The Renegades

26

Patrice Kings was a mocha-skinned girl with olive eyes and a steady stare. Her hair was light brown and long. She had on black jeans and red canvas tennies and a suede jacket with a faux-fox collar and cuffs. Her bag was big and floppy and studded with rhinestones. She was waiting near the ticket windows in the municipal stadium parking lot, standing beneath the suspended fighter jet, just where she said she’d be.

The light was fading fast and there was an orange band in the western sky. The desert cold settled down from above.

“Can we walk?” she asked. She looked at Hood like she was memorizing him.

“Let’s walk.”

They were rounding the broad bend of the outfield before she spoke again.

“Londell was with me that night the policeman died.”

“I’ve heard that story before.”

“The motel man over in Palmdale can prove it. He would remember us. And another clerk, too, a woman.”

Hood buttoned his blazer against the cold, turned up its small collar and jammed his hands into his pants pockets. He had dressed for court. She watched him closely.

“Which motel and what people?”

“The Super Eight. Kevin. Big white fella, young. The woman was Dolores.”

“Anybody else?”

“Nobody.”

“Just you and Londell?”

“Just me and Londell.”

“Tell me about it.”

Up ahead he could see the ticket windows and the fighter jet. There were a few cars in the parking lot. The marquee said the next event was a classic car show this weekend, hundreds of cars.

“There isn’t much to tell. He’s got a girlfriend. He didn’t want anyone knowing about me. Yet.”

Again she gave Hood the assessing stare. He had seen in some people experience beyond their years, but never in a ratio so wide as in Patrice Kings.

“How old are you?”

“I’ll be sixteen.”

“When?”

“When I get done being fourteen and fifteen.”

“You’re fourteen.”

“Until September.”

“You’re fourteen and a half years old.”

“I know how old I am.”

“Did Londell send you here?”

“Yeah, he did. He’s scared. He’s got Crips on him for stuff, and Eighteenth, too. And the police on him for the murder of that guy that lost Londell’s dog. And you know what that means, means they shoot first and ask questions later.”

“He’s got to turn himself in, Patrice. We can’t prove his alibi without him. You talking to me here just isn’t good enough.”

“I knew that’s what you’d say.”

“Londell knows it too. You tell him to call me and I’ll pick him up and take him to jail. He won’t get shot and he won’t get hassled. Inside they have it segregated so the Crips and Eighteenth won’t jump him.”

“He don’t trust cops.”

“He’s trusting me with you. Why did Londell pick me to hear this?”

She looked at Hood hard. “He said you were fly for a white guy and had some humor. And something ’bout your ears.”

He almost said that he was the one whose partner Londell was suspected of killing, that he was the witness who could help Londell to a lethal injection. But he guessed if he did, this might be the last communication he’d ever have with Londell Dwayne.

“He didn’t kill anybody,” said Patrice.

They were back to the ticket windows, so they started a second lap.

“Where is he?”

She was studying him again.

“It’s the only way to help him,” said Hood.

“I know what you think. But he treats me good. With me, he’s easy and funny and we don’t do drugs. And he doesn’t bring any weapons around. Lonnie doesn’t like weapons. You know he’s always in some kind of trouble but he’s gettin’ tired of it. He’s actually thinking about joining the union down in L.A. They got an ironworkers local taking ex-gangsters, and a bricklayers too. He sounds good in his voice when he talks about it. I can tell he means it. He’s not lazy.”

They continued around the stadium. When Hood looked over, there were tears in her eyes.

“See, Hood, I know him, and Londell can be something. He just needs to believe. Like, he’s got all kinds of Detroit Tigers stuff, but he never even seen Detroit. He just likes the way that D looks. He’s looking for his own respect, you know? World’s been calling him a piece of shit so long he’s afraid he’ll start believing it. D, man. D. To him it’s not Detroit, it’s Dwayne. ”

“And you were with him that night?”

“All of it. I’ll swear it if you let me, sign a paper.”

Hood believed that she was telling the truth about Londell, just like he believed that Erin was lying for Bradley. It’s all in what you see, he thought.

“He has to turn himself in.”

“Can you help him if he does?”

“He’ll get treated like anyone else, Patrice. I can’t do favors for him.”

He saw her gaze move to the listing old Mercury in the parking lot. She waved. The car started up and reversed out of the space and came toward them. The driver was a young woman wrapped in a Raiders jacket.

“Your sister?”

“Yeah.”

“She knows about you and Londell?”

“She’s the only one.”

Patrice reached into her bag and pulled out a plastic shopping sack that had some weight to it, and handed it to Hood.

“In there I got it written down-the names of the motel guy, Kevin, and the lady, Dolores, and what time we checked in and what names we used. But the best thing is we were messin’ with the digital, you know, and we got some shots with the date and time on ’em. You can change that stuff if you’re good with electronics, but we aren’t, but we also got shots of the TV in the background because we were making faces like the people in the show, and you can check those shows and the times and you’ll see we’re telling the truth about where we were. Show those pictures to the motel people. Ask them if we were there. Londell wasn’t anywhere near that guy who got dead. The proof’s in there. Our future’s in there. And we want the camera back.”

“None of it means anything without Londell,” Hood said.

He held the bag out to her but she turned quickly and ran to the idling car. She got in and slammed the door. As the Merc pulled away Patrice was pointing at him.

He turned to see Londell leaning against one of the counters at the ticket window.

“You passed an audition you didn’t even know you were having,” he said. “Otherwise you would never a laid eyes on me.”

“Well, here you are.”

“Yep, here I am. I give up, man. No way I can outrun two crazy girlfriends, a hundred hostile niggas and a million cops. Take me straight to the judge. I’m innocent.”

He turned to the wall and put his hands behind his back, then spread his legs. “I believe in America. Yes I do.”

On the way to jail all he talked about was his pit bull, Delilah, kidnapped by Terry Laws and later lost by him.

“She’s up in the hills with the coyotes after her,” he said. “I told Laws he was responsible. He said she’d be all right with him. Bullshit, man. A cop named Laws. Now she’s gone.”