Partners

2.

The Flea Market was a city block burned and leveled by the race riots of 1968. Over time most of the charred remains were bulldozed and cleared. All the owners were either dead, gone, or indifferent, and the city eventually planted some trees, built some pavilions, and put in sidewalks and a pond. It granted permits for street vendors and merchants, and all manner of goods were for sale. The Flea Market became a busy place not only during the day, when housewives shopped the stalls for food and cheap clothing, but especially at night, when buyers from all over the city eased into Little Angola for crack and other drugs. White kids felt the area was safe enough for quick transactions. Blacks knew who was dealing and where to go. The cops had learned that if they could keep most of the traffic confined to one area, the rest of the town would be safer. Somewhat. They watched the Flea Market but seldom interfered. The trafficking could never be stopped; thus, the current wisdom was to try and maintain some order to its flow.

Current wisdom also required an occasional foray into the pit. If the dealers were not intimidated, they would grow bolder and expand their turf. Killing one or two a year became the sensible strategy.

Following instructions, Tee Ray walked to the southeast corner of the block, the darkest part of the Flea Market, an area where the streetlights were shot out with air rifles each time the city replaced them. Behind a row of empty stalls, Tee Ray met another nameless colleague. He dropped his Goodwill overcoat, removed the vest, handed it over, and quickly transferred his entire inventory in a matter of seconds. The man disappeared without a word, and Tee Ray grabbed his coat off the ground. He called Tox, who instructed him to return to the warehouse for another run.

Crump Street bordered the south side of the Flea Market and it was lined with cars parked for the night. Tee Ray was walking briskly along the sidewalk, trying to muster the courage to call Tox and tell him he was finished for now. He had just earned $300 and wanted to go find his son. A sudden movement to his left and across the street caught his attention. A figure jumped from between two cars and yelled, “Police! Freeze!”

Tee Ray froze and threw both hands into the air.

“On the ground!” the cop yelled, and Tee Ray went to his knees, his hands still as high as he could reach. The cop sprinted across the street and emerged on the sidewalk a hundred feet in front of Tee Ray. He was white and stocky and was wearing jeans, a Blackhawks jersey, a rapper’s cap, and combat boots, and he appeared to be alone. He clutched a black pistol with both hands and aimed at Tee Ray as he advanced. “Get down!” he yelled.

“Don’t shoot, man!” Tee Ray said.

The cop kept coming in a low, awkward crouch, as if dodging gunfire, then he fired. The first shot hit the sidewalk in front of Tee Ray and sprayed flecks of concrete into his face. “Don’t shoot!” Tee Ray screamed as he frantically waved his hands over his head. The second shot grazed the bulky right shoulder pad of his oversized Goodwill overcoat. The third shot nailed his left elbow and spun him around. He screamed in pain as he scrambled desperately to crawl under a parked car.

“Don’t move!” the cop yelled. He fired again, and the fourth shot hit the side of the car. Tee Ray managed to get his .38 out of his pocket. He fired twice. The first shot missed everything. The second shot, a miracle, hit his assailant in the right eye.