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As they rolled up to the intersection, the traffic cop waved for the van to take the turn. Curtis did so, and avoided making any eye contact.
Michael suddenly yelled: “Don’t like no cop, muthafucka!”
“Michael!” Curtis barked.
He checked his mirror and saw the cop look at the van, but only for a second before he turned back to directing traffic.
If the cop heard that, probably wasn’t the first time.
At least the kid didn’t throw him the bird, too.
Curtis, his heart beating fast, shook his head.
That was close. . . .
He looked over at Michael, who now was pointing down Jefferson to the next intersection, Hancock Street.
“There LeRoi house!” he said, indicating the boarded-up row house on the corner. “Got wood window.”
And just beyond the house, Curtis saw someone peer out from around the corner.
He drove on, and as they came to the corner, Curtis saw that there was more than one person. Standing in an alleyway behind the boarded-up row house were three young black men, including a great big one with droopy eyes and a trimmed goatee.
“And there LeRoi!” Michael said excitedly.
Well, I’ll be damned.
He’s been standing and watching those cops work that scene back there. Just hiding in plain sight.
And the cops don’t have any idea that there’s a fugitive living just fifty yards away.
But then, how could they? So damned many punks in this city, there’s no way to keep track of them all.
Michael suddenly moved quickly, rolling down his window again. He stuck out his head, the hat hitting the top of the car’s frame and falling to the floorboard.
“Lookit me, LeRoi!” Michael shouted, pumping his right fist. “I be riding, muthafucka!”
LeRoi Cheatham was momentarily caught completely off guard. He did not immediately know how to react to the sight of his twelve-year-old nephew hanging out of a FedEx delivery vehicle and yelling his name at the top of his lungs. Especially with who the hell knew how many cops only a block or so away.
But the two other teenage punks standing with LeRoi were more quickwitted. In a flash, they hauled ass across Hancock Street and disappeared into a wall of huge, thick bushes that had grown wild on the deserted lot.
Curtis saw LeRoi watching his buddies run away. Then LeRoi looked back at the van, then back to the bushes. As LeRoi started to cross Hancock to follow his buddies, Curtis held up the big square envelope to the windshield and tried to mime that it was intended for him.
It didn’t work. LeRoi kept walking.
“Michael,” Curtis said as he turned the minivan onto Hancock and drove up on the cracked sidewalk, “tell your uncle he’s got a package.”
Michael yelled, “You gots a package, LeRoi!”
LeRoi slowed and warily looked over his shoulder.
Curtis motioned again with the envelope, stopping the minivan at the alleyway and putting it in park. He rolled down his window and with a raised voice said, “This is my last try to find you. You don’t sign for it, the check gets sent back today!”
At the mention of money, the expression on LeRoi’s face changed.
As LeRoi Cheatham started back toward the alley, Curtis felt for his Glock under his shirt, then opened the driver’s door. He walked around to Michael’s door and opened it.
“What up?” Michael said.
