I started running the moment I stepped out of the house. The long, empty street stretched into the night, like it never wanted to end. I tried my best to avoid the yellow pools of light that the street lamps cast on the ground. I wasn’t sure if the two patrolmen had connected the dots yet. But if they had, it wouldn’t take long for them to head back to headquarters and report what went down.
I had a good two miles to go before reaching the center of town. Before the police cars caught up to me, I knew my only shot was to find a hiding spot, and fast. Captain Wilkens had once told me, "If you need a place to lie low, head to Godson Arora’s on King’s Street." It sounded like solid advice at the time, but now I realized I had no clue where King’s Street even was. Was I running toward it, or getting farther away?
I turned a corner and started down a street that led straight into the heart of town. I kept to the shadows, still careful not to be seen. The all-night neon signs created a faint glow over the town, making everything look even farther away. I glanced at my watch. It was getting close to 3 a.m. Daybreak wasn’t far off.
Suddenly, a car made a left turn at the far end of the street, its bright lights cutting through the darkness. When I saw the beams, I was passing a house. Instinct kicked in. I placed one hand on the low yard wall, vaulted over it, and dropped down to my knees. The car roared up the street, its headlights sweeping across the wall, forcing me to crouch even lower. I heard the car’s tires screech as it slammed on the brakes and made a hard turn onto Mt. Vernon Avenue.
Once it was out of sight, I got back on my feet, jumped back onto the street, and started running again. By the time I reached the bottom of the street, right on the edge of the shopping center, I was gasping for air. I knew this area was risky—this was a cop’s beat. By now, every officer here would know what I looked like.
I moved through the dark backstreets, passing small, rundown shops, grimy restaurants, and shabby apartment buildings. This was the hidden part of the city, like a dirty secret, where the workers of the wealthy city of Alexandra lived.
A shadow flickered in front of me, and I froze. I quickly ducked into a shop doorway. A large patrolman strolled up to the curb, balancing himself on the edge, swinging his nightstick while gazing up at the grey-black sky. He took a seat, probably exhausted, and sat there for about five minutes while I silently watched. When he finally got up, he continued down the street, away from where I was hiding.
At the next crossroads, I made a right turn. Across the street, a dim yellow light spilled through a glass-paneled door, creating a rectangle on the dirty sidewalk. Above it, a neon sign flickered, reading, “Delicious Meals. Open 24/7.” I crossed the street, scanning the area to make sure no one was around, and then stepped into the square of light, peering through the door’s glass panel.
Inside, a fat white man with greasy black hair, a rough stubble on his chin, and hairy arms resting on the counter was staring blankly at a newspaper spread out before him. The room was dimly lit, and there were no other customers. I pushed the door open and stepped in. The fat man looked up, but his eyes, heavy with boredom, barely registered me.
"Sir, can I use your phone?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
He lazily lifted a dirty thumb and pointed to the far side of the room.
"Go ahead," he said with a yawn, revealing his big, white teeth. "Knock yourself out."
I stepped into the phone booth, shut the door behind me, and scanned the phone book. I found Godson Arora’s number and dialed. As the phone rang, I glanced through the glass panel at a large man sitting outside, his bulky form barely fitting in his chair.
“Hello?” A tired-sounding voice answered.
“Is Godson Arora there?”
“You’re talking to him,” the voice replied. “What do you want?”
“Captain Wilkens told me to call you,” I explained. “The Alexandra police are after me, and I need to disappear fast.”
The man on the other end sighed, long and heavy.
“Well, if Captain Wilkens said so, who am I to argue?” he said. “Where are you right now?”
“I’m at an eating joint on Mortimer Street,” I answered.
“Do you know where my place is?”
“No,” I said. “I’ve been walking around, dodging cops.”
The man groaned, clearly annoyed.
“So, I’ve got to come pick you up, huh?” he said.
“That would be great,” I said.
“Yeah, great for you, not so much for me,” he muttered and then went silent.
“You still there?” I asked after a few seconds.
“Yeah, yeah. The things I do for Captain Wilkens. Just stay where you are. I’ll be there in about thirty minutes, maybe less.”
“Thanks a lot!”
The line went dead, and I slowly hung up the receiver.
As I turned to open the booth door, I noticed a shadow flicker across the narrow rectangle of light spilling onto the sidewalk. Suddenly, two large men shoved the door open and stepped inside the small eating house. They made their way straight toward the fat man. He straightened himself slowly, his large, hairy hands resting calmly on the counter in front of him. His face showed no emotion.
Through the glass, I caught a few of the whispered words from one of the men: “Police. We’re looking for someone. Anybody been in?”
I shrank deeper into the tight space of the booth, feeling a wave of sweat cool on my face.
“I haven’t seen anyone in the last two hours,” the fat man replied.
“Are you sure?” the officer asked, his voice low and menacing.
“I just told you, didn’t I?” the fat man shot back, his tone curt. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, placed it between his lips, and fumbled for a lighter.
The officer stepped forward, smacking the cigarette from his mouth while grabbing the fat man’s cheek with thick fingers.
