Murder Take Two: A Ross Agency Mystery

By Delia C. Pitts

Two bitter friends. Two hustling brothers. Two killers in love. One detective in pursuit

When cynical private eye SJ Rook is hired to guard the set of a hot new television show filming on the streets of Harlem, he expects his toughest challenge to be corralling star-struck fans. The task is simple: keep peace between fancy Hollywood invaders, loudmouth tourists, and rowdy neighborhood regulars. The sultry presence of an A-list star lights up the set and enflames Rook's imagination.

But the detective's brush with Hollywood glamour quickly turns dark. All week, a TV big shot bids for Rook's attention with outlandish claims of murder threats. Rook dismisses these fears as dramatic excess spiced with Left Coast dazzle. But on the last night of filming, murder writes a grim finale to the production.

With his client dead, Rook's pursuit of the truth begins. Hampered by remorse, he battles a secretive killer whose motives are hidden in plain sight. After a second murder, Rook's hopes for solving the case are dashed. He must reset for take two of the investigation. But the tragic past of an alluring actress and Rook's own unspoken desires complicate his hunt. Distracted by stardust, the detective's struggle to sort fact from fantasy takes on deadly urgency when the killer makes Rook the last target.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667809519

Book preview

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Praise for the Ross Agency Mystery Series

Pitts’ distinctive flair for havoc and melodrama kicks into high gear from the outset [of MURDER MY PAST]… Readers will find themselves hooked as Rook and Sabrina expertly pursue an investigation that eventually leads them to the world of academia…Rook’s intuitive skills allow the pieces of the plot to fall into place seamlessly, and the work has a breezy but compelling tone throughout…Overall, Pitts again demonstrates an outstanding knack for locomotive suspense and intelligent characterization. Another engaging whodunit featuring two entertaining detectives.

– Kirkus Reviews

These are wonderful, complex hard-boiled mysteries, and Pitts’ prose is absolutely exquisite. Her writing is atmospheric, and her characters are fantastic. You’ll be transported to every place in every book like you were standing right next to the main character, Shelba Rook. Pitts takes descriptive language to a new level and yet, the narrative never lags. Through Shelba’s eyes, the magnanimous Norment Ross and his smart, savvy daughter, Brina Ross come alive. The world Pitts has created bursts from every page like a full sensory onslaught. Everything about these books is captivating. Every time I read one it is like eating a rich, delectable dessert.

– Lisa Regan, USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestselling author of the Josie Quinn Detective Series

MURDER MY PAST is so beautifully written. I love this series. There are layers upon layers of complexity here as our Harlem P.I., Rook, works to unravel the tragic murder of someone dear to him. It’s personal and he has every intention of tracking the killer down, no matter the cost. There are some writers I will always read when their new releases hit the shelves. Delia Pitts is one of those. What masterful story-telling.

– Tracy Clark, Sue Grafton Memorial Award winner, Anthony, Lefty, and Shamus-award nominated author of The Chicago Mystery Series

These characters are so fully-fleshed out, with dialogue that rings authentic at every turn, that readers will be forgiven for thinking of them as living, breathing entities. But Pitts also plots with the skill of a spider weaving a masterful web. Unspooling multiple mysteries in tandem is daunting, requiring that everything mesh in ways that never seem contrived or accidental. Delia C. Pitts makes it look effortless and isn’t that exactly what we want in our storytellers?

– Kristopher Zgorski, BOLO Books

This book [MURDER MY PAST] is filled with many surprise twists and turns and leaves you guessing all the way to the end.

– Lorie Lewis Ham, Editor in Chief, Kings River Life Magazine

The descriptive narrative and engaging dialogue drew me in tight to the comings and goings of Rook and the secondary characters in a compelling drama that left nothing to chance. I was blown away when the pieces started coming together and, yes, emotions were invoked [in] this reader. Rook is a complicated and determined man who knows what needs to be done. Overall, [MURDER MY PAST] is a great read and one of the best in the series and I can’t wait for more adventures with Rook, Brina, and the rest of the gang.

