Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 57, No. 1 & 1, January/February 2012

Pansy Place Dan Warthman

Jones is fitting into retirement. Bought his condo in Elmwood Village, voted a couple years ago one of the country’s ten best neighborhoods. Second story, corner unit, overlooking Bidwell Parkway. Open the windows, hear the trees rustling in the boulevard. Hear the sirens, too, night and day, but what the hell, it’s a city. Have to expect a little commotion.

Got himself a cleaning lady. Spotted her coming into the building one day, carrying a bucket full of cleaning supplies, sponges, rags, mop. Jones caught up with her, asked a million questions. She said, This a job interview or you just nosy?

He hired her on the spot. She comes twice a month, takes two, two and a half hours, working like a demon, eighty bucks a crack.

Jones gives her a hundred every time, one twenty-five if he screws up and she has to wash a few dishes (which, she makes no bones about it, she hates) or if she folds his laundry (which, no, she doesn’t mind that, says she can dance around to the music in her headphones while doing the folding).

You don’t, she tells him, have to give me extra. She has a terrific laugh that finds its way into his belly. I already give myself a ten-dollar tip in the price.

L’vonte, that’s her name. Like she’s some kind of exotic creature with a special name, all her own. No, no, she says, I personally know two other L’vontes, though they spell it different from me. Like she’s the one who came up with the spelling and not her mom or whoever it was put it on her birth certificate, because she insists it is on her birth certificate, L-apos-trophe. She says it aposterphy.

L’vonte Daniels. Sometimes she shows up at his condo with a sort of miniature Afro, reminds him of Angela Davis way back. The next time, she looks like Alicia Keys, hair straight or with curls at the tips.

Jones has a little thing for her. Not that he would ever mention it or act on it, but there it is. And L’vonte sees it, throws out that laugh, says something smart-aleck, like, You be careful you don’t set yourself on fire, old man.

He knows she has a boyfriend. Guy who works in one of the public library branches. Jones isn’t sure what he does, something with after-school programs. Budget cuts whittling away at his hours, down now to three and a half days a week. He tries to make up the difference with tutoring jobs, but winds up taking on kids whose parents are scraping by, using the library as day care, can’t afford to pay his full fee or pay only erratically. Or he lets them off altogether.

Jones met him a couple times. They talked baseball because Russell was a prospect his senior year of college — a second baseman with range, a spray hitter for average, a streak on the bases — until he blew out his knee on a bad turn at third on a wet field. Jones likes him, he has a good handshake. Kind of a throwback, the way he dresses — pressed blue jeans, short-sleeved shirts with the sleeves rolled like 1958, long sideburns, no tats.

Tattoos, L’vonte says, he comes around with ink, he’s going out with shoe polish on his rear end.

Jones gave her a key, but he likes to wait for her to arrive. Likes to see her, exchange a few words, hear her laugh. She brings in the sunshine, leaves it behind when she goes. He’d pay more if she wanted it.

Then today she comes to work looking exhausted and dejected, worried. Jones can see it, watching her from the window, the way she carries her bucket and mop up the sidewalk, turns into the building.

“What’s up?” he asks as soon as she steps inside the door.

“Hey, Jones,” she greets him the way she always does, like nothing’s wrong. “I’m good. How you doing?” The words, her smile collide with her bearing, with the dismay in her eyes.

“No, no,” Jones says. “You’re demeanor proclaims lamentation and angst.” L’vonte laughs when he talks like that, uses big words. “You look sad,” he tells her.

“Yeah, well,” she says. “It’s my man, Russell.” She shrugs, takes a step forward.

Jones’s heart sinks. One, because he wants her to be happy and hopes her relationship with Russell isn’t in trouble. And two, because personal relationships are out of his dominion. He won’t be able to help. Doesn’t even, at this moment, know what to say next. He lifts his eyebrows.

L’vonte says, “They messed him up.”

Something about the way she says it makes Jones feel more qualified. “They?” he says.

“Okay,” she says, setting down the bucket, leaning on the mop handle. “You know where I live, right? Pansy Place off East Delavan?”

He doesn’t know exactly, but he knows the neighborhood. Near east side, free-standing houses, doubles, a few empty lots. Kind of run down, but people making an effort, keeping the trash picked up, the lawns mowed, the hedgerows trimmed. He rolls his hand for her to continue.

She says, “The place next door rented to some folks...” She shakes her head. “You know, Jones, some people just don’t care about anybody but themselves.” Trying to be philosophical, looking at Jones, blinking back emotion.

