Runner, p.5
Runner, page 5
When Evans came down the stairs, she looked as worried and as on edge as she had at 2:00 AM. I wondered what effect Ramona’s disappearance was having on her newly minted sobriety, and whether she would be strong enough to weather it, even here at Redemption House.
She carried a small Crown Royal drawstring bag and we sat side by side on a lumpy couch in the front room as residents passed us by, offering only quick glances. Not my problem, got my own, their looks seemed to say.
“I know you just started,” she said. “But I thought maybe this could do something.” Evans opened the bag and emptied its contents into her hand, setting the empty bag on the scarred coffee table in front of us. “These are Ramona’s.”
I stared at the jumble of small things: a ceramic kitten with blue glass eyes, the kind you’d win at a carnival or county fair; a gold key on a silver neck chain; a small rusted harmonica; a faded photo of a house; a small rubber ball in kaleidoscope colors. I looked up at Evans, not sure what I was supposed to be seeing.
“Her treasures,” she said, “that’s what she calls them.” Evans set the items on the table next to the bag, as if the very act solved the mystery surrounding Ramona Titus’s whereabouts.
“A harmonica and a ceramic kitten,” I said gently. “A ball.”
Evans looked abashed. “Not those.” She picked up the photo, the key. “These. This is a picture of my mama’s house. We used to live with her before I messed everything up. Ramona was happy there. I was, too. I just couldn’t hold it together.” She handed the photo to me. The house was unspectacular, a small wood frame with a sagging chain-link fence around a scraggly yard, drooping curtains at the windows. “You asked if there was anyplace Ramona would go. I didn’t forget Mama’s, but I never thought she’d go there. Then, after a while, I started to think maybe she would.”
I studied the photo. Looked over at Evans. “And the key?”
“Ramona let herself in after school when Mama wasn’t home. A latchkey kid? She knew how to take care of herself, even then.”
“I’m sure Detective Hogan has already checked the house, Leesa. It’d—”
“I didn’t tell him nothing about it. I didn’t tell him anything after he came in and talked to me like he did, like I hurt Ramona, like I was no better than dirt.” Her eyes fired. “It’s how they always do. I knew then I was going to have to find Ramona myself. I just needed somebody working for me. That’s when I found you. I got no problem giving you Ramona’s things, telling you about the house. I trust you.”
“What I’m saying is, you wouldn’t have had to tell him about your last known address, he would already—”
She shook her head violently. “No. Believe me. He didn’t care enough to do all that.” She shoved the key in my hand. “You go. See if she’s there.” Evans dulled. “Mama’s gone, passed not long after Ramona went into foster care. Maybe that and me doing what I was doing had something to do with it. Something else that’s my fault. I don’t know who’s there now.”
“Other family?”
“I got a sister and a brother, but we don’t speak, haven’t in a long time. Lester is always in and out of trouble. Marla gave up on both of us altogether. She tried to get them to give her Ramona when things got bad, but they wouldn’t, so she gave up after a while. She’s in Shreveport now. Maybe she stayed in touch with Ramona. I don’t know. She sure didn’t stay in touch with me.”
“When’s the last time you heard from either of them?”
“Lester, not since the funeral. Marla sent me a letter while I was inside. That’s how I know she’s in Louisiana. She blames me for Mama dying like she did, worried sick about Ramona and me. She’s right.”
“Do you still have that letter?”
Evans offered a quizzical look.
“It’d have her address on the envelope.”
“You’re thinking Ramona got all the way down there? How could she by herself? She’s a child and she’s never been anywhere before.”
“She’s fifteen and resourceful,” I said. “And she has a job. We have no idea how long she’s been planning this.”
Evans started to rise. “I’ll go get it.”
“Wait,” I said. “Would Ramona run to Lester?”
Evans eased back down, a stricken look on her face. “I hope not. Lester has always been just bad to the bone. I never did trust him around my baby. He ran with all kinds back then, probably still does. I don’t talk to him. I don’t even know where he is, and I like it like that.” Her eyes met mine, pleading. “But he could have changed, maybe? If she did go back, and he was still there, maybe he wouldn’t do nothing to her?”
