do the we-got-him victory lap. I just want to get the story in the damn paper before I see it in living color on TV.
I tried to explain this to L. D. once, a couple of years ago. I was still able to draw on a small account of good will from my first stint as night cops reporter, thirty years ago, when the chief and I were both young pups who still could kid each other about my late black father making the two of us one-and-a-half African Americans.
“Why should I give it to the damn newspaper first?” he said. “You all are a dinosaur. I might as well send it out by Pony Express.”
He seemed to think that was funny.
He’s not laughing now.
“What is he doing here?” he says now by way of greeting.
The lieutenant tries to explain that I’m a relative, that this is all off the record. Gillespie slips into the kitchen, trying to make his fat ass invisible.
“I don’t care if the victim was his got-damn daddy!” L. D. says, going into full James Earl Jones mode, bouncing up and down as he gets in the lieutenant’s face. “Nothing’s off the record with this son of a bitch. Get him the fuck out of here.”
The chief doesn’t even look at me as I leave.
I PICK up Peggy and Awesome Dude and take them over to the hospital. On the way, I give Peggy the news that Les seems to have been shot from the very building where I sleep, in the currently vacant apartment three floors up.
“The Prestwould?” she asks. “Those rich bastards don’t go around shooting people.”
“Rich bastards” is the way Peggy sees my fellow owners and renters. To her, the place seems like
“I doubt it. Les wasn’t much into antiques, unless maybe they were old baseball cards.”
I explain to the lieutenant my connection to Les Hacker.
“He’s a damn reporter,” Gillespie says.
I tell the lieutenant that it’s all off the record, that I’m just here because Les is family.
“I doubt if Finlay was the shooter,” I tell them.
“How come?” Gillespie asks.
“He’s on vacation. Won’t be back until Wednesday.”
Custalow told me. Rand asked maintenance to hold his mail until April 11. Said he was going to some place in the British West Indies for a month. Virgin Gorda, I think. Antiquing must be doing better than newspapers.
“Well,” the lieutenant says, “somebody apparently broke in. Whoever it was must’ve used a silencer, because nobody heard anything. And he left everything here. Winchester .30-30, spent shell, everything.”
I WONDER out loud why he didn’t shoot more than once, if he went to all that trouble.
“C’mere,” Gillespie says, beckoning me to the window.
He points down to the park.
“See that big oak tree there?”
I nod.
“Well, when the victim got shot, he rolled forward, and that tree was between him and the shooter. He couldn’t hit him, and we guess he didn’t feel like he had a lot of time to waste up here.”
“Les Hacker didn’t have an enemy in the world,” I tell them, “unless maybe it was some base runner he threw out trying to steal second in 1964.”
“Well,” the lieutenant says, “I’d say he had at least one, wouldn’t you?”
I am warned that all this is on the QT. I promise not to publish it, but I don’t promise not to tell Les and Peggy as much as I’ve been able to ferret out about this whole screwed-up affair.
I’m still there when the chief, L. D. Jones, shows up. His full name is Larry Doby Jones, named after the guy who was the first black player in the American League. Old farts like me, though, we still remember him from high school days as Long Distance Jones, second-team all-state guard from Maggie Walker. We go way back. These days, he looks like he’s smelled spoiled meat every time he sees me. My second time around as night cops reporter has led to some unfortunate conflicts of interest between the chief and me. L. D. wants to keep every single detail of every case buried deep until he can call a press conference and do the we-got-him victory lap. I just want to get the story in the damn paper before I see it in living color on TV.
I tried to explain this to L. D. once, a couple of years ago. I was still able to draw on a small account of good will from my first stint as night cops reporter, thirty years ago, when the chief and I were both young pups who still could kid each other about my late black father making the two of us one-and-a-half African Americans.
“Why should I give it to the damn newspaper first?” he said. “You all are a dinosaur. I might as well send it out by Pony Express.”
He seemed to think that was funny.
He’s not laughing now.
“What is he doing here?” he says now by way of greeting.
The lieutenant tries to explain that I’m a relative, that this is all off the record. Gillespie slips into the kitchen, trying to make his fat ass invisible.
“I don’t care if the victim was his got-damn daddy!” L. D. says, going into full James Earl Jones mode, bouncing up and down as he gets in the lieutenant’s face. “Nothing’s off the record with this son of a bitch. Get him the fuck out of here.”
The chief doesn’t even look at me as I leave.
I PICK up Peggy and Awesome Dude and take them over to the hospital. On the way, I give Peggy the news that Les seems to have been shot from the very building where I sleep, in the currently vacant apartment three floors up.
“The Prestwould?” she asks. “Those rich bastards don’t go around shooting people.”
“Rich bastards” is the way Peggy sees my fellow owners and renters. To her, the place seems like
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