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“Just get your butt over there,” I say. “Now.”
“It’s probably just like the others. A big nothing deal,” Gabe says.
I know Gabe could be right. Maybe this callwillturn out to be another dud.
But for some reason, I have a feeling it’s going to be a big one.
GABE ANDImeet up. The genius looks like he’s still dressed for bed—red boxers sticking out from green gym shorts, along with a red-and-white striped T-shirt.
“What’s up, Christmas tree?” I say.
“Huh?” He doesn’t get the joke. Or at least he pretends not to.
We hustle over toward the crime scene. It’s not hard to find. It’s all flashing lights and megaphones. It’s a nasty mix of police shouts and wailing sirens. Then we plant ourselves by the side of the library for the perfect view.
“This looks pretty serious,” I say.
“Uh, you think so?” Gabe says. “What gave it away? The eight police cars or the forty people crowding around?”
I guess I am a master of the obvious.
“It’s got to be something with the gangs,” Gabe says.
As soon as Gabe mentions the wordgangs, I tell him what my dad once said.
“If you can bust the gangs, you can build the city.”
“Man, it would take a lot of busting and a lot of building,” Gabe says, and as I look across the street at the twisted window bars and graffiti on the Stanton Houses, I know what he means.
The biggest problems with the gangs are the feuds between the gangs themselves. The fights can be brutal—guns, fists, knives, even rocks are used. They’re started over turf disputes or drugs or someone’s girlfriend or boyfriend.
Police are leading a few folks out of the building. It’s pretty clear that these are residents of the houses. Adults wearing nightgowns and underwear and sweatpants. Little kids in pajamas.
The police rush this small group to a spot behind one of the barricades. Then we hear a guy on a megaphone talking to the people watching from the surrounding houses: “PLEASE REMAIN IN YOUR HOMES. PLEASE REMAIN IN YOUR HOMES. POLICE WILL INFORM YOU WHEN IT’S SAFE TO LEAVE.”
“That’ll sure scare you,” Gabe says.
I check my phone. “No updates on the event,” I tell Gabe. “I think we should remain in our current position.”
Gabe rolls his eyes. His voice is really sarcastic as he says, “Yes, sir. Whatever you say, Sergeant Ali.” Before I can tell Gabe off, we see a sudden parade of people coming out the side door of the apartment.
Three of those people—two guys, one woman—are clicked into handcuffs. It looks like stuff you see in news clips. The police stare straight ahead while they walk. The suspects are pushing their chins into their chests as far as they can. I watch closely as the handcuffed people are escorted by an even mix of four uniformed cops and four plainclothes.
Okay. I’m excited, excited enough that I decide to move in closer to the front of the crowd.
“Cool it, man,” Gabe says as he tugs at the back of my shirt. “The police don’t want any interference from two punk teenagers.”
Gabe is right. Plus, some of the officers and detectives might actually recognize me. I’ve been down at headquarters a few times with my dad. We move back a little, a pretty bad attempt at camouflage.
Three police cars pull up to the side of the building where the action is.
“Three perps. Three arrests. Three squad cars,” I say. “Everybody gets their own chauffeur. This must be serious.”
“Hey, Ali. Look at the second guy,” Gabe says. He sounds anxious.
“Lower your voice, man,” I say.
“On the right. On the right,” he says. He doesn’t really talk any quieter. Instead he talks in the kind of whisper you could hear a few yards away. “Look at the second guy on the right.”