“You didn’t tell Detective Hogan about Lester or Marla, did you?”
Evans shook her head. “I wasn’t going to get any help from him, and even if he went by Mama’s, in that neighborhood, nobody was going to tell him anything.”
Evans was right, the neighborhood closed ranks when white cops came around asking questions. Hogan wouldn’t have gotten much, even if Ramona had come home. Hell, I might not get anything, either. Strangers were strangers, no matter what color they were.
I took out my phone, pulled up the photo of Poole’s map, and showed it to Evans. “Do you know of anyplace in this area where Ramona might want to go? Maybe someone she knows? A family friend, a special place, someone she might trust?”
Evans took the phone, studied the photograph, then shook her head. “No. I don’t think so.” She handed the phone back. “Some mother I am.”
I slipped the photo of the house and Ramona’s key into my bag. “That’s okay. The letter, please, and your mother’s address.”
* * *
It was after three and getting dark, winter dark, gray and desolate, as though the sun had backed away and left the world to freeze to death. The old Evans house didn’t look like much from the curb. It was small and sunken in, rotting. There were rusted bars on the dirty windows. It looked empty. The block was unimpressive, dotted with small bungalows, a few of them displaying flashing Christmas lights strung along spindly bushes. In front of the house across the street, a half-inflated snowman and three angels were bent over at the waist, foreheads in the snow, as though they’d been shot and left for dead.
I walked up the front steps, an official-looking clipboard in my hand, a fake ID pinned to the front of my jacket. No one paid much attention to folks with clipboards and official-looking ID. No one wanted to engage for fear the bad news was there for them and not their neighbor. The trick was to act like you belonged, that you had important business to do—and not a lot of time to do it in. Often this was enough.
There was a yellow sticker pasted across the front door that informed me the Evans home had been lost to foreclosure. The lock on the door was new, courtesy of the bank. Ramona’s key would do me no good here. Around the back of the house, I found the same situation—yellow sticker, new lock, but by way of an early Christmas gift, there was a busted window opening access to the covered porch. It was likely the work of neighborhood kids, knowing the house was empty, looking for a place to do things they weren’t allowed to do at home, or maybe Ramona had busted it.
I put the clipboard down on a step, unclipped the fake ID from my jacket and put it on top, then took a quick look around to make sure no one was watching. Nobody I could see, so I crawled gingerly through the opening. Up, over, in, landing on all fours with zero footing, my boots slipping, scraping, sliding, on icy planked flooring covered in patchy snow blown in through the hole.
I stood, dusted off my gloves, blinking into the dark, smelling must and cold. The tiny flashlight from my pocket did little to light my way, but I wasn’t supposed to be here in the first place, so I didn’t really need a big, booming burst of light bouncing off the windows to announce the fact that I was trespassing on bank property. The house had been emptied out of furniture, from what I could see. It was just a shell now, murky, lifeless, and a little creepy, like the bare walls were watching me as I made my way along.
The floors were bare, hardwood, but there was no give in the frozen slats, so every step I took sounded ten times louder than I needed them to. I felt like Frankenstein’s monster stomping through a village. I scanned for shoe prints, but saw only the ones my boots were making. It was clear nobody had been in here in a while. My flash lit something standing in a corner, and I jumped, thinking it was a man lying in wait, but it was only a grungy, raggedy settee covered in plastic that someone had stood up on its end and propped against the wall. Still, my heart beat a mile a minute. If Ramona had come back here and had chosen to stay, she was made of sterner stuff than I was.
The second floor was just as desolate—empty bedrooms, a gutted bathroom, layers of dust, again not a single shoe print. I went back the way I’d come, flicking the flash off at the back window, crawling back out, legs first, glad to be free of the creepy house, even if free meant being back outside where it was as cold as a witch’s tit. When I came back around to the front, there was an old man shoveling his walk across the street.
