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“Michael,” the boy said. Then he nodded once, as if making a point.
Michael? Well, at least something’s normal around here. But I bet it’s probably spelled weird, like Leroy is “LeRoi.”
“Michael what?”
“Michael Floyd,” he said, and again nodded once.
“Nice to meet you, Michael Floyd.”
The kid suddenly pointed to the medium-size stick figure. “That be Mama,” he said.
“Very nice. Who is the other one? Your father?”
The kid shook his head and said, “That my uncle.”
“Does he live here?”
Michael shook his head again.
“What’s your uncle’s name?”
“Uncle LeRoi,” he said, punctuating that with a nod.
Ding-ding! We have a winner! Will Curtis thought as he glanced at the door of the house. And if he’s in the “family” drawing . . .
He said: “LeRoi Cheatham? Is he home?”
“Don’t live here no more. Told you that, muthafucka.”
“Is your mother home?”
He shook his head.
“You’re home alone?”
He nodded.
“Look, Michael, I have this very important envelope for your uncle.” Curtis held it out toward the boy, who turned to look at it. “See? Says right here, ‘to LeRoi Cheatham.’ Do you know where I can find him so he can have his mail?”
The boy nodded. “He at Demetri’s.”
“Can you tell me where that is”—Curtis motioned with the envelope—“so I can give him this?”
“It that way,” Michael said, pointing with the chalk to the south.
“What’s the address?”
He shrugged.
“Is it close? Can you show me?”
He shook his head, then said, “Don’t walk there no more.”
“Why not?”
“Gangstas. Muthafuckas hit me. Kick me.”
He gets beat up?
