“Did I wake you? I’m sorry. Go back to sleep.”
“Gibby’s in bed?”
“Tucked in and safe.”
“Where are you going?”
“A call,” he said. “I might be a while.”
“What time is it?”
“Not that late. Go back to bed.”
He kissed her cheek, and she rolled again, showing the lift of a shoulder, a spill of hair. He felt bad about the lie, but had she known his intent, there would have been recrimination and tears; she would not have slept at all.
Outside, French slid behind the wheel, and followed a two-lane until he caught the state highway that would take him into Charlotte. As a city cop, he’d always felt guilty about life beyond the city line, but he was a father first, and city life had been trending down for years. It would be easy to blame the war, but the shift felt more fundamental than that. People didn’t care like they used to. They locked their doors, and looked away on the street. There was less trust between neighbors, and no love for cops, either. It had been that way since the Kent State shootings, at least, since the race riots in New York and Wilmington, the uprisings at Attica, the bombing in Wisconsin. Even in a city as small as this—a half-million people—French had seen things he’d never imagined, not just the protests and riots but bra burnings and flag burnings, the explosion of homelessness and poverty and drugs. To jaded eyes, the problem was larger than broken families or loyalties or even broken cities. The country was wounded and hurting. Was divided too big a word?
Once across the city line, French worked his way past the subdivisions and commercial areas, then downtown, where buildings rose twenty and thirty stories, and people were out on the sidewalks. The restaurants were busy, so were the nightclubs and bars. The main drag was four-lane, and cars cruised it slowly before turning around to do it again. His interest was little more than passing, but eyes still found the cruiser as if cop were written on the side.
Deeper in the city, French slowed as he approached a half-mile stretch of abandoned factories built in the late 1800s. An experiment in city renewal had seen attempts at rehabilitation, but the longed-for influx of apartment and condo dwellers never materialized. The buildings now were mostly vacant. There were a few flophouses, some struggling artists, a bit of industrial storage. The building he wanted was on the last corner of the worst block, so he rolled in quietly, and got out of the car the same way. Darkness pooled between distant lights, and there was movement in that darkness, hints of glass and cigarettes where people huddled on loading bays and crumbled stoops.
“Anyone here seen Jimmy Hooks?” French showed the badge as he approached a group of men on a loading dock, their legs stretched out, backs against the brick. They saw the shield, but didn’t care enough to hide the needle. “Hey. Jimmy Hooks. You seen him?” One of the junkies turned his head and gave a slow blink. French held out a ten-dollar bill. “First to tell me gets it.”
“Oh, hey, man, I think I saw him…”
“Not you.” French knew the guy, a proven liar. “You two. Jimmy Hooks. I’m not going to bust him. I just want to talk.” He produced another five, and all three junkies pointed at an old factory across the street. “If you’re lying, I’ll be back. I’ll take the money and your junk.”
“Nah, man. No lies. Jimmy Hooks. Straight up.”
French dropped the bills, and crossed the street, stepping over shattered glass and keeping his eyes on the door three stoops down. Two girls lingered there. Hookers, he thought. They saw him, and split. He let them go. Through the open door, he saw mattresses, old sofas, candle wax melted to the floor.
“Hey … mister cop.”
That came from a junkie so skinny a good breeze might lift him up and float him away. He was on a sofa, barefoot and shirtless and half-gone.
“I’m looking for Jimmy Hooks.”
The junkie pointed into a long, dark hall.
“Is he alone?”
“Shit, man…”
The junkie grinned a loose grin, and French thought, No, not alone. Following the hall, he found other rooms and other junkies. French was too jaded to feel much, but the spring inside wound a little tighter.
At the rear of the building, the hall bent right and ended at a steel door beneath a bare bulb. French palmed the revolver, and knocked twice. “Police. I’m looking for James Manning, goes by Jimmy Hooks.” If this were a bust, French would have men behind him and at the back door and in the alley outside. Manning, though, had never been busted for dealing. He was too clever, too slick. “Let’s go. Open up.”
He pounded on the door until metal grated and a dead bolt slid open from the inside. The door opened to the length of its chain, and a sliver of face appeared, pale skin and a dark, disinterested eye.
“Warrant.” It was not a question.
“Tell Jimmy it’s Detective French, that I want to talk.”
The head turned away. “Yo, it’s like you said.”
“So let the man in.”
The door closed, and the chain scraped. When the door opened again, French saw James Manning in a leather chair with his hands behind his head and his legs crossed at the ankles. He was midforties, a local, a dropout. The men with him were a full mix of skin colors and ages. The room would be clean of drugs and weapons and cash. Those things would be in the building, but with other men, in other rooms.
“Detective French.” Manning spread his hands in mock welcome. “I thought I might see you tonight.”
“So you know he’s back.”
“Your son leaves a ripple larger than most, so yeah. I heard.”
French stepped into the room. Five men, total. Only Manning was smiling. “Have you sold to him?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“I want to know if he’s using.”
“Hey, the world is full of wants. I want. You want.”
Two men slipped into French’s blind spot; he noticed but didn’t care. “Do you know where he is or not?” Manning showed both palms and a second smile that made French feel sick inside. He shouldn’t have to do this. He should know where to find his own son. “You have a kid, right? A daughter?”
Manning stopped smiling. “Don’t compare the two.”
“I’m only saying…”
“Your son’s a junkie. My daughter is eight.”
“But as a father…”
“I don’t give a shit about that.”
“What, then?”
“Favors.” Manning leaned forward in his seat. “I’ll go first to show you how it works. I haven’t sold to your son. That’s a favor, and that’s for free. I can tell you where he is, too, but it’ll cost you.”
“A favor in return.”
“A cop favor.”
French took a steadying breath. The men around him were bottom-feeders, the worst. He wanted to arrest them all or beat them until his hands bled. “I’m not asking for a kidney,” he said. “The favor will be commensurate.”
“That’s a nice word.”
“Where is he, Jimmy? I won’t ask again. I walk and the favor walks with me.”
Manning settled back in the chair. Three beats, and then five. “You know Charlie Spellman?” he asked, finally.