Devilish Details Read Free Page B

wouldn’t think it was so wonderful if you had to deal with her holy-roller Aunt
Ametrine preaching at you over mashed potatoes and meatloaf. Sister
Ametrine will all but hit you over the head with her Bible. Talks
about how Christians need to ‘smite the demons out of misguided
folks’.”
    Willa and Jazz had grown up in foster care
thanks to Vivienne, their troubled, neglectful mother. They’d been
separated six times. Jazz being younger had stayed with Vivienne
almost four years after she was born. Willa had been removed by
child welfare by then. Willa’s fourth set of foster parents adopted
her. Through them she gained three aunts and six uncles,
“holy-roller” Aunt Ametrine being one of her adoptive mother’s two
sisters. Jazz didn’t call them her family, because in her mind they
weren’t. No matter what they tried to say.
    “Is it good meatloaf? I love me some good
meatloaf and gravy. Umf!” Tyretta nodded.
    “You’re not listening to a damn thing I say.
I...” Jazz stopped when her phone signaled a text. “Damn right she
better be dancing. I got bills to pay.”
    “Who’d you say got killed tonight?” Tyretta
said, switching gears back to the murder.
    “It was yesterday or last night. Some guy
named Brandon Wilks.” Jazz waved a hand and turned her attention to
the invoices on her desk.
    “I know that name,” Tyretta said frowning.
“I wanna say he ran with the South Side of Town boys, you know that
gang from the bottom.”
    “You mean one of the four or five gangs in
the bottom,” Jazz replied dryly.
    “The Bottom” was the nickname for a south
Baton Rouge neighborhood. Starting in the forties and fifties, many
middle-class and stable blue collar African-American families moved
there. The area boasted the first Black high school offering a
diploma. Two of the city’s first African-American doctors had
offices there and so did a black dentist. Small businesses
flourished as well, with upholstery shops, various repairs shops,
and more that catered to black customers. Black Baton Rougeans
avoided the demeaning experience of being forced to enter through a
back door or being called “boy” and “girl”. And like many black
neighborhoods, the passage of time brought change that wasn’t for
the better. The downward slide began in the mid-1970s. When crack
hit in the eighties, the slide became a speedy tumble down into a
crime infested “hood”.
    “I think they hooked up with some of those
Spanish dudes that started movin’ south of LSU. Off GSRI Road, you
know where I’m talkin’ about. Or maybe they got into a turf fight
with ‘em. I don’t know. That was three years ago maybe.” Tyretta
sat back and warmed to her subject.
“Yeah, I heard they kissed and made up, started doing deals
together. Or something.”
    “Nice history lesson, Tyretta. Now get back
to...” Jazz’s head snapped up. “What did you say about Spanish
dudes?”
    “You know I was livin’ in Atlanta back in
the day, moved there in 2005 for a minute. When I came back in
2007, I dated this guy named Rasheed. Damn, he was fine but
he--”
    Jazz cut her off to redirect her back.
“Right, Rasheed was all that. But what about the Spanish
dudes?”
    “Some crazy gangsters from Houston and Cali
I remember. Rasheed used to party with them. Wonder where he is
now?” Tyretta brushed her long locks as though expecting handsome
Rasheed to walk through the office door.
    “In prison. Got thirty years for stabbing
his girlfriend. She almost died. You remember the names of any of
those Hispanic gangsters?” Jazz got up and came around the
desk.
    “Damn, he didn’t even kill the girl and he
got thirty years,” Tyretta said.
    “She was the third person he attacked in
four years, and he had a record for other stuff. That dude is a
violent psycho with a nice body and charming smile. Good thing
y’all broke up.”
    Jazz leaned against her desk and crossed her
arms. She’d rattled off Rasheed’s fate, but her mind was