– Dru Ann Love, Dru’s Book Musings

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Thirty-nine

Forty

Forty-one

Forty-two

Forty-three

Forty-four

Forty-five

Forty-six

Forty-seven

Author’s Note

Also by Delia C. Pitts

Lost and Found in Harlem

Practice the Jealous Arts

Black and Blue in Harlem

Pauper and Prince in Harlem

Murder My Past

© 2021 Delia C. Pitts. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. ISBN 978-1-66780-950-2 eBook 978-1-66780-951-9

For my brother, Steven – we two against the world, always.

One

I jabbed my father’s old hunting knife into the mottled oak surface of my desk. Wood chips flew like scales from a gutted fish.

The squeal of gears rippled from the boulevard beyond my second-floor Harlem office. Though my window was shut against April’s chilly dawn air, I heard delivery vans, buses, and garbage trucks choke and grumble on their journeys. Thursday mornings always sounded sad to me: so far from the weekend; so close to exhaustion.

Blocks away, an elevated train shrieked an insult at nobody. My head throbbed in sympathy. I knuckled puffy eyelids as waves of caffeine tilted in my stomach.

Another stab, more slivers of wood jumped from my knife.

Detective work was a hurry up, cool-your-heels business. Lots of down time, ample idle hours. Between the inexcusable, the vicious, and the dreary, my cases left plenty of time for woodworking. Chiseling the hell out of my name was a perfect hobby.

I chipped another flake, then whisked shavings from Shelba Julio. Crisp and clean. That Lone Star between the two names was a cool flourish. Not bad for a city guy. Three years in New York, after two tours in Iraq, and I hadn’t lost all my country skills yet.

I swiped the three-inch steel blade against my jeans to remove sawdust. I wanted a spotless tool to start on ROOK this morning.

My swivel chair wobbled when I leaned back. That move made me regret the empty calories of fake French vanilla creamer I’d dumped in my third cup of coffee. My gut cried that real sugar or honest bourbon would have been a wiser bet.

I felt sorry for my six-forty-five a.m. self; this was not the prime-time version of me. My current job protecting--babysitting--a Hollywood TV crew filming on Harlem’s widest street had wrapped at three-thirty in the morning. Today’s first call was scheduled for eight. The office was closer to the set than my apartment, so I’d spent the brief night wrestling pillows on my leather couch.

As an operative with the Ross Agency, I corralled petty disturbances around our Harlem neighborhood. I dug up criminal records, nabbed thieves who preyed on scatterbrained relatives, or traced runaway spouses and skip-artist business partners. Assignments weren’t always safe or clean. Or even sane. The job stretched my imagination, often tested my grit. Working with my two bosses, Norment Ross and his daughter, Sabrina, I helped people and earned a few hundred bucks a week. The trade was fair: straightforward jobs for low-key clients. Good work, no frills. Ordinary laced with miles of tedium.

But this week in April was different. A taste of excitement after a bleak winter. I was hired security for Zenith Metropole Entertainment, a production company filming an episode of their hit TV show, Undaunted, in our neighborhood. My job was to enforce three-way peace between fancy Hollywood invaders, star-struck tourists, and rowdy regulars from Harlem’s streets. I’d spent four days neck-deep in fake blood and fantasy emotions. Tomorrow would be my last day swimming with the glamazons.

I tested the knife blade against my thumb, denting the skin. Ready for the cut into ROOK, I struck the wood for the first letter.

A shadow darted across the window, its form distorted by the grimy film on the glass. A pigeon. No, bigger. Maybe a hawk.

I slanted my eyes right, catching the shadow glide, waver, then stop. No bird.

An object, silver and thick, exploded the pane.

The knife bucked in my hand. An oak divot jumped from a gash in the desk. Soldier mode kicked in. I dropped my forehead to my knees, tensing fingers around my shins.

From behind the desk, I heard glass spit across the room, then a thunk. Something solid hit the floor. Shrapnel plinked my coffee mug. Five seconds; no blast. Five seconds more; all clear. I straightened from my crouch, knocking the file cabinet behind my chair as I stood.

Heartbeat slowing, I stepped past the sofa to a pile of shards below the windowsill. A brick, wrapped in tin foil, lay in the glass nest. I lifted the block and fingered a red shoelace that tied a sheet of paper to the brick.

Fucking spineless clown. I wanted the coward who’d wrecked my window. And my morning.

