Monday, March 22, 2004
"They . . . they were some shots."
The squad car raced up the wet road, skidding at the corner. Its lights were still turning and flashing, turning and flashing, when the cop got out. He ran to the sidewalk and pressed the first two fingers on his right hand into the flesh of the still neck on the ground. After concentrating for a minute, he looked across the street, picturing how it happened, hearing the far-off cry of the ambulance that would not be needed.
"It was that one," the man behind him said, pointing with his cane. "That one 'cross the street started firing.
The cop nodded, looking at the old man, seeing how the cracks in his face only faded into the background cracks of the buildings, the neighborhood, the city. The cop nodded again and crossed the street.
"It was that one," the woman in the large, flowing nightshirt said. "That boy did it. He started shootin'," she said from her porch, pointing her dripping popsicle across the street, from where the cop had just walked.
The cop frowned. He noticed the woman would not look at him. She would only look from body to body, and then wrinkle her nose at the old man.
"No it wadn't," the old man said. "I be standin' right here the whole time. It was that one. They argued, then he started shootin'. Cussin' an shootin'."
"No he did not," the woman said, barging down her steps. "I sat there and watched it. That one started the shootin'. That one."
The cop looked from one side of the street to the other. The ambulance's siren now blared behind him, its red lights flashing over the block, reminding him of a concert, the moment before the band came out onstage, when audience members started clapping and asking each other if they could see the musicians yet. Sleepy heads poked out windows, splashed in red light, awake for a moment. We'll have to close off the street, the cop thought.
"I know what I saw. It was that one!"
"I saw the whole thing. It was him!"
"It was that one," the man behind him said, pointing with his cane. "That one 'cross the street started firing.
The cop nodded, looking at the old man, seeing how the cracks in his face only faded into the background cracks of the buildings, the neighborhood, the city. The cop nodded again and crossed the street.
"It was that one," the woman in the large, flowing nightshirt said. "That boy did it. He started shootin'," she said from her porch, pointing her dripping popsicle across the street, from where the cop had just walked.
The cop frowned. He noticed the woman would not look at him. She would only look from body to body, and then wrinkle her nose at the old man.
"No it wadn't," the old man said. "I be standin' right here the whole time. It was that one. They argued, then he started shootin'. Cussin' an shootin'."
"No he did not," the woman said, barging down her steps. "I sat there and watched it. That one started the shootin'. That one."
The cop looked from one side of the street to the other. The ambulance's siren now blared behind him, its red lights flashing over the block, reminding him of a concert, the moment before the band came out onstage, when audience members started clapping and asking each other if they could see the musicians yet. Sleepy heads poked out windows, splashed in red light, awake for a moment. We'll have to close off the street, the cop thought.
"I know what I saw. It was that one!"
"I saw the whole thing. It was him!"