He gives her a minute, then says, “And these people did something to Russell?”

She shakes her head again. “What it is, these new neighbors...” Waving off a false start. “I don’t have air-conditioning, so I open the windows when I’m there. Let in the fresh air. Of course, there’s noise. Street noise, cars, trucks, kids going by, people up and down the street playing music, watching TV, having arguments, laughing.” She nods, asserting a fact of life. “But at a reasonable hour, things mostly quiet down. People go to bed. There’s still noises, but they go by, and it gets quiet again.”

She has a way of pausing that makes Jones think he should say something. “You want a cup of coffee?” he asks, “and tell me this story sitting down?”

“All you got’s instant, and I already told you I don’t drink instant. Anyways, I gotta get to work, so let me just finish.”

Jones nods.

What she tells Jones is that the house next to hers, the downstairs of which stood empty for going on a year, has recently been occupied by a bunch of young guys.

“At first,” she says, “I thought it was college students. I think I was hoping.” She shakes her head. “Russell, he laughed at me, said look how they dress, the car they drive.” She pauses, like she’s asking Jones to consider these things. “Plus,” she adds, “the hours they keep. When are they studying?” Jones doesn’t have an answer. “No, they’re not college students.”

Jones moves his head side to side.

L’vonte says, “You’re thinking they’re a gang.”

He wasn’t thinking anything just yet.

“Russell says they’re selling weed. I don’t know about that, but they’re smoking it. I can smell it coming out of their windows if I walk up the driveway between the houses.”

She looks at Jones, as if he might not know what she’s talking about.

“By weed,” she explains, “I mean marijuana. Round-the-clock burners is what I think.” She shakes her head. “No, I don’t know what they do or what they are. The only thing I know is how loud they play their damned music in their car.”

She shuffles her feet, and for an instant Jones thinks she’s performing a dance step. But she’s just repositioning herself.

“Rap, hip hop, you know what I’m talking about?” Not waiting for an answer. “It’s fine with me, any kind of music. But not when they play it so I can hear it when I’m in my own shower. And not—” Pushing the air with her hand. “—at two in the morning when I’m trying to sleep.” She takes a breath. “Leastways not every night.”

These guys, she tells Jones, come and go at all hours, and it’s like their car won’t work without the music being loud enough to wake up the entire city.

“You can hear them coming two blocks away. They turn the corner, and the noise scares you. Rattles the windows, jiggles the glasses in the cupboard, makes the TV screen quiver.” She wiggles her fingers. “If you happen to be watching TV. Drowns out your own radio. It’s like an earthquake. It’s like a spaceship landing on top of your house.” She looks at Jones. “You ever hear anything like that?”

He doesn’t respond.

“Okay,” she says, “it’s where I live. That’s what you’re thinking. But this goes on day and night. One A.M., they drive up and sit there listening, like they just gotta hear the whole song before they can turn it off.” She shakes her head. “They oughta have some consideration.”

Consideration, that’s a sore spot with Jones these days. People crossing the street when the light’s already changed, blocking traffic, taking their time, sending a text message as they mosey along. Sitting around the coffee shops yammering on their phones in voices loud enough for a lecture hall. Not to mention the treble-heavy ringtones set at fire alarm volume.

This is where Russell comes in. L’vonte wanted to call the cops, but Russell said the cops wouldn’t do anything, how could they? They’d have to sit and wait to catch them, which they aren’t going to do, and even if they did then what? Say, turn your car radios down, boys.

“Now, Russell,” L’vonte says, “he sometimes thinks he’s Mister Street-Smart-Home-Boy-from-the-Hood.” She laughs, not her best laugh. “You ever hear him talk? He sounds like... like some actor or something.”

Jones knows what she’s talking about. Russell with his perfect grammar, never dropping the endings to words, saying whom and whomever. Jones thinks of Sidney Poitier, but figures that’s not who she means.

“He don’t sound like me, anyways.” And this time she flashes her good laugh. “Plus, he don’t look like anybody from the street, unless you mean a street from 1975 or something.”

Jones thinks of Superfly, but Russell doesn’t look like that either. Although, yeah, he does resemble a young Curtis Mayfield.

“So,” L’vonte continues, “last night even Russell was fed up, and he decides he’s going to go out and speak to them. I tried to tell him, but he’s stubborn.” Now, she’s blinking like crazy. “What do you think happened?”

