Rhode Island Red by Charlotte Carter Page B

swayed a little on the bench. “Yeah. You one of the lady cops.”
    â€œNo, I’m not, Diego. I came in with them, but I’m not a cop.”
    He smirked then, enjoying a joke I wasn’t in on.
    I sat down at the edge of the bench. Not only was Diego stoned, he looked as if he hadn’t slept in days.
    â€œI need to talk to you for a minute, Diego.”
    No answer.
    â€œIt’s about Inge, the woman who was killed upstairs.”
    â€œWhat?” He sat a bit straighter then, and suddenly ran his hands over the post adolescent stubble on his chin.
    â€œI want to know if Inge ever mentioned something called Rhode Island Red to you. Do you ever remember hearing those words before—from her or anybody else?”
    â€œSay what?”
    â€œRhode … Island … Red.”
    â€œNo. No. I don’t remember.” He found his cigarette and took a desperate pull on it but it had gone out.
    â€œAre you sure, Diego? See, maybe when you thought you heard—”
    He picked up his beer then but apparently the can was empty. I guess that tore it, because in a second he was on his feet, hurling the empty can against the nearest locker.
    â€œI didn’t hear nothing, man!” he bellowed. “I don’t know what those stupid fucking words are!” Next, he grabbed the bench itself, nearly knocking me to the floor, and sent that flying against the wall. His little frame was trembling with rage.
    I wanted to get out of there but I was afraid any sudden move might send him after me. He took a step toward me. I tensed, searching the room for something to fend him off with.
    But Diego had no more violence in him. He staggered over to the lockers and collapsed against them. “Don’t you think I remember everything she said to me?” he choked out. “Don’t you think I know what she said, man?” Then he was overtaken by the sobs.
    Oh wow. Damn. He had been in love with her.
    â€œDiego, will you—”
    â€œFuck you, man! Get out of here. Get out and leave me alone. I wish I was dead, I wish I was with her—dead. I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care. I just hope that fucking cop of hers is burning in hell. I just wanna see how much she loves him now.”
    I took a couple of tentative steps in his direction. When he turned toward me his face was soggy, old. Then he opened his mouth and a raw, primordial scream came out. The elderly man I’d seen earlier appeared then, along with one of my admirers from out front. I pushed my way past them.
    Out on the street again, I walked quickly, taking deep breaths of the heady green air. Talk about burning in hell, Diego’s pain had scorched me. I wanted to put some distance between me and all that throbbing hurt.
    I didn’t get very far.
    That fucking cop of hers. See how much she loves him now .
    That cop. Diego wasn’t talking about Leman Sweet. He meant Charlie Conlin—Sig. Except, Inge didn’t know Sig was a cop. So how did Diego know? Unless … Oh.
    There had been nothing in the papers about Sig’s death. Presumably because the police had suppressed the story. The murder of a poor blind girl and her dog had made a splash in the news, but there had been no mention of a lover killed a few days earlier. Certainly there had been no mention of Charlie Conlin at the time Diego was questioned.
    The lovesick little b-boy from the Dominican Republic seemed to know one secret too many.
    I called Leman Sweet—again.
    Diego had obtained a fresh beer. He was just leaving when Leman Sweet swung into the locker room, with me two paces behind him. We three had a kind of slapstick collision in the doorway.
    The boy stood paralyzed, his eyes locked with the massive cop’s. Sweet’s big booted foot spasmed suddenly and Diego landed upright on the bench he had tried to destroy fifteen minutes ago.
    Sweet strode over to the boy. “You got something to say