Cold streams of sunshine poured through a star-shaped hole in the pane. Cradling the brick, I looked past the cracked web to the roof of the grocery next door. Fumes of rotten flowers and bruised fruit pulsed on the updraft in the narrow gangway.

I saw a Black kid tip-toe along the roof edge, arms outstretched for balance. Steel-wool clouds framed his head, spikes of hair outlined against the morning’s raw glare. Snub nose, soft lips sucked in concentration. Jeans and yellow sweatshirt bagged over skinny limbs. I knew the brick-slinger: Randall Blunt was a twelve-year old neighborhood hotshot climbing the rungs to career criminal.

If I moved fast, I could cut off the kid’s escape in the alley behind our building. I counted on surprise. I figured Randall would retreat to his sister’s place or the local boxing gym. The quickest route to either was by the alley. I sprinted through the empty reception area to the hall beyond the suite’s outer door. At the end of the corridor, I plunged down the steps to the rear entrance.

A deli occupied the first floor of our building. When I pushed through the door to the outside, the stench of sausage, vinegar, and garlic fluttered across my face. Smashed produce boxes were stacked waist-high next to garbage bins along one side of the narrow cement court.

At the foot of the yard, I eased open the gate in the chain-link fence and waited. Clanking marked Randall’s trip down a fire escape. When he crept by, I sprang from behind a dumpster, grabbing the hood of his sweatshirt.

Randall, my man. What’s up? I twisted the cloth until the boy’s throat bobbled under my fist.

Mr. Rook. I – I didn’t see you. Wriggling, the boy clawed my fingers.

His eyes bulged, the brown pupils swimming. Sweat popped across his nose. A nice face, sweet even. Rich brown skin over baby features, cute gap between the two front teeth. Chocolate and nougat on Randall’s breath was Snickers, not the breakfast of champions. The lower lip tremble could have been fake. But no one was that good an actor.

I held the brick to his face. You saw enough to toss this through my window. A gust flicked the white paper.

You--you were inside? I didn’t know. I swear, man… I didn’t mean to hurt nobody.

Not hurt, kid. My pride’s dinged, though. I relaxed my grip but didn’t smile. He staggered. I jerked him vertical. Who put you up to this?

I ain’t telling. He straightened to his full four-foot-ten, bony shoulders squared. I’m no snitch, Mr. Rook.

Sure, kid. I nodded, holding my stare.

We agreed on the code of the street: secrets demand silence. My left hand on the boy’s neck, I pinched the paper with my right thumb and forefinger. This page was cream-colored and stiff as a starched handkerchief. When I shook it loose, the brick plunked to the pavement. I unfurled the page and scanned it.

Perfume crawled from the paper. I recognized the mash of coconut, potting soil, and gardenia. My temporary TV boss, Opal Cunningham, smelled like this--earthy and obvious. I held the sheet at arm’s length to dodge the stink. Hand-printed block letters and four exclamation points screamed in black ink, the message a mile-high heap of drama:

ROOK – PROTECT ME! MY MURDER IS NOT FAKE!!! -- Opal

This was the fourth time in three days she’d made the same plea. Always with scowls and sighs galore. But no leads, evidence, or suspects. Opal gave me nothing to bite on. I’m a private investigator. I shred lies for a living. I needed more than a brick wrapped in a smelly memo to believe her death threat claim was real.

I barked at the kid, How much did she pay you to deliver this note?

Randall’s eyes bugged. He whispered, "You know her?"

Of course. She’s my boss. She signed it, see? I waved the paper, but I didn’t let him read it.

"No disrespect, man. But that butch with the shovel face is your boss? Randall kicked the brick. The foil split. We watched pink chunks tumble through the rip. I thought you worked for Old Man Ross at the detective agency."

I do. Off his frown, I added, Opal Cunningham is my temporary boss. This week only.

Randall chewed the inside of his cheek as the plot twists fell into place.

I saw you hanging around the set, I said. Scrounging errands, picking up extra coin. I’d seen him sell baggies of weed to Zenith crew, including two deliveries to Opal Cunningham. I twisted his collar. So, Opal hired you for this job?

Maybe he was tired; maybe baffled by the mystery of adult ways. Whatever his reasons, Randall sighed, then spilled.

Yeah, she asked me if I knew you, where you worked. I said sure. She handed me the brick, wrapped like a friggin’ birthday present with the note on it. Her funky perfume all over it. He sniffed, then paused like a pro. And she told me to throw it in your window.