She wipes her eyes with the back of her index finger, flaps her hand in the air.

“I was watching from the window. He goes right up to the car, smiling and waving like he’s coming out for a toke. They turn down the radio, and Russell says, Pardon me, gentlemen—” L’vonte mimes Russell’s actions. “—and all three of the guys jump out of car...” L’vonte’s eyes get big, her hands fly through the air. “They beat the living daylights outa him.”

She has to swallow, take a deep breath.

“One of them was doing this kung-fu stuff, the way he held his hands and used his feet. One of them kicked him about ten times after he was on the ground. And then one of them leaned over him, holding a knife.”

She stops. Then says, “I didn’t see what happened after that because I screamed and ran outside.”

She’s out of steam, and Jones has to ask questions to get the remaining details.

Starting with, yes, Russell is okay. He’s at home. He refused to go to the emergency room last night and wouldn’t go to the doctor this morning. And he definitely prohibited her from calling the cops.

Then, backing up to when she got outside. Russell was lying on the grass between the sidewalk and the curb.

“Nearly blacked out from pain.”

His face was bloody, both eyes swollen, his lips split in about five places. His knee was hurt where the kung-fu guy kicked him, and he had a cut, not too bad, L’vonte didn’t think, on the side of his neck where the guy pricked him with the knife.

“That one,” L’vonte tells Jones, “the one with the knife, he was standing on his porch when I got out there, wiping his knife with a rag, watching me. You know what he said to me? He asks, Hey, baby, you wanna come in an’ party with us?”

She helped Russell into the house, practically dragging him up the stairs, got him cleaned up.

“This morning,” she says, “he told me he was okay, just sore. He said I should go to work.” She flaps her hand over Jones’s apartment. “So, here I am, and that’s my story of... what did you call it?”

Jones thinks for a moment, says, “First thing, we need to get Russell looked at by a physician, see if that cut requires stitching, see if he needs X-rays or anything. I’ll send someone to your house. You’ll have to go there now.”

L’vonte starts to protest, but looks at Jones and stops. She tells him the address, picks up her stuff. Jones walks her to the door.

“Give the doctor an hour or so,” he tells her, and closes the door.

Jones is sitting outside at Aroma Caffe when the black BMW glides around the corner, Elmwood onto Bidwell, pulls up to the curb, and Konnie Kondrasin emerges from the back seat. Jones is always surprised by the man’s agility doing normal things, like getting in and out of cars.

Kondrasin is the size and shape of a walrus, but in motion he possesses a kind of physical elegance that makes him seem almost delicate. Partly, it’s his clothing — expensive but understated. Today, he’s wearing black linen pants, a silk shirt the color of Pinot Noir, red socks, soft-leather sandals.

A little dog, a wire-haired fox terrier, attached to a leash, pops out of the car behind the big man.

“Look at the Guy,” Kondrasin says, as if he’s explaining something to the dog. “Sipping his latte. Sprouting a goatee.” He gives an ambiguous chuckle. “The neighborhood viscount.” Pronouncing it viz-count, which cracks Jones up because he knows Kondrasin knows the correct pronunciation.

“Bowser looks happy.” Jones recently gave the dog to Kondrasin as a gift.

“Mimi,” Kondrasin says, holding the leash high so the dog will pick up its head. “I named her Mimi.”

Jones stands up. “You want a cup of coffee?”

“Make it a double.” Jones knows he means espresso.

Kondrasin and Jones go back to the early seventies. Kondrasin was making a move to expand in Buffalo and asked an acquaintance from Cleveland for help. The acquaintance recommended this guy from... He didn’t know where the guy was from. Just that he was new and effective and reliable, went by the name Jones.

That job, which started on New Year’s Day of ’71 and lasted until June of ’73 solidified both Kondrasin’s position and Jones’s reputation. Since then, Kondrasin has called on Jones repeatedly for anything messy or tricky or overly difficult. Several times, Kondrasin has offered Jones permanent job status, but Jones turned down each offer, preferring freelance, preferring non-involvement.

Neither would say the other was a friend, but it’s possible each is the other’s oldest and most trusted, perhaps most respected, acquaintance. This is the first time that Jones has initiated contact to ask a favor from Kondrasin.

Jones comes back with two espressos, a fresh one for Kondrasin, a refill for himself. Kondrasin is sitting on the chair, slightly cockeyed, as if a nudge would topple him. Not, Jones thinks, one of the things he does gracefully, sit in straight-backed chairs. The dog is perched on his knee.

