Cemetery Road by Gar Anthony Haywood

of this principle. On the surface, it was inoperative, a thing that just sat there staring at you when you turned it on and asked it to move tape. But once I’d set my modest little tool kit loose upon it, it soon became apparent that it was salvageable. A broken drive belt; a pulley with stripped teeth; tension rollers that needed a good cleaning. These were all things I could fix, given a part or two.
    It would take a little time and accomplish almost nothing. One more ancient tape recorder on the shelf of whatever second-hand store I decided to donate it to was not going to change the world in any discernible fashion, for better or for worse. The only point in bringing such a relic back to life would be the exercise itself. The exercise was what defined me, as it probably always will. I take things apart and put them back together again, all for the sake of learning the answer to a single, unrelenting question:
    Why?
    ‘Somebody tried to kill you?’
    ‘That’s not exactly what I said. I said somebody almost did.’
    I gave O’ a rough sketch of my almost fatal visit to Moody’s bar the night before.
    ‘Jesus. Sounds like you were lucky as hell.’
    ‘Yeah. You could say that.’
    ‘You don’t think so?’
    ‘I’m still trying to figure out what I think. He didn’t just want my car, O’. He wanted me, too.’
    ‘Either that, or your bank card. ’Jackers do that shit all the time. Make a driver take ’em to the nearest ATM just to make a withdrawal. You probably weren’t in any real danger, Handy, till you started fucking with the man.’
    There was a part of me that believed him. His explanation for what had happened to me was perfectly reasonable. But the part of me that was still shaken up, the part that couldn’t stop seeing the nose of that brother’s gun staring me in the face going on twelve hours later, was not so easily convinced. The mood I’d been in lately, the role of random victim did not seem to suit me.
    ‘Maybe,’ was all I said to O’.
    ‘Did my friend Mr Fine call you?’
    ‘Yeah, this morning, but I was out. I’m going to call him back as soon as I hang up with you.’
    Walt Fine was O’s contact with the Santa Monica PD, and his was the second call I’d missed while I was out having breakfast with Toni Burrow.
    ‘So. Is that it? You just called to tell me you almost got whacked last night?’
    ‘Actually, I was calling to ask another favor. Just in case.’
    ‘Just in case what?’
    ‘Just in case I see that boy from the bar again.’
    The irksome chuckle I thought he’d respond with never came. ‘Man, didn’t I just tell you what that was?’
    ‘Yeah, I know. I’m losing it. All the same, if you could hook me up with somebody with some hardware to sell, I’d rest a little easier.’
    ‘You could rest easy now if you’d knock all this shit off and go home. God, man, can’t you hear what you sound like?’
    ‘Hey, you’re right, this was stupid. Forget I called, huh?’
    I started to hang up, but he called my name until I brought the receiver back to my ear.
    ‘Handy, you still there?’
    ‘I’m here.’
    ‘Shit. I can’t promise you anything about “hardware”, all right? I’m the mayor of Bellwood, my street nigga suit ain’t been out of the closet for a long time.’ He sighed deeply. ‘But if I can think of somebody who might know somebody, I’ll see what I can do.’
    ‘Thanks. I’d appreciate it.’
    ‘A piece of advice, Handy? All those people you see in the rear-view mirror of your rental car? None of them is trying to kill you either.’
    O’Neal Holden’s friend Walt Fine was a sergeant for the Bellwood City Police Department. He was a pot-bellied, stoop-shouldered redhead who had the look of a long-time law enforcement veteran, somebody who should have made detective somewhere ages ago, but he was wearing uniform blues when we met Tuesday afternoon in the covered picnic area of a public park out in Gardena, just as he’d