CHAPTER 8
Hawk and I sat in Hawk’s car in the middle of the empty courtyard of Double Deuce. The only thing moving was an empty Styrofoam cup, tumbled weakly across the littered blacktop by the soft spring wind. The walls of the project were ornate with curlicued graffiti, the signature of the urban poor.
Kilroy was here.
There was almost no noise. Occasionally a child would wail.
“This is your plan?” I said to Hawk.
“You got a better idea?” Hawk said.
“No.”
“Me either.”
“So we sit here and await developments,” I said.
“Un huh.”
We sat. The wind shifted. The Styrofoam cup skittered slowly back across the blacktop.
“You got any thought on what developments we might be awaiting?” I said.
“No.”
A rat appeared around the corner of one of the buildings and went swiftly to an overturned trash barrel. It plunged its upper body into the litter. Only its tail showed. The tail moved a little, back and forth, slowly. Then the rat backed out of the trash barrel and went away.
“Maybe we can keep the peace by sitting here in the middle of the project. And maybe we can find out who killed the two kids, mother and daughter,” I said. “I doubt it, but maybe we can. Then what? We can’t sit here twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, until the social order changes. No matter how much fun we’re having.”
Hawk nodded. He was slouched in the driver’s seat, his eyes half shut, at rest. He was perfectly capable of staying still for hours, and feeling rested, and missing nothing.
“Something will develop,” Hawk said.
“Because we’re here,” I said.
“Un huh.”
“They won’t be able to tolerate us sitting here,” I said.
Hawk grinned.
“We an affront to their dignity,” he said.
“So they’ll finally have to do something.”
“Un huh.”
“Which is what we’re sitting here waiting for,” I said.
“Un huh.”
“Sort of like bait,” I said.
“Exactly,” Hawk said.
“What a dandy plan!”
“You got a better idea?” Hawk said.
“No.”
“Me either.”