The Hunt Club Read Free Page B

and hearing it, I thought to turn back and open the door again slightly to get some light. Just outside in a pile of rubble against the building, I spied a rock that would serve my purpose. I picked it up and propped the door with it, holding it open about five inches.
    The Jeffersons lived in number 3, the back unit on the left side. I listened at the door and heard only the familiar drone of a television but couldn’t really tell if it came from this apartment or one of the others. I knocked, got no response, knocked again. “Mrs. Jefferson.”
    Finally, a shuffle of feet, then a woman’s voice from inside. “Who’s that?”
    I knew a few tricks myself. You say Child Protective Services to some people, the door never opens. But you say Human Resources, of which CPS is a part, they often think it’s about their welfare payments, and it’s open sesame. Mrs. Jefferson opened the door a crack, the chain still on. “What you want?”
    â€œI’d like to talk to you a minute if I could.”
    â€œYou doin’ that.”
    â€œWe got a call about Keeshiana. Is she all right?”
    â€œWho called?”
    â€œYour mother.” Thank God, I thought. It should have been the girl’s school, since she’d already missed two full weeks, but they hadn’t gotten around to it by the time I called them to verify the absences. Luckily, the grandmother had come by the apartment yesterday and after leaving had called CPS. “She’s worried about you both.” I shifted to another foot, keeping the body language relaxed.
    â€œAin’t nothin’ to worry ’bout. I be taking care of my baby.”
    â€œI’m sure you are, Mrs. Jefferson, but when somebody’s mom calls in and says they’re worried, I’m supposed to come out and see if everything’s okay.” I pulled the parka closer around me. “If I could just come in and talk to you both for a minute, I could be on my way.”
    To my right, the door at the opposite end of the hallway suddenly opened all the way with a bang, and a posse of three men came inside amid a blizzard of profanity and posturing. All of them were layered up with jackets, all of them down with the perp walk. My testicles withdrew into my body as Mrs. Jefferson shut the door on me.
    The back door stayed open. The leader of the gang, seeing me, stopped and looked around behind him, then down the hall behind me. “Yo, fuck.”
    I nodded. “’Sup,” I said, dishing back some brilliant repartee. But I turned to face them, standing my ground.
    â€œâ€™Sup wi’ this shit?” They’d come up close, surrounding me, all intimidation, the usual. The man’s eyes looked a sickly yellow. He hadn’t shaved in several days. Or, apparently, brushed his teeth ever.
    I looked him in his yellow eyes. “It’s no shit,” I said. I held up my ID. “CPS, guys. Just checkin’ on Keeshiana in here. See she’s all right.”
    The front man took a beat, another look around. He swore again, cocked his head, and the posse moved past. The last man, eschewing his earlier mannerly approach, hawked and spit on the floor at my feet.
    Tempted to tell them to have a nice day, I figured there wasn’t any advantage in it and instead bit my tongue, then turned and knocked again on the door. “Me again,” I said.
    The door opened, no chain this time. “You some kind of fool or what?” she asked.
    I followed her in, the door closed again and bolted behind. It was the kind of apartment I’d seen on dozens of similar occasions before. Kitchen, living room, two small bedrooms. Neither neat nor clean, with dirty clothes strewn on furniture, paper bags littering the floor, KFC and McDonald’s containers stacked in piles on end tables and bookshelves that hadn’t seen a book in half a century.
    She’d pulled the blinds and covered most of the windows