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I squint. I look.
Oh, damn! Damn and damn it again.
“Let’s move,” I say. We bend over, put our heads down, and we look exactly like what we are—two scared, stupid kids trying to hide.
“You said they were all asleep when you left your house,” Gabe says.
“They were. At least I thought they were,” I answer.
“Man, you better hope he doesn’t look this way. Nobody can fool your father.”
“Least of all me,” I say.
THE POLICE LOADthe three people into three separate patrol cars that flip on their sirens and drive off. It’s kind of interesting to watch how the officers handle the three people that they’re bringing in. They’re not really rough with them. There’s no shoving or pushing. But they’re firm also. I’d call them confident but polite. I do notice that one of the officers does not do the usual “watch-your-head” move when they put their guy into the car. I wonder, is that a television thing? Or is it an actual rule, that the officer just broke?
I’m pretty sure that Gabe and I are far enough away that nobody can see us. And my father wasn’t really looking around; he seemed very preoccupied with walking with, watching, and guiding his suspect.
I don’t even realize I’ve been holding my breath until he gets into an unmarked car and drives off, too.
“We can move in closer now,” I say.
“Yeah,” says Gabe. “Now that the big guy is gone.”
I’m not sure, but I’m not liking Gabe calling my father “the big guy.” It’s not exactly disrespectful. And, okay, the name sort of fits. But my friend’s voice has a little scorn to it. Maybe. Yeah, maybe. It could be I’m just too sensitive.
Anyway, as we cross the street, I scope out the crowd. I’m guessing most of these people are from the Stanton Houses. Probably some are what the police call “lookie-loos,” the people who gather around when there’s a car accident, a fire, or even an extra-dangerous crime scene, like a shooting. Why watch Netflix when you can watch real life?
A really old guy standing next to Gabe, smoking a pipe, says, “You kids from the neighborhood?”
“Yeah, pretty close by,” I say.
“But notthatclose,” Gabe says. I don’t know what he’s worried about that he has to add that little bit. Not that the old guy seems to care.
“Bad stuff is always going on around here,” says the old guy. “Nobody can stop it.”
“It’s the gangs again,” says a woman who’s holding a very unhappy baby. The baby is screaming loud enough that she could actually drown out the sirens on the police cars that are speeding away.
The woman talks over her baby. “He’s right. It’s the same as always. The gangs fight. Some of ’em get arrested. But nothing changes. Same old story.” Then she adds, “I wish all the gangs would just kill each other already. Then we’d be done with it.”
The old guy nods his head.
“Sometimes it seems that that’s exactly what they’re trying to do. Kill each other. Can’t say as I’d be heartbroken if they all ended up dead.”
I want to cry out,What are you, crazy? What kind of solution is that?
“Cops’d just as soon let them run around as shoot them,” says the young mother.
“Cops don’t care,” says the old man.
Okay, my blood is at boiling level now. I want to say,The police try really hard to keep things under control. And—you know what—the cops I knowdocare.
But then I realize… damn it. I understand the old guy. I understand the woman with the baby. And what I understand is that this whole situation sucks.
“Well, you got your wish tonight,” says another woman in the crowd. She’s wearing purple eyeglasses and has her hair in curlers.
“Yeah,” she says. “The police shot one of the gang members. Blood. Guts. The whole thing. The ambulance just left ten minutes ago, and look, it’s already on the news.”
Hang on. A police shooting? The woman holds up her cell phone. A television title says,POLICE SHOOTING IN SOUTHEAST.GANG WARS!
