She cut me off, "Do you want to hear this or not?"

I waited.

"I was there that night." She swal owed.

"I was hardly in the door when some guy showed up, so I went into the bedroom. He and Cherokee started talking, friendly at first, but pretty soon I heard shouting, then slamming and banging. I knew something was coming down, so I hid in the closet."

"Why were you there, Jocelyn?"

"Cherokee was gonna sponsor me in the Kiwanis," she sneered.

"Go on."

"I hunkered in until things quieted down, then when I thought the guy was gone, I started to split. That's when I heard the gunshot. Jesus."

Her eyes slipped past me to a spot somewhere over my shoulder. I tried to imagine what for her was memory.

"Then I heard the guy banging drawers and flinging crap around. I figured he was a smackhead looking for Cherokee's rock, and I nearly shit my shorts,

'cause I knew the stuff was in the bedroom with me.

"When I smel ed smoke it was time to haul ass, junkie or no junkie. I smashed the window dropped to the al ey, and ran to the corner. Now here's the weird part. When I cut around the building and looked up the block, the little roach was stil outside Cherokee's pad, scratching at something in the mud.

Then a car turned onto the street and he took off."

"What was he looking for?"

"How the hel should I know?"

"Then what?"

"When I was sure he wasn't coming back I walked over and poked around."

There was a long silence. Then she dropped a purse strap from her shoulder, dug inside, and withdrew a smal , flat object.

"I found this where the guy was squatting." She thrust it at me.

I unfolded a pharmacy sack and removed a photograph framed in cheap plastic. Two men smiled through a mist of spattered blood, inner arms entwined, outer arms raised, middle fingers pointing skyward. The one on the right was Cherokee Desjardins, robust and ful of life.

When I recognized the man on the left my throat tightened and my breath came in short, quick spurts. Jocelyn went on speaking but I didn't hear her. "

… torn bag beside it. When the headlights hit him he bolted like a jackrabbit."

My thoughts raced. Images flashed. " ... why the fuck he wanted it. But go figure what burns in a junked-out head."

I saw a face. " ... wish I'd gotten a look at him." I saw a basebal cap. " ... this son of a bitch get away with it." I saw flecks of gold circling in a watery vortex " ... didn't deserve a shit up his ass."

I pul ed myself back to the present and wil ed my face neutral.

"Jocelyn, do you know a newscaster named Lyle Crease?"

"English?"

"Yes."

"I don't watch English TV. Why are you asking me that? Look, I'm trying to tel you Dorsey didn't whack Cherokee."