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By Root 573 0

alone anymore—the department won’t let them. And they don’t dress as well as I was either if they’re not on the take—I had left the double-knit disguise home in the closet where it belonged. If I had time I could have taken one of the quasi-cops with me—you know, one of the badge-freaks who likes to pretend he’s a real cop. He joins some bullshit organization, gets an honorary badge, and immediately goes out and buys himself a set of handcuffs and a blue light for his car. He hangs out in the cop bars and talks like he’s on television. I’m the founder and sole beneficiary of the Metro Detectives Association, which has enrolled dozens of these losers. We don’t charge a fee, of course, since all our men are doing important volunteer law-enforcement work. But you’d be amazed at how many of them purchase the optional framed certificate, bumper plaque, laminated plastic photo I.D. card complete with their picture, gold badge in genuine leather case—all that. It costs them an average of a grand per man. You tell a card-carrying disturbo that he’s a genuine “peace officer” and he goes straight into major orgasm, maybe for the first time. Not a bad deal for me, but this time I didn’t have one of them around when I needed him.

I rang the bell—and waited. I rang it again—it was probably as dead as my chances of finding Wilson sitting upstairs. The door lock was almost as tough as cottage cheese. I was inside in a few seconds. I walked down the corridor, looking for the basement where the super would be. If he took money from Wilson to lie, he’d take more money to tell the truth. The hall lighting was as dim as a subway tunnel—more than half the bulbs were missing.

I found the right door, knocked, got nothing. I hit it again, putting my ear to the door. Nothing—no radio, no TV, no voices. In a dump like this they wouldn’t use the super to collect the rent.

If I had stopped to think about it I wouldn’t have gone any further. I could have tried to find a pay phone where I could watch the door and called Mama to have her send Max over. But there was no sense in spoiling a perfect record.

Where the hell was Apartment 4? Fourth floor? Fourth apartment on the second floor? Okay—six stories, figure four apartments to each floor from the layout, total of twenty-four units. There was no elevator. I found the center stairway, listened for a second. Nothing was moving. It smelled bad—not dangerous, just the way these buildings smell after enough years of abuse. On the second floor landing I saw I was right—two apartments to the right, two more to the left. I spotted the number 3 in what was left of a faded gilt decal on one door. On the other side, the number 6, again on a decal, black number on gold background—very classy. If the numbers went all the way to 6 on this floor, with four apartments in all, numbers 1 and 2 had to be downstairs. So number 4 had to be on this floor—right next to 3.

I put my ear to the door—nothing. I slipped on my gloves and rapped softly—still nothing. Pick the lock? No—try the other apartments first. Number 3 was a no-show too. It was still quiet when I crossed the hall to 5 and 6. As I raised my hand to knock I heard the sound of an open hand on human flesh and a yelp—I moved closer and heard a young black man’s voice, rapping in that hard-edged ghetto whine that the players think distinguishes them from the citizens. “Who’s your daddy?” (slap) “I can’t hear you, bitch” (slap). A mumbled sound from someone else. “Bitch, I’m not playin’, you hear me? I’m serious—you understand?”

More mumbling. Another sharp slap. Sounds of crying.

“You run away from home, you find another home, right, little bitch? You got a new daddy now, right?” And some more slaps. I knew what was behind that door, and it wasn’t Wilson. I walked back to Number 4, pulled my tools, and worked the lock. I stepped inside like I belonged there.

One glance told me nobody belonged there. It was just like I had pictured in my mind—a convertible couch opened into a bed with grayish stained sheets, a round Formica-topped table in one corner, two