the banner of the
Confederacy, 1829-1912.”
Duke shook his head as he read the
inscription. “I’m sure he was a damn good soldier. Just glad his side lost. Otherwise
I might be picking cotton on some plantation in Louisiana. Let’s get out of
here.”
“One last stop, Duke. Follow me.” They
walked another fifty feet into the cemetery and paused in front of a marker
that looked like so many others, only the name on this one was Little. “My
dad’s there. I stop by and visit with him every chance I get.”
Duke took off his hat, bowed his head
and said a silent prayer. “Sorry, bro.”
“No need, Duke. It was a long time
ago. We’ve got to accept the death of our parents. Okay, now we leave. Next
stop is the Galvez Hotel and the scene of the crime.”
CHAPTER 25
As the two friends walked down 21 st Street, it was obvious they had crossed to “the other side of the tracks.” The
houses were old, frame structures in need of paint and new roofs. The cars and
pickups in the driveways and parked along the curb were circa 1990 or older. Many
of the houses were boarded and tagged by gangs. Rap music bombarded the street
from open windows as occupants hoped for any breeze to find its way to the
interior. The smell of cooking gumbo drifted from one open door.
“Good thing you got me helping on
this case, dog. Looks like a lot of the brothers and sisters were born on the
island, too. A little color on our side of the table damn sure won’t hurt,”
Duke said as they walked down the middle of a street with no sidewalks.
“Yeah, that’s the only reason I
wanted your black ass on my team,” Wayne smiled.
“Fortunately, I know you’re shitting
me. I volunteered for this duty. Also damn good you’ve got me by your side on
this street. White man walking alone in this neighborhood might get himself in
a whole pile of trouble. You said that Dan used to walk up and down this
street. You think any of the brothers might remember him?”
Wayne pointed to the next block where
there was a junior high school and several teenagers were playing basketball on
a concrete court with iron rings for baskets. “You want to ask these guys?”
“Sure,” Duke said. “How about you let
me take the lead?”
They crossed the street and stood on
the edge of the court, watching eight young black men engaged in the timeless
battle of the streets. The game was no-holds-barred. One of the young men,
obviously the most athletic, dribbled down the court, stopped as if to pass and
then put a shoulder into the chest of his opponent, shoving around his right side.
When he was almost past his opponent and had an open lane to the basket, a foot
stretched out and caught his ankle. Both players went down and bounced back up,
talking trash and pushing each other as their teammates egged them on. The boys
were surprised when a big black man wearing a white shirt and tie with a fedora
on his head and a coat over his shoulder stepped in the middle of the fray.
“Okay, dudes, let’s cool it down. This
ain’t a hockey game.”
“Fuck you, man,” the athletic one
said. “Nobody invited you to our game. Who’s that honkey with you? You cops or
something?”
“No, dude,” Duke said. “We’re just
out for a little afternoon stroll through the hood. I got twenty bucks, though,
for some information. What’s your name?”
“Just call me Hawk, as in ball hawk,”
the boy said as he picked up the ball and began dribbling it. “What’s your
question?”
Duke knew to hand him the twenty
first and then asked, “You ever seen an old wino on this street, not recently,
maybe a month or two ago? Probably early in the morning, walking between
Broadway and the seawall?”
“Man, we see lots of them wandering
around here. They’re always in our neighborhood asking for a handout. Not like
we have any money to spare.”
“This guy had long gray hair, greasy
beard, talked to himself, probably waved his arms a lot and shook or nodded
Confederacy, 1829-1912.”
Duke shook his head as he read the
inscription. “I’m sure he was a damn good soldier. Just glad his side lost. Otherwise
I might be picking cotton on some plantation in Louisiana. Let’s get out of
here.”
“One last stop, Duke. Follow me.” They
walked another fifty feet into the cemetery and paused in front of a marker
that looked like so many others, only the name on this one was Little. “My
dad’s there. I stop by and visit with him every chance I get.”
Duke took off his hat, bowed his head
and said a silent prayer. “Sorry, bro.”
“No need, Duke. It was a long time
ago. We’ve got to accept the death of our parents. Okay, now we leave. Next
stop is the Galvez Hotel and the scene of the crime.”
CHAPTER 25
As the two friends walked down 21 st Street, it was obvious they had crossed to “the other side of the tracks.” The
houses were old, frame structures in need of paint and new roofs. The cars and
pickups in the driveways and parked along the curb were circa 1990 or older. Many
of the houses were boarded and tagged by gangs. Rap music bombarded the street
from open windows as occupants hoped for any breeze to find its way to the
interior. The smell of cooking gumbo drifted from one open door.
“Good thing you got me helping on
this case, dog. Looks like a lot of the brothers and sisters were born on the
island, too. A little color on our side of the table damn sure won’t hurt,”
Duke said as they walked down the middle of a street with no sidewalks.
“Yeah, that’s the only reason I
wanted your black ass on my team,” Wayne smiled.
“Fortunately, I know you’re shitting
me. I volunteered for this duty. Also damn good you’ve got me by your side on
this street. White man walking alone in this neighborhood might get himself in
a whole pile of trouble. You said that Dan used to walk up and down this
street. You think any of the brothers might remember him?”
Wayne pointed to the next block where
there was a junior high school and several teenagers were playing basketball on
a concrete court with iron rings for baskets. “You want to ask these guys?”
“Sure,” Duke said. “How about you let
me take the lead?”
They crossed the street and stood on
the edge of the court, watching eight young black men engaged in the timeless
battle of the streets. The game was no-holds-barred. One of the young men,
obviously the most athletic, dribbled down the court, stopped as if to pass and
then put a shoulder into the chest of his opponent, shoving around his right side.
When he was almost past his opponent and had an open lane to the basket, a foot
stretched out and caught his ankle. Both players went down and bounced back up,
talking trash and pushing each other as their teammates egged them on. The boys
were surprised when a big black man wearing a white shirt and tie with a fedora
on his head and a coat over his shoulder stepped in the middle of the fray.
“Okay, dudes, let’s cool it down. This
ain’t a hockey game.”
“Fuck you, man,” the athletic one
said. “Nobody invited you to our game. Who’s that honkey with you? You cops or
something?”
“No, dude,” Duke said. “We’re just
out for a little afternoon stroll through the hood. I got twenty bucks, though,
for some information. What’s your name?”
“Just call me Hawk, as in ball hawk,”
the boy said as he picked up the ball and began dribbling it. “What’s your
question?”
Duke knew to hand him the twenty
first and then asked, “You ever seen an old wino on this street, not recently,
maybe a month or two ago? Probably early in the morning, walking between
Broadway and the seawall?”
“Man, we see lots of them wandering
around here. They’re always in our neighborhood asking for a handout. Not like
we have any money to spare.”
“This guy had long gray hair, greasy
beard, talked to himself, probably waved his arms a lot and shook or nodded
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