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“Peeps talk, they get capped. That’s what happened to Pookie. Law of the street. That’s why I texted you now, after they came—”
“Who did it?”
“Capped Pookie?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s just it—I don’t know,” he said, then looked over his shoulder at Payne. “Matt, I didn’t even know the dude. They’re threatening me over something I don’t know.”
“Any guess who did do it?”
Daquan turned back to busing the table and shrugged again.
“I heard word that King Two-One-Five knows,” he said.
Payne thought: Tyrone Hooks knows—or ordered it done?
He pulled his cell phone from the back pocket of his jeans, rapidly thumb-typed and sent a short text message, then tucked the phone back.
“When’s the last time you saw your parole officer, Daquan?” he said, picking the newspaper back up.
“Few days ago.”
“It go okay?”
“I guess.”
“How’s school coming?”
“Hard, man. Just real hard.”
“One day at a time. You’ll get that GED.”
Daquan then pulled a hand towel and a spray bottle of cleaner from the cart and began wiping the tabletop
.
Payne said, “Nice diamond stud. Is it real?”
Daquan stopped wiping.
“Uh-huh. S’posed to be, anyway,” he said, made two more slow circles, and added, “Got my momma something nice for Christmas, and this earring, it was part of the deal.”
“Really?”
Daquan grunted.
“Really,” he said, then moved to the next table. “You know, I’m trying to get my life straight, staying away from the street. You think I like busing tables? Only gig I could find.”
“I know. Remember?”
Daquan sighed.
“Yeah, of course I remember. You know I appreciate the help, man.”
“Keep your nose clean, make it through the probation period, and we’ll work on getting your record cleared. Have the charge expunged. Then we’ll find you something else. Right now, this is good, honest work.”
“I know.”
