Play Dead

We get out of the car, and I immediately realize that Laurie and I are about to reverse the traditional male-female roles, as we always do in situations like this. I am by nature a physical coward, and what I perceive to be dangerous surroundings intimidate me. She is a trained police officer, used to threatening situations, and if she is worried, she certainly does not show it. Laurie and I both know that I’m glad she’s here.

I am still somewhat nervous about this. We are going to try to talk to people who were friends or family of a man who tried to murder me, who was killed in the process, and we are doing so in a place that does not exactly look open and inviting.

“We don’t need to be doing this,” I say.

“It’ll be fine, Andy.”

“We haven’t even gotten the new trial.”

Before she can answer, a car pulls up behind ours, and Marcus gets out. He most likely has judged this to be a time when staying in the background is not enough, and he wants to be present and accounted for if unpleasantness should break out. Suffice it to say that his presence changes my outlook somewhat.

I dare somebody to mess with Marcus and me.

Laurie and I approach the house, and Statue Man finally moves, albeit slightly. He tilts his head to follow our progress, and the look on his face is not particularly welcoming.

“Can you tell us what apartment Antwan Cooper lived in?”

“Get lost.”

“We’re looking for someone who knew him, maybe a family member that we can talk to.”

“Get fucking lost,” he says, slowly standing up. This is not going well.

“Tell him the number.” It’s Marcus’s voice; he has approached and is standing just behind us.

Statue Man looks over and sees Marcus. He sizes him up for a moment, then looks back at me. “Two B,” says Statue Man.

We reach the front door and I attempt to ring the bell, though no sound can be heard. Laurie doesn’t do or say anything, so I knock on the door a few times, but it doesn’t seem to attract any attention. “We appear to be thwarted,” I say.

Laurie frowns and turns the doorknob. The door swings wide open. I graciously let her enter first. The interior is predictably depressing, with a narrow, dark corridor with six apartment doors, and a staircase leading upstairs. Since Statue Man said we should go to 2-B, we head up the stairs. As we climb, I look back and see that Marcus has taken a position at the bottom of the stairs, thereby positioning himself as an impenetrable barrier between Statue Man and us. If the Alamo walls were that reliable, Davy Crockett would have spent his declining years in a condo in Boca Raton.

The second floor is identical to the first, and the B apartment is the second door on the right. Since I am apparently the designated knocker, I try my luck.

“Yeah?” a voice calls out from within the apartment.

“We want to talk to you about Antwan Cooper,” I say through the door.

“You cops?”

That’s a tough question to answer, and not just because Laurie is a cop and I’m not. It’s tough because I’m not sure which answer will get whoever’s inside to open the door and talk to us.

I decide to avoid the question. “Can we come in?”

“Nobody’s stopping you.”

I take that as an invitation to open the door, but Laurie motions for me to wait a moment. She has apparently decided that caution is called for, and she takes out her handgun, concealing it at her side. She gives me the okay, and I open the door.

The apartment is sparsely furnished but looks neat and cared for. Sitting at a small table is a teenager, maybe fifteen years old. He is obviously whom we were speaking with, but his voice sounds older. His eyes look even older than that.

“So, you cops?”

“I’m a lawyer,” I say. “Did you know Antwan Cooper?”

“They want to talk about Pops,” he says, and I realize he’s talking to someone else. I look over, and there’s a middle-aged woman standing in the doorway between this room and the kitchen. She is holding a kitchen towel in her hand.

She looks at us. “What about?”

“Was he your husband?”

She looks at me evenly and says with considerable pride, “He was. Now, who are you?”

“My name is Andy Carpenter. This is Laurie Collins. Just before your husband died, the passenger in the car he was driving tried to kill me.”

“I’m sorry about that. I’m sure Antwan meant you no harm.”

“Do you know why he was driving the car?”

“That man paid him five hundred dollars.”

“Archie Durelle?”

“I didn’t know his name,” she says. “But Antwan knew him. He trusted him. Said when you fight next to a man, that was all you needed to know about him.”

“Were they in the Army together?” Laurie asks.

“Yes. But Antwan didn’t recognize him at first. I think ’cause he hadn’t seen him in a long time. He just showed up one day, said he needed a favor, and that he would pay Antwan five hundred dollars.”

“And Antwan didn’t ask what the favor was?”

She looks at me as if I’m not the brightest bulb in the chandelier. “It was five hundred dollars.”

“What happened to the money?” Laurie asks.