He looked up and saw me. “Hope y’all are about to do something with that house. Leaving it sitting empty like that is asking for trouble.”
I walked over to him, the clipboard in my hand. “You see people hanging around over there?”
“Just you folks with your stickers and such. Heard somebody bought it for the taxes, once Corlene died of that stroke. Couldn’t expect her kids to take care of it. No account. Real shame.” He leaned on the shovel, a blue skullcap with a Bears logo on it pulled low on his head.
“You lived here a long time?”
“Fifty-two years. I was one of the first ones on this block after the white folks ran for the hills.”
“So you knew Marla, Leesa, and Lester?”
The old man made a face. “Oh yeah. The whole neighborhood knew them. The last two stayed up on the corner doing all kinds of stuff. Marla was the only one had something about herself, but she got up and away from here a little after Corlene died. Last I heard, Leesa was in jail for drugs and carrying on.”
“And Lester?”
“Where he always is. All but lives out of Lippy’s pool hall, up the street, but if you’re looking to get money out of him for that house, you can hang that up. Lester steals money, he don’t do nothing legal to make it.”
I pulled the flyer with Ramona’s photo out of my bag. “Have you seen this girl hanging around over there?”
The old man squinted at the flyer, then back at me. “What’s a runaway child got to do with you selling Corlene’s place?”
“We can’t get the ball rolling,” I said, “until we find all Mrs. Evans’s relatives who might have a stake in the proceeds. This girl is her granddaughter.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “That’s little Ramona?” He stared again at the flyer with renewed interest. “Well, I’ll be. She lived over there since she was a baby. We used to see her running up and down the block, riding a little tricycle and all.” He shook his head solemnly. “They took her from Corlene right before she had that stroke. Leesa had got picked up again with drugs on her. Them taking that baby’s what killed that poor woman. Now she’s run off? Lord, have mercy. I haven’t seen her hanging around, but I’ll surely keep an eye out for her now. Least I can do for Corlene.” He trained a steady gaze on me. “As for you folk, we don’t need a crack house popping up over there, so if you got plans for the place, get on with them.”
“Yes, sir.” I took a pen from my bag, wrote my number on the back of the flyer. “If you do see Ramona, would you mind giving me a call? The sooner we get all parties assembled, the faster we can get that house settled.” I handed the sheet to him. “And the better off the neighborhood will be, right?”
The old man stuffed the paper into his pocket and moved off the shovel. “If I see her, I’ll call you.”
“And Lippy’s, you said?”
The man’s eyes widened. “Look, I know you ain’t planning on going down to Lippy’s looking for Lester Evans.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Because Lippy’s place is about as next to nothing as they come. Because it’s full of thieves and gangbangers and women who like to hang out with ’em. And Lester Evans ain’t a bit of good, and never will be.” He shook his head adamantly. “No, you’d do well to stay away from over there. Whatever stake Lester’s got in that house, you best mail it to him or give to him in court.”
“Thanks for the advice, Mr. . . . ?”
“Morley. Zeke Morley. And that advice is the same I’d give my own granddaughters. Yes, indeed, you best stay away from Lester Evans.”
“I’ll let the police handle it, then,” I said to put his mind at ease. “Do you know if Lester has a car?”
Morley frowned. “Wish he had a car. That fool rolls around here on that motorcycle all hours of the day and night like he still lives here. I think he’s trying to check to see if anybody’s moved in, so he can do something about it. Lester’s like that. Trifling.”
“Do you remember what his bike looks like?”
“Of course, I remember. I’m not that old. It’s big and black, with red flames licking on it. And loud. Revs it up, too. Just to show us, I guess. I don’t know how he bought it, in and out of jail like he always is, but however he did, you can bet it wasn’t legal. Riding a bike in the middle of a winter like this. That shows you right there, he ain’t right in the head.”
“Thanks for your help, Mr. Morley. You be careful with that snow, now.”