Why not deliver at the front door, like a regular letter?

Naw, Opal’s a stone freak, man. She’s off-the-chain cray. Bitch said you stiffed her three times when she brought it up. She said this was her last chance. Said I had to chuck the brick. Window open or shut, didn’t matter. I had to throw it.

Dramatic effect, I muttered. I’d seen enough theatrics from the Zenith crowd over the past four days to earn a degree in acting.

The boy shrugged, raising two palms.

I don’t know nothin’ about no drama. Or no effect. But she did pay me ten real dollars. And she promised I’d get another ten after I done it. He looked up, water twinkling on his lashes. "Now, you gone and wrecked it. And, I don’t get my ten dollars."

The wail was heart-wrenching. Almost.

"Wrecked? You’re the one who broke my window, remember? I ought to call the cops."

No, don’t do that, Mr. Rook!

The boy squirmed, but I tightened my grip and shoved him against the dumpster. Nobody in this neighborhood wanted the police involved. Ever.

I escalated my threat: Or maybe I’ll buzz your sister, see what she thinks about your second-story act.

"Oh, no! You can’t tell Kara! She’ll kill me."

I knew his sister, Kara Blunt, from the local basketball courts. She was twenty-four years old and tough as asphalt.

I’m counting on it, I said.

Randall’s huge eyes scraped my face in search of mercy, but I stiffened.

Look, kid. Here’s what we’ll do. You want me to keep your secret, right?

The boy nodded. Please.

Okay. Your secret’s safe. But here’s how it goes down. You get to school, stay clear of the boulevard, and I’ll keep quiet. Deal?

Thanks, Mr. Rook. You’re the man! Randall dipped his chin, lips twisted to the side. I hope you don’t get in trouble with your boss.

I’ll square it with Opal. And tonight, I check with Kara to see if you made it to school.

I had no intention of leaking our secret deal to his sister. But to keep the menace going, I delivered a squint-eyed glare.

His lip drooped. "Ah, jeez! Don’t tell Kara. I didn’t do nothing wrong… Nothing real wrong."

He scratched his scalp as new thoughts passed under it. Say, you working on the TV show like that. You know those big stars, right?

Not exactly. I stood tall, shot a demure glance toward the dumpster, and jogged my eyebrows so he’d know the modesty was false.

"But you know ‘em enough, don’t you?"

Enough for what?

Enough to ask that hot babe Vicky for an autograph. The boy sucked the gap between his teeth like a grizzled player.

Vicky Joyce, the show’s lead actress, was a break-out star. An Instagram goddess with a million followers. She’d hit Number sixty-three on Forbes’ list of two hundred top Black influencers. Personality Magazine had named her, Sexiest Woman on the Planet.

I’d never spoken to her. You mean Vicky Joyce, I said.

"Yeah, her. That chick is warm sex on a cool stick! A line cribbed from older running buddies, no doubt. Imitation lust gleamed through Randall’s long lashes. Dude, you know her?"

I’d never met Vicky. But I’d seen her every day flitting around the set, just out of reach. My gut flipped as images of the star’s luscious form danced through my mind. Like every other human in America, I had a crush on Vicky Joyce.

Sure, kid. I-I know Vicky. Raised voice hid the stammer. This white lie could polish my neighborhood rep.

His eyes bugged in wonder. Can you get me a signed picture of Vicky Joyce? I’d boost rank in my crew if I scored that. You can hook me up, right?

I’ll see what I can do.

I grinned. Mini-hound Randall did too. Probably imagined I was happy to help him. No chance. I was thinking of my angle on the photo. This simple ask might be my ticket to a meeting with Vicky. Who knows what could follow?

You’re the straight-up bomb! Randall cheered.

I jostled him, then scrubbed knuckles on his head. Beat it, kid.

Dope! Popping a salute, Randall skipped away.

Yeah, sure, I said. Dope. Distracted by the Vicky dazzle still clouding my mind, I missed which direction Randall took.

When he’d gone, I read the note again, then shoved it in my pocket. Retrieving the tin foil from the ground, I crushed it and shot a three-pointer into the dumpster. I wanted the mystery of Opal Cunningham’s complaint bagged, tagged, wrapped, and scrubbed.

