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She turned away as her friend answered. " 'Lo?"
"It's all over with, Keesh." She explained about the jewelry exchange, the bombing.
"That what was goin' on? Damn. A terrorist? That some scary shit. But you okay?"
"I'm down. Really."
Geneva heard another voice, a male one, saying something to her friend, who put her hand over the receiver for a moment. Their muted exchange seemed heated.
"You there, Keesh?"
"Yeah."
"Who's that?"
"Nobody. Where you at? You not in that basement crib no more, right?"
"I'm still where I told you--with that policeman and his girlfriend. The one in the wheelchair."
"You there now?"
"No, I'm Uptown. Going to school."
"Now?"
"Pick up my homework."
The girl paused. Then: "Listen, I'ma hook up with you at school. Wanna see you, girl. When you be there?"
Geneva glanced at her father, nearby, hands in his pockets, still surveying the street. She decided she didn't want to mention him to Keesha, or anybody else, just yet.
"Let's make it tomorrow, Keesh. I don't have any time now."
"Daymn, girl."
"Really. Better tomorrow."
"Wha-ever."
Geneva heard the click of the disconnect. Yet she stayed where she was for some moments, delaying going back to her father.
Finally she joined him and they continued toward the school.
"You know what was up there, three or four blocks?" he asked, pointing north. "Strivers Row. You ever seen it?
"No," she muttered.
"I'll take you up there sometime. Hundred years ago, this land developer fellow, named King, he built these three big apartments and tons of town houses. Hired three of the best architects in the country and told 'em to go to work. Beautiful places. King Model Homes was the real name but they were so expensive and so nice, this's the story, the place was called Strivers Row 'cause you had to strive to live there. W. C. Handy lived there for a time. You know him? Father of the blues. Most righteous musician ever lived. I did a 'piece up that way one time. I ever tell you about that? Took me thirty cans to do. Wasn't a throw-up; I spent two days on it. Did a picture of W. C. himself. Photographer from the Times shot it and put it in the paper." He nodded north. "It was there for--"
She stopped fast. Her hands slapped her hips. "Enough!"
"Genie?"
"Just stop it. I don't want to hear this."
"You--"
"I don't care about any of what you're telling me."
