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Michael Floyd seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the drive. He scanned the park as they cut across it. About three-quarters through, he suddenly pointed to a small stand of maple trees.
“Gangstas,” he said.
Curtis looked. There in the maples’ shadows were four or five tough-looking teenage boys, hoodlums in baggy jeans and hoodie sweatshirts and sneakers.
Those must be the ones who beat him.
He expected Michael to recoil, or at least hide, but the next thing he knew the kid was rolling down his window and throwing the bird with both fists at the punks.
Then Michael Floyd yelled at the top of his lungs, “Fuck you, gangsta muthafuckas!”
Now what the hell else is going to happen? Will Curtis thought.
That Tourette’s, if that’s what it is, is going to get him killed. . . .
He accelerated, not waiting to find out if there would be any gunshots from the gangsta muthafuckas.
At the far end of the park he picked up Mascher again and, following Michael’s pointing, drove south another nine blocks. Crossing Oxford, Curtis noticed that the block on his left, south of Oxford, was somewhat like the 2400 block of Mutter Street—basically barren but for a clump of the last remaining row houses.
“There,” Michael said, pointing to the end of the block.
Will Curtis followed the direction of Michael’s finger and saw that there were five houses altogether on the southwest corner of the block.
He also saw that there were police squad cars everywhere.
“There?” Will Curtis repeated.
He stood on the brakes and studied the scene.
He saw other emergency vehicles, including a big van with CRIME SCENE UNIT lettered on its side, and a bunch of heavy equipment—a tall demolition crane, a big Caterpillar bulldozer, and heavy-duty dump trucks.
“Wow!” Michael said, pointing at them.
“What the hell?” Will said aloud.
Ahead at the next intersection, Jefferson Street, was a squad car, its every exterior light flashing white or red or blue. It was parked at an angle to force traffic onto Jefferson and away from the other emergency vehicles. A policeman in uniform was beside it directing traffic. He signaled for the FedEx van to keep moving down the street toward him.
“Don’t like no cop,” Michael said. “LeRoi say cop bad news.”
Curtis looked at him.
No surprise there.
And no surprise that generation after generation in the ghetto grows up hating cops—it’s all they know, all they’re taught.
Then Will realized he hadn’t considered what he would do with Michael if they actually caught up with LeRoi.
I can’t let him see me take LeRoi out. Michael’s done nothing to deserve that.
The only lesson he needs to learn from this is: You do bad, you pay a bad price.
Shit. I’ll have to figure that out.
Will Curtis reached over, grabbed the FedEx cap from the dashboard, and put it on the boy’s head.
“That’ll keep you hidden from the cop, Michael.”
Michael considered that, then nodded once.