“I’m not worried about this snow, young lady. Been taking care of business since I burst into the world in 1945.”
I gave him a thumbs-up, then headed back across the street, but stopped for one last question.
“You didn’t happen to see the police over at the Evans place, did you? Two white cops?”
“All I’ve seen over there is you bank people. If the police are looking for Lester, they best do it down at Lippy’s.”
The shovel started back up as I pulled away from the curb. I gave Mr. Morley one final look as he slung a shovelful of snow off his walk. He wasn’t worried about this snow.
Chapter 6
I dialed Ramona’s phone, but got nothing, no dial tone, no voice mail, just dead air. I slid my phone into my bag and stared out my car window at the pool hall Morley had warned me away from. It was a pool hall, all right, and it looked rough. The front windows were grimy and had neon beer signs covering them, like Clancy’s, like any bar, only no shamrocks here. Nobody had bothered to shovel the sidewalk in front, there wasn’t even any rock salt thrown down. Lippy, apparently, didn’t give a blip if you slipped, fell, or sued for damages. If it was the latter, I had a feeling you’d probably live to regret it.
From the sidewalk, I could see tables lined along the window with roughneck-looking patrons sitting at them hoisting bottles of beer. I spotted the motorcycle Mr. Morley described right outside the front door, black with red flames. I snapped a photo of the back plate, then stood on the sidewalk between the bike and the front door, watching dodgy folks walk past me, staring curiously like I’d lost my way and all good sense. Still, I felt safer out here in the open than I would have inside the place.
I backed up, stepped off the curb, and took up a spot close to Lester’s bike, my hands in my pockets, my collar up, cars slipping up and down the street behind me. Then I waited for someone inside to glance out, see me, and tell Lester about it.
The bike was surprisingly clean, given the elements, and it looked like he babied the hell out of it. The streets were messy as heck, with all the snow and slush and salt, but Lester’s bike appeared to have repelled most of it. It almost looked like he’d airlifted it here right from a custom car wash. I was sure I wouldn’t have to wait by the bike too long, and I was right. In less than two minutes, a big, dark man, well over six feet and around two-fifty, came charging out of the pool hall straight toward me.
“Hey, what the hell you doing with my bike? Back up!” His dark eyes were wild and mean, and there was a deep, jagged scar running down the right side of his face. He wore a short-sleeved T-shirt under a black leather biker’s vest, gang and prison tats running down both arms—arms the size of paint cans. His jeans rode low on a thick waist, and his biker boots had to be at least a size 13. No coat, but Lester didn’t look cold.
I watched as the windows to the pool hall filled with half-drunken spectators and the foot traffic on the street slowed, then stopped with the promise of a Saturday night ass-kicking they could talk about in church tomorrow. I took a step back from the bike. It had served its purpose.
Lester checked the bike for damage, a scowl on his face, black ratlike eyes daring me to make a move while he did it. When he was satisfied his bike was as he’d left it, he turned to me for an explanation. He looked a little like Leesa Evans, similar features, but Lester was prison hard, likely broken beyond repair and unreachable to right reason. I’d encountered a lot of Lesters in my time. You didn’t turn your back on a Lester. You didn’t give a Lester a single opening. You kept your wits about you, your head in the game, or you walked away crooked from a Lester, or maybe not at all. I kept my right hand in my pocket. Let Lester worry about what I had in there.
“Lester Evans?”
He blinked, then sneered at me. “Who the hell are you?”
“I work for your sister Leesa.”
He looked confused, then turned back toward the windows, scanned the street. Looking for witnesses? A cheering section? Maybe a little bit of both? “What you talking about work for?”
“Your niece, Ramona, has run away,” I said. “I’m looking for her. Maybe you’ve seen or heard from her?”
“What’s that got to do with you all up on my bike?”
“I don’t want your bike.” I held the flyer up so he could see Ramona’s picture. “Have you seen your niece? Maybe around the old neighborhood? Your mother’s house?”
“Wouldn’t know. I got no reason to go around there no more.”