But first, I had a serious clean-up job to finish before my other boss arrived in the office.

I trotted upstairs, checking my watch as I re-entered the suite. Seven-thirty-five. I figured I had twenty minutes max to clean my office. If I hustled, I could make it to the location on time for the start of the day’s filming.

And dodge a dust-up with my partner and girlfriend, Sabrina Ross. After almost two years together, Brina and I were on the outs. Two nights ago, I’d turned down her invitation for home-cooked lasagna and Netflix at her place. I saw this as a simple fielder’s choice. Nothing major. She acted like I’d blown the seventh game of the World Series. Now, I didn’t want to add office tension to our personal mess.

I grabbed a broom from the supply closet and dampened a washcloth in the bathroom. At my desk, I stroked the towel over the glass-strewn surface. After I wiped the glittering dust from my carved name, I tossed the spiky washcloth in the trashcan. I pressed the button on the knife handle to sheathe it and slipped the weapon into the desk drawer. Next, I stripped off my grungy pullover and dragged a t-shirt from a file cabinet. Black, long sleeves, clean. In case the sparkle squad noticed, I wouldn’t look like I’d slept in my clothes when I hit the set.

Broom darting, I punched shards through the window frame. I built a smooth rhythm as slivers plinked like chipped ice on the gangway below. After five minutes of glass stabbing, I heard the outer door open. Early. I froze, broom in flight.

The boss barged into my office. In two crunchy strides, she squared on me. Brows tensed, red lips pursed, fists clamped on hips. Places. Set. Action.

You owe me a damn good story, Sabrina Ross said. And a shitload of money.

Two

Midnight, a Harlem playground, six nights earlier

Pence Stewart squirmed as pebbles scraped his cheek. The Black man looming over him rammed a boot heel against his face. As gravel trickled into his ear, Pence shivered. The cascade felt like a drill piercing his brain. He tried to control his movements; he knew struggling would increase the torture. He could hear the chains of the playground swing clinking over his head. Far away, a train screeched on elevated tracks. The sound was either a lullaby or a wake-up alarm, depending on how your night was going. His was going to hell.

When Raymond Spencer Stewart thrashed again, the thug pressed harder. You get the message, Pence? He wriggled the boot, like grinding out a cockroach on the asphalt.

Yeah, yeah. I got it. Let me up, Strobe. I got it.

Strobe Duncan, a thick slab in black leather, jerked Pence upright. "You got what, little man?"

I got you want me to do a job for you.

"Not for me, fool."

Heat sparked Strobe’s eyes. His shaved head glistened against the night sky. He blinked, then hoisted Pence to his knees.

The message is from Net, the muscle man said. He’s the one wants you to do the job. Get it?

Pence wanted the pain in his head to end. And the blood to stop dripping from his nose.

Yeah, okay. I get it. He sniffed, a brackish glob slipping down his throat. The one wants me to do the job is Net.

Net was the sawed-off street name of Bethel Stinnette, chief of gambling, hookers, and dope across a wide corner of Brooklyn. Pence had only met the top man once and never wanted to repeat the pleasure. Stinnette was a black-eyed slickster whose words flowed cool, like he had ice cubes behind his heavy lips. With pale skin as fine as spun sugar and smooth black hair scraped flat on his scalp, Net looked like a white man. Hell, maybe he even was a white man. But he dealt like the blackest SOB in New York. Strobe Duncan was an enforcer for the Stinnette mob.

Now you’re getting smart, Strobe said. He craned his neck to look at a second Black man seated on the swing. His beard bobbed as he cackled. You think this nigger’s looking smarter now?

Maybe, said the other thug. I don’t know. Two volleys on the swing. The slim figure kicked gravel under the wooden seat. Pence still don’t look all that smart to me. Ever since he come back from Vegas, he looking like a dumbass motherfucker to me.

Strobe laughed. Rolls of mahogany flesh shimmied on his neck. His spit struck Pence on the face. Answering the man’s hoot, birds bickered in the branches overhead.

Boy, you better smarten up real quick. Strobe pulled a switchblade from his coat pocket. Maybe this’ll help you focus.