“The doctor’s on his way,” Kondrasin says, and touches the handle of his coffee cup, waiting for Jones to explain why he needed Kondrasin to arrange a house call.

“Thanks,” Jones says. “Guy I know got banged up.”

Kondrasin sips his drink, sets down his cup, tickles the dog’s neck. “What’s wrong with the ER?”

“He also got a small cut.”

Kondrasin looks at Jones and makes a question mark with his gaze.

This meeting with Kondrasin is a formality, a protocol, a politeness. Jones could go see L’vonte’s neighbors without Kondrasin’s permission, especially now that he’s retired. But, you never know, something could come up which would get the wrong people asking questions, lead them back to Jones. Unlikely, but possible. And why create situations that require after-the-fact explaining? And anyhow he isn’t exactly sure what he’s going to do. But mostly, no matter what else he might be — or might have become in his budding retirement — Jones is a cross the t’s and dot the i’s sort of fellow. Buffalo is Konnie Kondrasin’s town, keep him posted.

He tells Kondrasin the story as L’vonte told it to him, adding details about L’vonte’s personality, her work ethic, making it clear that this is a private thing, not work, not for profit. Going on longer than he usually would, his retirement talkativeness.

“I never knew you was such a voluble talker,” Kondrasin says. They both laugh. It’s one of the things Jones likes about Kondrasin, throwing in a word like voluble. Then Kondrasin says, “Sounds like you got the hots for your cleaning lady.” And snickers himself into a coughing fit.

Jones chuckles, but he feels a twinge of embarrassment. Not because he has the hots for L’vonte — which, no, he definitely does not, at least not in any way on which he might act, and even if he did it would be none of Kondrasin’s business — but because he has involved Kondrasin in a personal matter.

When the big guy settles down, catches his breath, Jones says, “I thought I might go have a chat with these fellows.”

Kondrasin is thinking, looking out at the boulevard. He finishes his coffee, sets the cup down, turns his eyes on Jones. “Get us another cup.”

When Jones returns, Kondrasin is on the phone, listening. He disconnects, holds the phone in his hand, thinks for a minute before picking up the conversation.

“This part of town you’re talking about,” Kondrasin says, “it can be unruly.”

That’s an understatement, Jones knows.

“Disorganized,” Kondrasin says. “Even if somebody tries to organize it, things flare up. Street level disputatiousness. This block against that block. Sometimes this few houses and that few houses.” Kondrasin holds up his phone, letting Jones know that’s what the call was, trying to find out something about the neighborhood. “Can be perilous.”

Disputatiousness, perilous — Jones laughs. “I just wanted to let you know ahead of time that I’m going to drive over there, pay a visit. Make sure I wouldn’t be stepping on any toes.”

“I appreciate that.” He says predate. “Let me give you a driver. Somebody who can back you up. A car that will send a message.”

Jones thinks about the offer.

Kondrasin says, “Yeah, yeah.” Waving off Jones’s thinking. “I decided already. It’s sagacious.”

Sagacious. Jones laughs out loud.

At one A.M. Jones is sitting in the passenger seat of a black BMW. Not the same one Kondrasin showed up in at the coffee shop. This one, Jones knows, has untraceable plates, bulletproof glass, reinforced door panels, a steel plate behind the grill to protect the engine.

The driver is a black guy, not much more than a kid, and not particularly big, maybe six-one, but well proportioned, fit looking. He’s been told to pay attention, learn something from the man he’s driving.

Jones knows this because he’s been chattering away at the kid, asking a million questions — about his family, his education, his goals in life.

The kid is unusually polite, answers every one of Jones’s questions. Finally says, “I was told to pay attention, learn something from you.” He glances sideways at Jones. “But, man, you ask a lot of questions.”

Jones laughs... at himself.

They’re parked on Pansy Place, across from L’vonte’s house. Jones phoned earlier to check on Russell, who the doctor said was going to be fine, except for the knee which might be seriously injured (re-injured — it’s the same knee he hurt playing ball in college), but they have to wait a couple days for the swelling to diminish, then take some X-rays, see what’s what.

Jones tried, without sounding too conspicuous, to ask questions about the neighbors. What kind of car? L’vonte had to ask Russell. A big ass black Land Rover LRX, looks like it has two rows of sparkling teeth in front. The guys? Three skinny dudes, one of them, the one seems to be the leader, always wears a do-rag, different colors, one’s got this spiky hair, the other’s got some shaved or braided design looks like a tight hat with a maze woven into it, all three wear low-rider pants, baggy blue jeans or sometimes cargo shorts, different kinds of shirts.

