Read Jack & Jill for Free Online Page B

the murder of a little girl in Southeast. Instead, they were filled with stories about the killing of Senator Fitzpatrick by the so-called Jack and Jill stalkers. Shanelle Green didn’t seem to matter very much.
    Except to Sampson and me. We had seen Shanelle’s broken body and met her heartbroken parents. Now we talked to our street sources, but also to our neighbors. We continued to let people see us working, walking the streets.
    “I sure do love- a good homicide. Love walking the mean streets in the dead cold of winter,” Sampson opined as we went past a local dealer’s black-on-black Jeep. It was blaring rap, lots of bass. “Love the suffering, the stench, the funky sounds.” His face was flat. Beyond angry. Philosophical.
    He was wearing a familiar sweatshirt under his open topcoat. The shirt had his message for the day:

I DON’T GIVE A SHIT
I DON’T TAKE ANY SHIT
I’M NOT IN THE SHIT BUSINESS

    Concise. Accurate. Very much John Sampson.
    Neither of us had felt much like talking for the past hour or so. It wasn’t going all that well. That was The Job, though. It was like this more often than it wasn’t.
    Man Mountain and I arrived at the Capitol City Market about four in the afternoon. The Cap is a popular gyp joint on Eighth Street. It’s just about the dingiest, most depressing bargain-basement store in Washington, D.C.—and that takes some doing.
    The featured products are usually written in pink chalk on a gray blue cinder block wall in front. That day the specials were cold beer and soda pop, plantains, pork rinds, Tampax, and Lotto—your basic complete-and-balanced breakfast.
    A young brother with tight wraparound Wayfarer sunglasses, a shaved head, and small goatee caught our immediate attention in front of the minimart. He was standing next to another man who had a chocolate bar hanging from his mouth like a cigar. The shaved head motioned to me that he wanted to talk to us, but not right there.
    “You trust that rowdyass?” Sampson asked as we followed at a safe distance. “Alvin Jackson.”
    “I trust everybody.” I winked. No wink came back from Sampson.
    “You are badly fucked-up, Sugar,” he said. His eyes were still seriously hooded.
    “Just trying to do the right thing.”
    “Ah, yeah, you’re trying too hard, then.”
    “That’s why you love me.”
    “Yes, it is,” Sampson said and finally grinned. “If lovin’ you is wrong, I don’t want to be right,” he talk-sang a familiar lyric.
    We met Roadrunner Alvin Jackson around the corner. Sampson and I had occasionally used Alvin as a snitch. He wasn’t a bad man, really, but he was living a dangerous life that could suddenly get much, much worse for him. He had been a decent high school track star who used to practice in the streets. Now he was running a little base and selling smoke as well. In many ways, Alvin Jackson was still a man-child. That was important to understand about a lot of these kids, even the most dangerous and powerful-looking ones.
    “Thalilshanelle,” Alvin said as if the three words were one, “you still lookin’ for information on who ice her and alladat?”
    Alvin’s car coat was unbuttoned. He was sporting the current fashion look that’s called jailin’, or baggin’. His red-and-white pinstriped underwear was visible above the waistband.
The look
is inspired by the fact that a prisoner’s belt is taken away in jail, tending to make the trousers droop and the underwear be accentuated. Role models for our neighborhood.
    “Yeah. What have you heard about her, Alvin, but no Chipmunks?” Sampson said.
    “Man, I’m tryin’ to do you a solid,” Alvin Jackson protested in my direction. His shaved head never stopped bobbing. His hoop earring jangled. His long, powerful arms twitched. He kept picking his Nike-sneakered feet up and putting them back down.
    “We appreciate it,” I told him. “Smoke?” I offered Alvin a Camel. Joe Cool, right?
    He took it. I don’t smoke, but I always