come home a couple of days earlier than Daddy expected. Hadn’t come back to him, dragging her sorry tail between her legs.”
“Did he—?”
“No. No, he still didn’t answer. Went right to voice mail.”
“Did that worry you?”
“Not really. My father’s healthy as a horse. Excuse me. My father
was
perfectly healthy. When he didn’t answer it usually meant the TV was on and he couldn’t hear the phone ring. I put the food in a shopping bag and started over here.”
“But Keesh,” I said. “What if she had showed up?”
“Daddy would have called me. Right as rain. Two of us couldn’t be in the same room,” Angela said, dabbing at her puffy eyelids.
“What’s your beef with Keesh, Angela?”
She lowered both hands to her lap and looked at me like I was crazy. “You kidding me or what?”
“I just walked into this story tonight. Blank slate. Help me here.”
Angela’s expression turned to ice. “You need a guide dog for this, Detective? You always so slow on the pickup?”
“Maybe so.”
“My daddy was carrying on with a ho. Plain and simple,” Angela Wilson said, spitting each word out with equal emphasis. “Takeesha Falls is a full-on ho.”
“I’m—”
“She don’t care who she rubs up against, as long as there’s a cash bonus for her lovin’, using that word really loosely.”
“I’m confused a bit. I thought your father was a churchgoing man.”
“Church?” she said, waving the hand with the handkerchief over her shoulder. “Last time Daddy went to church was for my mother’s funeral, fifteen years ago.”
“Stay with me, Angela. This is helpful. All I know—all I was told by my boss—was that your father was a good man, a really decent guy, and that he worked—”
“Daddy hasn’t worked in five years, Detective,” she said, her annoyance temporarily displacing her emotion. “Lost his job driving a livery cab with a few too many arrests for being intox’d behind the wheel. And that was a good thing, getting him off the road.”
“Okay, but the information we had was that he worked at the church, for Reverend Shipley.”
“Ha!” Angela Wilson’s laugh split the quiet of the small space like a roll of thunder. “Don’t make me sick, Detective. That man don’t have no church. Some of you white boys are as dumb as you look. You, too, Detective? What church would that be?”
She stared at the top of my head while I tried to answer her.
“Well, he’s a preacher, isn’t he?”
“Without any brick-and-mortar place to preach. The man started life as a backup dancer for Little Richard, Detective. Put a collar on and made himself a minister, and nobody calls his bluff on that, ever. All he does is run some bullshit—excuse me, please, but I’m rather agitated—some bullshit organization that keeps his fat old face in the newspapers. Wants you to think he robs from the rich to give to the poor, when all he does is stuff his own pockets with his take.”
I didn’t have to ask questions. I just let Angela run with it.
“Was Daddy there? I told you so. The community center is where Shipley ran the show from. You know that. He controls all those protests against you guys. Against the police.”
Cops hated Hal Shipley. I tried to keep that in the back of my mind so it didn’t infect how I looked at Wynan Wilson’s murder.
“Gotham City Humanity Activists, Detective. I know you know that operation. You know what smart folks in Harlem call it, or don’t you? Every organization has an acronym these days, doesn’t it?” Angela said. “Use those first three letters of
Gotham,
put them together with the rest of the first letters of his
city humanity activists.
We call it
GOTCHA
!”
I smiled for the first time since meeting her.
GOTCHA.
The guys in the squad were going to love this one.
“I like your smile, Detective.”
“And I like your candor. Do you know Shipley?”
“Hate’s a strong word, and I don’t use it often. But I hate that
“Did he—?”
“No. No, he still didn’t answer. Went right to voice mail.”
“Did that worry you?”
“Not really. My father’s healthy as a horse. Excuse me. My father
was
perfectly healthy. When he didn’t answer it usually meant the TV was on and he couldn’t hear the phone ring. I put the food in a shopping bag and started over here.”
“But Keesh,” I said. “What if she had showed up?”
“Daddy would have called me. Right as rain. Two of us couldn’t be in the same room,” Angela said, dabbing at her puffy eyelids.
“What’s your beef with Keesh, Angela?”
She lowered both hands to her lap and looked at me like I was crazy. “You kidding me or what?”
“I just walked into this story tonight. Blank slate. Help me here.”
Angela’s expression turned to ice. “You need a guide dog for this, Detective? You always so slow on the pickup?”
“Maybe so.”
“My daddy was carrying on with a ho. Plain and simple,” Angela Wilson said, spitting each word out with equal emphasis. “Takeesha Falls is a full-on ho.”
“I’m—”
“She don’t care who she rubs up against, as long as there’s a cash bonus for her lovin’, using that word really loosely.”
“I’m confused a bit. I thought your father was a churchgoing man.”
“Church?” she said, waving the hand with the handkerchief over her shoulder. “Last time Daddy went to church was for my mother’s funeral, fifteen years ago.”
“Stay with me, Angela. This is helpful. All I know—all I was told by my boss—was that your father was a good man, a really decent guy, and that he worked—”
“Daddy hasn’t worked in five years, Detective,” she said, her annoyance temporarily displacing her emotion. “Lost his job driving a livery cab with a few too many arrests for being intox’d behind the wheel. And that was a good thing, getting him off the road.”
“Okay, but the information we had was that he worked at the church, for Reverend Shipley.”
“Ha!” Angela Wilson’s laugh split the quiet of the small space like a roll of thunder. “Don’t make me sick, Detective. That man don’t have no church. Some of you white boys are as dumb as you look. You, too, Detective? What church would that be?”
She stared at the top of my head while I tried to answer her.
“Well, he’s a preacher, isn’t he?”
“Without any brick-and-mortar place to preach. The man started life as a backup dancer for Little Richard, Detective. Put a collar on and made himself a minister, and nobody calls his bluff on that, ever. All he does is run some bullshit—excuse me, please, but I’m rather agitated—some bullshit organization that keeps his fat old face in the newspapers. Wants you to think he robs from the rich to give to the poor, when all he does is stuff his own pockets with his take.”
I didn’t have to ask questions. I just let Angela run with it.
“Was Daddy there? I told you so. The community center is where Shipley ran the show from. You know that. He controls all those protests against you guys. Against the police.”
Cops hated Hal Shipley. I tried to keep that in the back of my mind so it didn’t infect how I looked at Wynan Wilson’s murder.
“Gotham City Humanity Activists, Detective. I know you know that operation. You know what smart folks in Harlem call it, or don’t you? Every organization has an acronym these days, doesn’t it?” Angela said. “Use those first three letters of
Gotham,
put them together with the rest of the first letters of his
city humanity activists.
We call it
GOTCHA
!”
I smiled for the first time since meeting her.
GOTCHA.
The guys in the squad were going to love this one.
“I like your smile, Detective.”
“And I like your candor. Do you know Shipley?”
“Hate’s a strong word, and I don’t use it often. But I hate that
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