She wanted to know why Jones was asking. He told her he was just trying to get a picture in his head.

She said, “Yeah, well, they’re a bunch a stereotypes.” And gave Jones her best laugh over the phone. This he could picture, throwing her head back, making herself seem about six feet tall, happy as a clam.

The driver goes by P. Started off, he told Jones, as Peanut when he was a kid, but then he got big and now people just call him P, but he prefers his given name Akin. He spells it.

“My mother is into this African thing,” he tells Jones, “so she says it, Ah-keen.” Emphasizing the second syllable. “It means brave boy.” He laughs, says, “I ain’t all that brave or all that African. I just say Akin.” Stressing the long A.

Jones is impressed by the kid’s way of speaking. Doesn’t cut corners when he speaks. Jones calls him Akin, he way the kid says it.

Jones wonders why Akin isn’t in college?

The kid looks at Jones, asks, “Where’d you go to college?” Jones returns his look. Akin says, “That’s what I thought.”

Jones says, “I read a lot.”

“Me too. All the time.” And then he says, “My sister goes to college. Part-time at Buff State. Evenings, she’s a clerk in some big store.”

“What’s your sister’s name?”

“Abena.”

“Also African?”

“Yeah. You know what it means? It means born on Tuesday.” He chuckles. “She calls herself Abbie.”

Jones thinks for a second, then he remembers what he wanted to ask. “What do you read?”

“Lots of things,” Akin says. “You see, the way it works, I’d ask you what you read, then I’d check it out, see if I want to read that.”

Jones loves this kid.

But that’s the end of their conversation for now.

Because the music comes pounding around the corner. A stunning, rhythmic pulsation, turning into a continuous rolling throb. Jones feels it in his chest.

Akin is quiet until the car pulls to a stop in front of the house next to L’vonte’s, a little up and across the street from the BMW. Then, he leans toward Jones and says, “You talk to these dudes, you gotta shout, man, because, for sure, they’re deaf.”

Jones is dressed in black, shoes, pants, long-sleeved shirt. He puts on a black Kangol cap, straightens it, and touches the car door handle. Akin touches his car door handle.

“Where are you going?” Jones asks.

“With you,” Akin answers, and Jones shakes his head. “Mr. K told me stick with you the whole time.”

“No,” Jones says. “This could get rowdy.”

“Rowdy,” Akin repeats and laughs.

Reminding Jones of L’vonte, making him chuckle too. Then, making him think, what the hell am I doing, laughing? He says, “Wait here.”

“No can do,” Akin says. “I work for Mr. K.” Jones is staring at him, giving him a look, a look which convinces most people to acquiesce. Akin says, “Don’t worry, man, I’m ready for rowdiness.”

Meaning, of course, Jones recognizes, that he’s carrying a weapon, but he doesn’t demonstrate it, doesn’t pat himself, doesn’t lift up his shirt. He just returns Jones’s steady gaze. Jones can feel his own tiny Glock 26 in his jacket pocket.

“This job,” Jones says, sitting back, releasing the door handle, “is not really a job. I don’t really do jobs anymore.”

“I know about that,” Akin says. “You’re retired.”

Jones goes off on a short rant about the state of the world, particularly the ways people are selfish or thoughtless or inconsiderate. He winds up saying, “I deal with what might be called diminutive malevolence.” Looking at Akin to see his response, to see if he knows these words.

Akin gives him a side glance, then says, “Yeah, the dictionary’s one a the books I been reading. I got through D and M already.”

Jones smiles and repeats the phrase, “Diminutive malevolence. It’s kind of an oxymoron.”

Again, they exchange eye contact. Akin says, “This what you supposed to teach me? Vocabulary words?”

Jones laughs. “What I do now is help a few people with problems they can’t solve on their own.”

“You’re kind of like Batman, right?”

And for a long moment their eyes are locked, and then at exactly the same time they both laugh.

Akin pops his door open, says, “I grasp the mission,” and gets out of the car. When Jones comes around from the other side, Akin says, “I’ll follow your lead.”

Jones keeps an eye on him as they cross the street, likes it that he doesn’t have to explain anything, give a lot of direction. Such as move apart... slowly, ease up to car one at a time.