“Don’t smoke while I’m talking to you, punk,” the officer growled.
The fat man stiffened, his dark eyes glinting with restrained anger, but he didn’t say another word. He didn’t move.
The officer continued, “We’re looking for a man of African ancestry, tall for his age, probably around thirty, and wearing a peaky hat. If you see him, report it to the Alexandra police headquarters. Got it?”
“Yeah,” the fat man responded.
“You’d better.”
With that, the two officers turned and walked out, leaving the door wide open. They disappeared down the street.
The fat man left the counter, walked over to the door, glanced outside, then shut it with a quiet click. He didn’t even look at me.
I took out my handkerchief and wiped the sweat from my face. Then I opened the door of the booth and stepped out. The fat man looked at me, his eyes cold.
“They might come back,” he said. “I saw a cop hanging around the corner. You should go in there.” He pointed to a door near the phone booth with his thumb.
“Thanks,” I said and quickly opened the door, stepping into a small, worn-out living room.
A large white cat lounged in an armchair. It lifted its head, gave me a sleepy glance, and then went back to napping. I took out my cigarette pack, lit one, and inhaled deeply. My knees felt weak like I had been running all day, and my breath was heavy.
A few minutes later, the fat man came in with a steaming cup of coffee and set it on the table in front of me. He pulled open a drawer, took out a small bottle of whisky, and pushed it toward me.
“Do you have any friends?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Someone’s on their way to pick me up. Thanks for everything.”
“No problem,” he said with a shrug. “I wouldn’t help the Alexandra police, even if they paid me. You’ll be safe here. Just wait for your ride and don’t do anything stupid.” With that, he left the room.
I poured a shot of whisky into the coffee and took a sip. The warmth spread through my chest, and I finally felt myself relax a little. I sat down, feeling the exhaustion sink into my bones.
This was the first time I had a moment of peace since I discovered Mr. Powell dead. But my mind was still racing, more focused on my own situation than on why he was killed. His last words kept echoing in my head: "I have a theory that might interest you." I knew he was aware of my search for information about LaToya Young, so it seemed like his theory had something to do with her. Could he have been killed because of that theory? If the killer wasn’t there when he called me, how did they know Mr. Powell was going to talk? It started to feel like the killer was someone Mr. Powell knew.
I pulled out the .36 revolver and gave it a good look. It seemed either brand new or really well maintained. The serial number was 3987651. I checked the clip and noticed only two shots had been fired. Either the killer was a great shot, or it happened up close and personal.
I was sure Captain Donald could dig up some information on the gun. I planned to send it to him as soon as I could. Wrapping it carefully in my handkerchief, I tucked it back into my jacket pocket.
What was my next move? I was convinced that the answers to LaToya Young's kidnapping and murder were here in Alexandra. But the longer I stayed, the greater the risk of getting arrested. I was the prime suspect in Mr. Powell's murder, and if I didn’t find the real killer soon, there wouldn’t be a safe corner of this country left for me.
This thought made me sweat. Staying in Alexandra seemed inevitable. I realized that if I wanted to move around freely, I’d need to come up with a disguise. Maybe if I lightened my hair, threw on some sunglasses, and changed my clothes, I could go unnoticed. With all the African visitors and immigrants in Alexandra, I might be able to blend in.
I was still running through my options when a large man stuck his head into the room.
"Godson’s waiting for you outside, alright?" he said.
I stood up. "Sure," I replied. "Can he come in?"
The big guy nodded and disappeared. A moment later, Godson Arora walked in. He was small, with thin bones, gray hair, a pointy face, and emotionless eyes. He wore a black leather jacket zipped up to his chin and a pair of dirty gray pants. He walked over and shook my hand.
"Nice to meet you, sir," he said, his voice calm. "Tell me, how much trouble are you in? How much heat is on you?"
I didn’t sugarcoat it. "I was found in a house where two people were killed—the owner and his Mexican helper. The police think I did it."
Godson frowned. "That’s bad," he said. "So, what do you want me to do? Help you escape from Alexandra?"
"No," I answered. "I need a safe place to investigate. If I want to clear my name, I need to find the real killer."
"You’re fooling yourself," he said flatly. "You should get out of Alexandra while you still can."
"Not just yet," I insisted. "Captain Wilkens said you could help me. Can you?"
"He did?" Godson’s eyes lit up, and he broke into a grin. "Well, in that case, I think I can. I do quite a few favors for that man! Anyway, I’ll hide you for a few days. But I can’t offer more than that—any longer, and it’d be too risky. I don’t want any run-ins with the Alexandra police. They’re ruthless! Now, listen closely. My car is parked at the end of the street. I’ll go and get it, then drive by here slowly. Jones—the big guy who runs this place—will give you a signal when it’s time to move. I’ll have the car door open. Jump in quickly, alright?"
I
nodded. "Alright," I told him.
END
OF EPISODE 31
P.S.
Stay tuned for Episode 32, which will be published here next Sunday.
No comments:
Post a Comment