Part 2 (1/2)

I was sitting on a sheetless gurney parked outside the Trauma Room. Next to me was the ”crash cart” they had used for Marcus. Rubber tourniquets hung like streamers from the black handles of the cart.

”How's the boy?” Sampson asked. He knew about Marcus already. Somehow, he always knew. The rain was running down his black poncho in little streams, but he didn't seem to care.

I sadly shook my head. I was still feeling wasted. ”Don't know yet. They won't tell me anything. Doctor wanted to know if I was next of kin. They took him to Trauma. He cut himself real bad. So what brings you to happy hour?”

Sampson shrugged his way out of his poncho, and flopped down beside me on the straining gurney. Under the poncho, he had on one of his typical street-detective outfits: silver-and-red Nike sweatsuit, matching high-topped sneakers, thin gold bracelets, signet rings. His street look was intact.

”Where's your gold tooth?” I managed a smile. ”You need a gold tooth to complete your fly ensemble. At least a gold star on one tooth. Maybe some corn braids?”

Sampson snorted out a laugh. ”I heard. I came,” he said offhandedly about his appearance at St. Anthony's. ”You okay? You look like the last of the big, bad bull elephants.”

”Little boy tried to kill himself. Sweet little boy, like Damon. Eleven years old.”

”Want me to run over to their crack crib? Shoot the boy's parents?” Sampson asked. His eyes were obisdian-hard.

”We'll do it later,” I said.

I was probably in the mood. The positive news was that the parents of Marcus Daniels lived together; the bad part was that they kept the boy and his four sisters in the crack house they ran near the Langley Terrace projects. The ages of the children ranged from five to twelve, and all the kids worked in the business. They were ”runners.”

”What are are you doing here?” I asked him for the second time. ”You didn't just happen to show up here at St. A's. What's up?” you doing here?” I asked him for the second time. ”You didn't just happen to show up here at St. A's. What's up?”

Sampson tapped out a cigarette from a pack of Camels. He used only one hand. Very cool. He lit up. Doctors and nurses were everywhere.

I s.n.a.t.c.hed the cigarette away and crushed it under my black Converse sneaker sole, near the hole in the big toe.

”Feel better now?” Sampson eyed me. Then he gave me a broad grin showing his large white teeth. The skit was over. Sampson had worked his magic on me, and it was was magic, including the cigarette trick. I was feeling better. Skits work. Actually, I felt as if I'd just been hugged by about a half-dozen close relatives and both my kids. Sampson is my best friend for a reason. He can push my b.u.t.tons better than anybody. magic, including the cigarette trick. I was feeling better. Skits work. Actually, I felt as if I'd just been hugged by about a half-dozen close relatives and both my kids. Sampson is my best friend for a reason. He can push my b.u.t.tons better than anybody.

”Here comes the angel of mercy,” he said, pointing down the long, chaotic corridor.

Annie Waters was walking toward us with her hands thrust deeply into the pockets of her hospital coat. She had a tight look on her face, but she always does.

”I'm real sorry, Alex. The boy didn't make it. I think he was nearly gone when you got him here. Probably living on all that hope you carry bottled up inside you.”

Powerful images and visceral sensations of carrying Marcus along Fifth and L streets flashed before me. I imagined the hospital death sheet covering Marcus. It's such a small sheet that they use for children.

”The boy was my patient. He adopted me this spring.” I told the two of them what had me so wild and crazed and suddenly depressed.

”Can I get you something, Alex?” said Annie Waters. She had a concerned look on her face.

I shook my head. I had to talk, had to get this out right now.

”Marcus found out I gave help at St. A's, talked to people sometimes. He started coming by the trailer afternoons. Once I pa.s.sed his tests, he talked about his life at the crack house. Everybody he knew in his life was a junkie. Junkie came by my house today... Rita Was.h.i.+ngton. Not Marcus's mother, not his father. The boy tried to slit his own throat, slit his wrists. Just eleven years old.”

My eyes were wet. A little boy dies, somebody should cry. The psychologist for an eleven-year-old suicide victim ought to mourn. I thought so, anyway.

Sampson finally stood up and put his long arm gently on my shoulder. He was six feet nine again. ”Let's head on home, Alex,” he said. ”C'mon, my man. Time to go.”

I went in and looked at Marcus for the last time.

I held his lifeless little hand and thought about the talks the two of us had, the ineffable sadness always in his brown eyes. I remembered a wise, beautiful African proverb: ”It takes a whole village to raise a good child.” ”It takes a whole village to raise a good child.”

Finally, Sampson came and took me away from the boy, took me home.

Where it got much worse.

Chapter 5.

I DIDN'T like what I saw at home. A lot of cars were crowded helter-skelter around my house. It's a white s.h.i.+ngle A-frame; it looks like anybody's house. Most of the cars appeared familiar; they were cars of friends and family members. DIDN'T like what I saw at home. A lot of cars were crowded helter-skelter around my house. It's a white s.h.i.+ngle A-frame; it looks like anybody's house. Most of the cars appeared familiar; they were cars of friends and family members.

Sampson pulled in behind a dented ten-year-old Toyota that belonged to the wife of my late brother Aaron. Cilla Cross was good friend. She was tough and smart. I had ended up liking her more than my brother. What was Cilla doing here?

”What the h.e.l.l the h.e.l.l is going on at the house?” I asked Sampson again. I was starting to get a little concerned. is going on at the house?” I asked Sampson again. I was starting to get a little concerned.

”Invite me in for a cold beer,” he said as he pulled the key from the ignition. ”Least you can do.”

Sampson was already up and out of the car. He moves like a slick winter wind when he wants to. ”Let's go inside, Alex.”

I had the car door open, but I was still sitting inside. ”I live here. I'll go in when I feel like it.” I didn't feel like it suddenly. A sheen of cold sweat was on the back of my neck. Detective paranoia? Maybe, maybe not.

”Don't be difficult,” Sampson called back over his shoulder, ”for once in your life.”

A long icy s.h.i.+ver ran through my body. I took a deep breath. The thought of the human monster I had recently helped put away still gave me nightmares. I deeply feared he would escape one day. The ma.s.s killer and kidnapper had already been to Fifth Street once.

What in h.e.l.l was going on inside my house?

Sampson didn't knock on the front door, or ring the bell, which dangled on red-and-blue wires. He just waltzed inside as if he lived there. Same as it's always been. Mi casa es su casa. Mi casa es su casa. I followed him into my own house. I followed him into my own house.

My boy, Damon, streaked into Sampson's outstretched arms, and John scooped up my son as if he were made of air. Jannie came skating toward me, calling me ”Big Daddy” as she ran. She was already in her slipper-sock pajamas, smelling of fresh talc.u.m after her bath. My little lady.

Something was wrong in her big brown eyes. The look on her face froze me.

”What is it, my honeybunch?” I asked as I nuzzled against Jannie's smooth, warm cheek. The two of us nuzzle a lot. ”What's wrong? Tell your Daddy all your troubles and woes.”

In the living room I could see three of my aunts, my two sisters-in-law, my one living brother, Charles. My aunts had been crying; their faces were all puffy and red. So had my sister-in-law Cilla, and she isn't one to get weepy without a good reason.

The room had the unnatural, claustrophobic look of a wake. Somebody has died, Somebody has died, I thought. I thought. Somebody we all love has died. Somebody we all love has died. But everybody I love seemed to be there, present and accounted for. But everybody I love seemed to be there, present and accounted for.

Nana Mama, my grandmother, was serving coffee, iced tea, and also cold chicken pieces, which no one seemed to be eating. Nana lives on Fifth Street with me and the kids. In her own mind, she's raising the three of us.