The cut was swift. A slice across the left earlobe. Pence felt an electric jolt; light flashed ice blue behind his eyelids. He twisted his neck, yelping. Strobe clutched the back of Pence’s head, then his jaw. He jammed the severed earlobe tip between the younger man’s teeth. The flesh bobbed on his tongue like a tab of salty chewing gum. Gagging, Pence tried to spit. Strobe laughed and patted Pence’s lips.

He hauled Pence to his feet. You get the picture now? He jerked the collar of Pence’s t-shirt.

Pence spit out his earlobe. It plopped on the gravel. Tears added salt to the vomit in his mouth. He wiped his cheek, then cupped a hand over his mangled ear. Blood streamed hot between his fingers. When Strobe jerked the t-shirt again, Pence hacked. He could hear the man on the swing chuckle.

Strobe said, We got orders from Net to pull your card, little man. Permanent, you dig? The thug twisted the shirt and Pence’s head bobbled. Close enough to a nod.

Little man. He was twenty-six years old. Five-eight, 150 pounds, not so little. Wiry muscle and sinew, packed solid. Not little. This brute had no business calling him little. Pence sniffed as snot dribbled into his moustache. He brushed ash and sand from the seat of his navy track pants. Debris stuck to the blood cooling on his palm. He smoothed the red stripes until they hung straight on each leg.

Okay, so, I gotta off this TV fool, Pence mumbled.

Yeah, you got the tag. Strobe looked to his sidekick on the swing. When the second goon nodded, he repeated the name.

How’m I supposed to get close? Pence pulled a soiled tissue from his pocket and pressed it against the injured ear. Some kind of Hollywood big shot, right?

Net got it all greased for you. They shooting a TV show in the nabe next week. Five or six days on the boulevard. Net put in the good word with the union. All you gotta do is apply for a job as a driver. You land the job. Then get close to this clown. Then finish it.

What beef Net got itching his craw? Pence asked.

He tucked his t-shirt into the elastic waistband of his pants and hiked the blue nylon jacket on his shoulders. Despite the chilly April breeze, sweat dabbed his nose and armpits. The wet at his crotch was piss, but he figured Strobe couldn’t see that in the dark. Maybe smell it, though. He buckled both knees to move the air between his legs. He could feel his heart pump double-time. The skin must be jumping. He risked a look at his chest. Skin the color of burnt oak pulled tight. Nothing visible there except a spray of pimples and an old scar. He clutched the jacket collar against his throat.

You got lots a questions for a dime-bag joker dangling at the end of his string with the big man, Strobe said.

Pence lowered his eyes. He scraped a hand over his close-cropped head, then the tacky mustache. I’m just trying to get the lay of the land. You know, get my story straight for the job.

The only story you need to know is this: your weak-ass poker game got you screwed up. You played one too many shit hands. Net likes losers. It’s good for business, most times.

Strobe expanded his chest inside his black sweatshirt. Blocky fists bunched, he took a step toward Pence.

The banger’s voice blared like a trumpet. But losers who bug out on they debts, then try to skip town. That’s bad for business. Net don’t tolerate that from nobody. Not in his house. You pulled stunts like that when you was in Vegas, and you made it back here to the city in one piece. Strobe jabbed his finger on Pence’s nose. But them kinda tricks don’t fly in Brooklyn. Not with Net running the operation. Net, he may look like a white dude, but don’t be fooled. That ofay is smart. He keeps it tight and clean. So, when you messed with Net’s coin, you messed up serious, little man.

Strobe’s beard jogged. Now, he coulda just ordered your black ass executed. Put you down like the dog you are. But Net, he’s a practical dude. He don’t waste resources. Net figured he could use you to clean up a messy situation. You take care of this, your debt is wiped.

The earlobe throbbed. Pence wanted to touch his neck, wipe the blood there. Instead, he dragged a bent cigarette from his pocket and fumbled it to his mouth. No match, he jerked the butt in his lips. Neither man offered a light. Pence removed the cigarette, letting it hang beside his thigh.

He wanted to stay alive. He wanted to leave the playground without earning more pain from these brutes. He wanted to leave town. He wanted to see his girl, Deondra. He wanted to ask his father for help. He wanted his father to stop dragging that nasty rag over the bar top for one damn minute and care enough to offer help.

