The Killing Room Read Free

shitty . Byrne took out his keys.
    ‘Come on. Save the bus money.’
    Byrne grabbed the lead, walked across the street, willing himself not to turn around to see if Gabriel was following.
    About a block up Filbert he caught sight of a small shadow coming up next to him.
    The group home where Gabriel Hightower lived was on Indiana Avenue between Third and Fourth Streets, deep intoa blighted area of North Philly called the Badlands. Byrne took Third Street north and, during the entire ride, neither of them said a word. When Byrne turned onto Indiana Gabriel said, ‘This is cool right here.’
    The group home was nearly a block away.
    ‘I’ll take you all the way. It’s not a problem.’
    The kid didn’t say anything. Byrne acquiesced and pulled over. They were now a half block from one of the most infamous drug corners in the city. It didn’t take Byrne long to spot two young men scouting the area for 5-0. He caught the eye of one hard-looking kid of about eighteen, trying his best to look inconspicuous. Byrne threw the look back until the kid looked away. The spotter took out a cell and sauntered in the other direction. Byrne had clearly been made. He put the Taurus in park, kept the engine running.
    ‘Okay, G-Flash,’ he said. As he said this he looked over, saw Gabriel roll his eyes, shake his head. Byrne understood. The only thing worse than hanging out with an old white guy – and an old white cop to boot – was having that old white guy say your street name out loud.
    ‘Just call me Gabriel, okay?’
    ‘You got it,’ Byrne said. They went quiet. Byrne got the feeling that, if he didn’t say something soon, they would sit there for the rest of the day. ‘Well, we’re supposed to give this three times, see what’s what. You think you might want to hang out again?’
    Instead of answering, Gabriel stared at his hands.
    Byrne decided to give the kid an exit line, make it easy on him. ‘Tell you what. I’ll give you a call in the next few weeks, and we can see where we are then. No pressure one way or the other. Deal?’
    Byrne stuck out his hand. He put it right in front of Gabriel, so the kid was either going to shake hands, or disrespect Byrne big time. The kid hesitated for a few moments, then put his hand in Byrne’s. It wasn’t really a handshake, but more the idea of a handshake. After a second or two Gabriel tossed up his hood, opened the door, and got out. Before he closed the door he turned back, looked at Byrne with his young old eyes, and said: ‘John’s is good, too.’
    Byrne had no idea what the boy was talking about. Who is John? Then it registered. He was talking about John’s Roast Pork.
    ‘John’s? You mean over on Snyder?’
    The kid nodded.
    ‘That’s true,’ Byrne said. ‘John’s is good. We can go there some time if you want.’
    Gabriel started to close the car door, stopped, thought for a moment. He leaned in, as if to share some kind of secret. Byrne found that he was holding his breath. He leaned forward, too.
    ‘I know you know about me,’ Gabriel said.
    ‘Know what about you?’
    ‘ Man .’ Gabriel shook his head. ‘White people always got a piece of paper when they talk to me. Social workers, counselors, teachers, people who work for the county. Foster-home people. They all look at that piece of paper, then they talk to me. Gotta be something on there, right?’
    ‘Yeah,’ Byrne said, keeping his smile in check. ‘I guess I know a little bit.’
    ‘Well, there’s one thing you gotta know, something that ain’t on that piece of paper.’
    ‘What’s that?’
    ‘He didn’t bang.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ Byrne asked. ‘ Who didn’t bang?’
    Gabriel looked up and down the street, behind, watching his back. ‘My brother Terrell,’ he said. ‘Terrell didn’t bang like they say.’
    A few seconds later Gabriel closed the car door and quickly cut across a snow-covered vacant lot, gracefully skirting a discarded refrigerator and a small pile of