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APARTMENT OF FELLATIA D. JONES,
1665 NORCESTOR AVENUE
11:44 P.M. PDT
“I don’t normally talk to no police,” Miss Jones said, “but when this motherfucker almost run me over, I said bitch, you gonna get got. Pardon my language.” She glanced past Carmella and said, “Nuh-unh, don’tchoo even think about bringing that dead thing in my house, little man.”
Little Man was a boy of maybe three with big brown eyes. Standing at the front door, he raised the dead thing for all to see, and smiled. “Rribbitt. Rribbitt rribbit.”
“Go on now,” Miss Jones said, “you get that thing outta my house,” and waited until Little Man exited with the frog. A moment later a small dark hand appeared around the doorjamb dangling the frog and a voice said, “Rribbitt rribbit,” before both hand and frog disappeared to the sound of giggles.
Carmella smiled. “Your little boy?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“He’s a cute one. How old is he?”
“Four. And he take after his daddy. I just hope it just the look and not that he grow up treatin’ his women like his daddy do.” She gave Elmond a long, stern look before looking at Carmella and saying, “This one, though, he don’t look to have them cheaters’ eyes, if you know what I mean about them.”
Carmella smiled. “Sister, who doesn’t.” Her eyes swept the cramped apartment. It smelled somewhat musty, but was neatly picked up and featured pictures of Jesus on the walls. The building was clearly Section 8 housing and the neighborhood known to be raided from time to time for drugs and other things, and certainly not the kind of place Carmella would want to raise Tony, but then she wasn’t Miss Jones.
Better remember to count your blessings, Carmella Garcia, she thought. There but the for the grace of God go you.
Carmella said, “Miss Jones, you say you were hit by a car last night. What time did it happen?”
“It was at 11:54, or maybe 11:55 or 6.”
Elmond said, “You seem pretty precise about the time."
Miss Jones said, “Yeah, I am. I work at the Taco Shack up Norcestor and Imperial, got off at 11:30 and caught the 603 at 11:51. Drops me off at about 11:52, 11:53 and it’s a two-and-a-half minute walk to here. I’m down the street, here—” she pointed south “—crossing at the sidewalk, when that speeding motherfucker come barreling up the hill. Nearly run me over, and if I didn’t jump out the way, he woulda surely killed.” She rubbed a knee. “Nearly broke my leg when I landed. Good thing. Taco Shack don’t give no insurance. And with the budget cuts, the MediCal take too long.” She rubbed her knee again, wincing. “Hoping it heals up without too much trouble, you know? And all because of that white motherfucker in a Hummer.” She looked between Carmella and Elmond. Rubbing her hip know, she said, “That white motherfucker didn’t even stop to see if I was okay. Fact, he just sped up and kept on going.”
Miss Jones’ expression was equal parts contempt and amazement.
Elmond said, “Did you get a look at the driver?”
Miss Jones shook her head. “I saw the passenger. A older guy, with white hair. Look kind of uh, uh, distinguished, you know, like he was English or something. Wore this, uh, light-colored suit, an eye patch and a pinky ring— a big one, gold, with a big ruby on it.”
Elmond said, “You saw all that as you were jumping out of the way?”
Miss Jones shrugged a little, then giving her head that quintessential black woman dressing down a man move, “What can I say, I like pretty things. You can’t look around my apartment and see that? Besides, you nearly get run over, see your life flashing before your eyes, you notice some strange shit.” She added, “And I bet he’s the one run over that jogger down on Sweetwater. S’why I called you, after I saw it on the TV. Normally, I wouldn’t get involved with the po-po, but seeing that jogger got kilt coulda been me . . .” She shrugged. “I got a little one to take care of.”
Carmella glanced over at Elmond, and he gave her a look as Carmella took a turn at incredulity, thinking of bogus victim claims that occasionally pop up . . . An eye patch? Really? . . . and saying, “Miss Jones, are you absolutely sure what you’re telling us is as you describe it. That we should be looking for an guy with an eyepatch going around town running people over in a black Hummer?”
Miss Jones nodded resolutely.
Carmella said, “What was the license plate number then?”
Miss Jones shook her head.. “No idea. I didn’t see anything but stars after they hit me. Before, everything, after, nothing. And I know what you’re thinking, I wanna sue somebody, get some money, and I’m exaggerating. But I’m telling you, I ain’t making none of this up. It happened. The rich motherfucker in a eyepatch run me over and didn’t even stop to see if I was still alive. News said they don’t know what time that woman got hit last night, but I thought, damn, that’s just down the street, maybe they hit her and that’s why they’s in such a hurry they nearly hit me too, they was trying to get away.” Miss Jones suddenly looked to the front door where there was what appeared to be a small lobster dangling from a smaller hand. “I said no more dead things in the house . . . and that means crawdads too, little man.” She sighed a little wearily, looking to Carmella. “Boys go down, play in the creek, they bring all kinda things back. These apartment boys, they wild, getting into things, breaking apartment property. Maintenance out there right now, working on something.”
THEY QUESTIONED MISS JONES a little more, got a few more things, then thanked her and said goodbye. Walking up the stairs, she’d noticed a maintenance-man up on a ladder working on something under the eaves, maybe a floodlight. Turned out the maintenance man working on not a floodlight, but on a camera attached to it and pointed towards the apartment’s courtyard.
Apparently finished, the man descended the ladder.
“Hold up a moment, El,” Carmella said as the maintenance man reached the bottom. “What happened to the camera?”
The man, an older man in a Boston Red Sox capped, turned and appeared to size up Carmella and Elmond. Saying in Upper New Englander, “Pardon my Greek, but who the fuck are you?”
He was suitably mollified after seeing their badges and reason for being here, saying, explaining,
“Neighborhood punks hit it with a rock or something and threw it all off. They’ve got me out here every week, fixing something and it’s running me broke, what with the mortgage I got. Fucking ghetto kids . . .” Red Sox looked like could say more, but bit his tongue.
“Broken thrown-off,” Elmond said, “or threw off the direction?”
“Direction,” the man said, wiping his hands with a rag. “Normally, we keep it trained on the property, monitoring for drugs and stuff, but the last couple days it was staring off at the street until I fixed it. Why, you think it recorded the Hummer?” He smiled, “If so, you’re in luck. The tape holds a month at a time and I planned on erasing it after I fixed the camera.”
Carmella smiled. “How about you let us take a look first?” Red Sox nodded, smiling. “Anything to help, Detective. Follow me.” Leading off, he said, “You know, my brother is a cop up in Worcester, Mass, works property crime, and he says with this recession, even the thieves can’t fence the stuff they pinch cause everyone’s pinching pennies . . .”
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