came to life around them, and crowding into a steaming-hot bathtub afterward.
Bolden’s eyes walked the floor where they had lain curled up under his frayed all-purpose comforter, and came to rest on the candle she had made for him out of the Chianti bottle, the kind with straw wrapped around the bottom and wax drippings down the sides.
“Terrible taste. Terrific memory,” Jenny had said.
He missed her.
Thinking of the kiss that had accompanied the candle, he closed his eyes and laid his head on the cushion. He needed to rest. Just for a few minutes. Ten or fifteen . . .
Bolden dreamed. He stood in the center of a large room, surrounded by a circle of boys, teenagers really. He knew them all. Gritsch, Skudlarek, Feely, Danis, Richens, and the rest of them from the Dungeon. They were stamping their feet on the wooden floor, chanting his name. He looked down and saw the body on the floor in front of him. He bent down and turned it over. It was Coyle. He was dead, his neck grotesquely twisted, his eyes and mouth open. “It was an accident,” a sixteen-year-old Bolden shouted. “An accident!”
The circle of boys closed in on him, chanting his name. All were holding pistols. The same gun that Guilfoyle had pointed at his head. They raised their arms. Bolden felt the barrel pressed to his forehead. They fired.
The gun!
Bolden woke with a start. It was then that the image came to him. A memory from the night just past. He rushed across the living room to his desk, a nineteenth-century secretary. A legal pad sat on top of it. He found a pen and began to sketch the tattoo he had seen on the chest of the man who had wanted him dead. The first drawing was terrible and looked like a misshapen dog bone. He tore off the paper, wadded it up, and chucked it into the wastebasket. He started again, working slower. A sturdy stock led into a long, tapered barrel. Finished with the outline, he colored it in. Still terrible, but he had captured the idea more or less. He held up the drawing for examination.
An old-fashioned rifle, circa 1800. Something Daniel Boone would carry. A frontiersman’s rife. No, not a rifle, he corrected himself.
A musket.
12
Detective First Grade John Franciscus couldn’t believe his eyes. About ten yards away, a tall black guy, maybe forty, nicely dressed, was standing with his johnson in his hand taking a leak on the side of St. Thomas’s Episcopal Church. The sight incensed him. Here it was, barely eight in the morning, and this guy’s letting go on a house of worship like he’s watering the roses.
Slamming on the brakes, Franciscus pulled his unmarked police cruiser to the sidewalk and threw open the door. “You!” he shouted. “Stay!”
“Whatchyou—” The man didn’t have time to finish his sentence before Franciscus ran up and slugged him in the mouth. The man tumbled backward off his feet, his right hand still firmly clamped to his exhaust pipe, the pee flying all over him. “Shit,” he moaned, his eyes fluttering.
Franciscus winced at the smell of the booze wafting up at him. “That, sir, was a lesson in attitude adjustment. This is your neighborhood. Take better care of it.”
Shaking his head, Franciscus headed back to his car before the guy could get a better look at him. The kind of behavior that Franciscus called preemptive action, or an attitude adjustment, was strictly frowned upon these days. Some called it excessive force, or police brutality. Even so, it was too effective a policy tool to be discarded entirely. The way Franciscus saw it, he was just doing his duty as a resident.
Harlem was his neighborhood, too. Coming up on thirty-five years, he’d been policing out of the Three-Four and Manhattan North Homicide. He’d watched Harlem pull itself up by its bootstraps and turn from an urban war zone where no man was safe after dark—white, black, or any shade in between—to a respectable, bustling community with clean sidewalks and proud citizens.
You
Bolden’s eyes walked the floor where they had lain curled up under his frayed all-purpose comforter, and came to rest on the candle she had made for him out of the Chianti bottle, the kind with straw wrapped around the bottom and wax drippings down the sides.
“Terrible taste. Terrific memory,” Jenny had said.
He missed her.
Thinking of the kiss that had accompanied the candle, he closed his eyes and laid his head on the cushion. He needed to rest. Just for a few minutes. Ten or fifteen . . .
Bolden dreamed. He stood in the center of a large room, surrounded by a circle of boys, teenagers really. He knew them all. Gritsch, Skudlarek, Feely, Danis, Richens, and the rest of them from the Dungeon. They were stamping their feet on the wooden floor, chanting his name. He looked down and saw the body on the floor in front of him. He bent down and turned it over. It was Coyle. He was dead, his neck grotesquely twisted, his eyes and mouth open. “It was an accident,” a sixteen-year-old Bolden shouted. “An accident!”
The circle of boys closed in on him, chanting his name. All were holding pistols. The same gun that Guilfoyle had pointed at his head. They raised their arms. Bolden felt the barrel pressed to his forehead. They fired.
The gun!
Bolden woke with a start. It was then that the image came to him. A memory from the night just past. He rushed across the living room to his desk, a nineteenth-century secretary. A legal pad sat on top of it. He found a pen and began to sketch the tattoo he had seen on the chest of the man who had wanted him dead. The first drawing was terrible and looked like a misshapen dog bone. He tore off the paper, wadded it up, and chucked it into the wastebasket. He started again, working slower. A sturdy stock led into a long, tapered barrel. Finished with the outline, he colored it in. Still terrible, but he had captured the idea more or less. He held up the drawing for examination.
An old-fashioned rifle, circa 1800. Something Daniel Boone would carry. A frontiersman’s rife. No, not a rifle, he corrected himself.
A musket.
12
Detective First Grade John Franciscus couldn’t believe his eyes. About ten yards away, a tall black guy, maybe forty, nicely dressed, was standing with his johnson in his hand taking a leak on the side of St. Thomas’s Episcopal Church. The sight incensed him. Here it was, barely eight in the morning, and this guy’s letting go on a house of worship like he’s watering the roses.
Slamming on the brakes, Franciscus pulled his unmarked police cruiser to the sidewalk and threw open the door. “You!” he shouted. “Stay!”
“Whatchyou—” The man didn’t have time to finish his sentence before Franciscus ran up and slugged him in the mouth. The man tumbled backward off his feet, his right hand still firmly clamped to his exhaust pipe, the pee flying all over him. “Shit,” he moaned, his eyes fluttering.
Franciscus winced at the smell of the booze wafting up at him. “That, sir, was a lesson in attitude adjustment. This is your neighborhood. Take better care of it.”
Shaking his head, Franciscus headed back to his car before the guy could get a better look at him. The kind of behavior that Franciscus called preemptive action, or an attitude adjustment, was strictly frowned upon these days. Some called it excessive force, or police brutality. Even so, it was too effective a policy tool to be discarded entirely. The way Franciscus saw it, he was just doing his duty as a resident.
Harlem was his neighborhood, too. Coming up on thirty-five years, he’d been policing out of the Three-Four and Manhattan North Homicide. He’d watched Harlem pull itself up by its bootstraps and turn from an urban war zone where no man was safe after dark—white, black, or any shade in between—to a respectable, bustling community with clean sidewalks and proud citizens.
You
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