All these desires stormed over him in hot waves. His jiggling knees pushed ripples in the track pants. He jittered until pebbles scrabbled under his sneakers. He wanted to get away from everything. He would, soon.

But right now, all Pence could do was quit the playground with his head high. Slipping the unlit cigarette into his jacket pocket, he pulled the zipper to his throat.

Yeah. Thanks for the history lesson, Pence said.

Keep your head on straight, nigger. Do the job and do it fast. Dig? Strobe added, I’ll be watching.

Teeth clenched, sticky with blood and saliva. Pence wanted to swipe his lips, pluck a tobacco flake from the corner of his mouth. But that would look weak. He kept his twitchy fingers at his side.

Strobe said, Get lost. I’m sick of your ugly face.

Pence inched from the spotlight, chin down, breath escaping in little puffs. He heard the no-name thug jangle the chains on his swing.

Where you headed now, Strobe? The sidekick’s voice was soft, like a kitten’s mewl.

Checking on Kara tonight, Strobe answered. Ain’t seen her in a while.

Yeah, you been busy, dog.

Busy! Strobe laughed from deep in his belly. You know that’s right.

The swing clanked when the second man stood. Don’t Kara miss you?

I don’t give a fuck what Kara miss. Strobe lowered his head to spew the taunt. Kara think what I think. And she want what I want.

Yeah. Got you, man. A hiss, then silence. His partner wasn’t defending anybody, least of all a woman.

As the two men talked, Pence edged away. Sidestep, pause, slide, pause.

See you, Strobe, he said. Pence bounced his chin at the man on the swing. And you, too. Tell Net, no worries. I’m on his job.

Strobe grunted in reply. His sidekick snorted.

Clear of the jungle gym, Pence stumbled over rubber chips and dry grass. He snaked along the fence, eyes on his tormentors. When he found a hole in the chain-link, he ducked through. He turned west, headed to the emergency room at Harlem Hospital for another round of stitch-and-go work. Maybe Doc Thelma’d take pity this time. Give him something stiffer than aspirin and iodine. He wanted OxyContin, Vicodin, something big and smooth. He needed to cut this pain before he started the hunt.

Three

I tightened my fist around the broom handle as Sabrina Ross eyed the wreckage twinkling on my office floor.

You owe me a damn good story, she repeated.

Nice greeting. In the office, we’d abandoned the standard morning salute months ago. But the frost in Brina’s voice now was sharper than usual.

She tipped her head, the curls of her Afro brushing the right shoulder of her blazer. She slow-blinked twice.

I sighed. I can explain… I knew I was doomed to arrive late on set, but straightening things with Brina now was job one.

I hoisted my eyebrows for an innocent look. She didn’t buy the act. Her beautiful lips pinched tight. Red lacquer shouted at me. Arms crossed over her chest, she gazed at the pillows bunched on the sofa. Then at the violated window and the glass crusting my boot heels. Back to the broom in my fist.

This story better be Nobel-Prize good, she said. I’m talking, Toni Morrison-good.

I flinched. Grabbed a deep breath. Then clamped my mouth shut.

Her head shake roused the coils of her Afro. Yellow embroidery around her t-shirt collar brightened her uniform of tight jeans and red blazer. She scowled a thundercloud. But even waiting for the lightning bolt, I liked how Brina’s lashes fluttered over her brown eyes. And the way crinkles bent above her nose.

Before I answered, she snapped, You need a dustpan to finish the job? Boss was pissed. Interrogation was on the agenda.

When Brina returned from the breakroom with the dustpan and a stack of newspapers, I was ready. As supporting evidence, I drew Opal Cunningham’s crumpled note from my pocket. Other contents -- three dimes, a nail file, and a heart-shaped silver tag -- tumbled to the floor.

Brina picked up the items, laid them in my palm, and jabbed the little metal shield with her index finger. What’s this? A charm?

A nametag. For a dog. I didn’t own a dog. And we both knew my cat Herb would never submit to a collar.

What’re you playing at? You got a side hound? You hiding a secret dog from Herb? she quipped. The first grin of the morning was beautiful.

Nope.

My return smile was quick. I shifted weight from my bad foot. A roadside bomb in Iraq had destroyed two toes on my left foot, gifting me a dull ache, survivor’s guilt, and a permanent limp. The shield was a souvenir of that horrific day.