Jones moving straight ahead, letting the loud boys see him clearly. Akin angling toward the back, eyes scanning the area, checking both sides of the street, the houses, taking in everything, always returning to the car, centered on the car. Coming up from the back, stopping short of the door. Still showing nothing, no jitters, no eagerness, no agitation. Only focus.

The noise is excruciating this close. The car is vibrating, like a creature quivering expectantly.

Jones, wishing he’d thought to wear earplugs for this part, stops about three feet from the driver’s door.

Nothing happens.

Keeping one hand in his pocket, Jones rolls his other hand, signaling that he wants to talk.

Still, nothing.

So he starts talking, though he can’t even hear himself, moving his lips, no sound.

First, the driver’s window goes down, but the driver doesn’t move, doesn’t look around, sitting slumped, head resting against the car seat. Jones can see through the open window another guy in the front passenger seat.

Then, the rear door window opens. A face appears, the one with the do-rag, the one L’vonte said is the leader, and stares blankly at Jones, then leans to look back at Akin, returns to Jones. He turns his head away for a second, and the volume of the music decreases, but doesn’t go off.

Jones can hear himself, at least, and looking at the guy in the back, he speaks up, over the sound.

“You must be the chief pansy from Pansy Place.” Wondering if the guy will even know this usage of pansy. Peeking at Akin to see if he does. Saying to the guy, “I’m guessing because you’re wearing a girl’s scarf on your head.”

Do-rag fakes a scornful chuckle, looks away again, then back, this time with hard eyes, but still, Jones sees, it’s all posed or drug induced, nothing real. Do-rag says something inside the car.

The guy in the front passenger seat squirms, the door opens, the guy’s head appears over the roof of the car. Slowly, the guy moves around the front of the car. Jones assumes this is Karate-guy.

“Are you going to kick me in the knee, like you did my friend last night?”

Now they know why he’s here. Jones, with his hand in his pocket, flips the safety off on his Glock, just in case, though he’s still hoping no rough stuff.

Karate-guy says, “Gonna kick you in the face.” And he goes into a crouch, like a snake coiling, ready to strike.

Jones takes a step back, moves his hand. But before he can get the pistol out, everything changes, and Jones becomes a spectator.

First, there’s a loud pop, and Karate-guy, instead of unleashing a terrible kick, crumbles to the ground, grabbing his leg, screaming something unintelligible.

Then, Akin reaches his arm inside the Land Rover, in front of the driver. Two more reports — gunshots, Jones knows — and the music from the car goes dead.

Before the sound fades, Akin leans into the back window, puts his hand on Do-rag’s head, holding it still, and discharges another round next to the guy’s left ear.

“Get back in our car,” Akin says to Jones.

Jones — not because he takes orders from Akin, but because he knows the situation is no longer his, and because he knows that whatever is going to happen next, he and Akin won’t want to linger — turns to leave.

As he is sliding into the car, he sees Akin speaking earnestly to the driver.

Jones watches Akin turn around, check both ways before crossing the street, and then walk purposefully, but not hastily, to the BMW, climb in, start the car, and drive away.

Jones and Akin are sitting in a booth at the all-night Denny’s on Delaware. Akin is telling Jones what he said to the driver of the Land Rover, but the waitress interrupts. Jones orders Sanka, which is his generic name for decaf coffee. Akin decides on a cheeseburger with fries and a chocolate milkshake.

“I told the dude,” Akin says when the waitress leaves, picking up where they left off, “that he should take his partner to the emergency room, get his knee treated. I told him to say it was a drive-by shooting. Then, I explained that his girlfriend—” Akin is laughing. “—the chief pansy — I said he would be deaf in one ear, but that when his head stopped ringing he should explain to him that they’d been evicted from their apartment and had—” He looks at his watch. “—ten hours to get their asses completely out of that neighborhood and never come back.”

Jones is smiling.

Akin says, “I also told him I’d stop by in the morning to see how their moving plans were going and to pick up ten thousand dollars to cover the medical bills for the guy they hurt.” That would be Russell. Jones doubts they’ll have the money, but he doesn’t bother saying this to Akin.

Akin says, “I said a few other things, in case they started thinking about getting even with me, or anyone else. Said if they had any trouble following my instructions I’d be back to teach them all the meaning of massive malevolence.”

Jones loves this kid.

“You remind me of myself,” he says, “when I was young.”

“What?” Akin says. “You was African-American before you turned into Batman?”