Not a day went by that Troy didn’t drive by the abandoned building on Lawrence Street where Pat had been killed. Sometimes Troy had me park at the curb. He’d just sit there and stare at the place. I wondered what he was thinking. Maybe he was replaying in his mind what might have been had he been there. I don’t know whether he saw himself taking the bullet for Pat or maybe sensing something not right, hearing a creaking board in the dark house, in his mind he pushed Pat aside, dove to his right, then came running up the stairs, pursuing his fleeing assailant, tackling him, and then punching him senseless. Or maybe finding Pat shot, he put his finger in the hole in his heart, plugging the dike, and carried him out in his powerful arms, working his magic, getting him to the hospital where a surgeon could have time to work his craft.
We spent a lot of time driving slowly through the neighborhood. Troy would watch the street, eyeing the residents, the passersby, the hangers on. It was as if he were looking for a sign, a clue, something to make sense of who would do this deed.
One afternoon we went into the El Mercado on Park Street for an early lunch. El Mercado was a Spanish marketplace that included a supermarket specializing in Hispanic foods and produce, small merchants who sold beepers, Spanish musical tapes, and trinkets, a bakery, and several cafeteria style food vendors. I had just gotten my order of arroz con pollo, and Troy was ordering kingfish, when I noticed a man in a New York Yankees hat getting a box of pastries at the bakery stall. It was Hector Ruiz.
Troy saw the look on my face. He turned and saw Hector, who was walking toward us on his way to the back door.
Hector stopped stared at each other like they were both seeing something that had troubled them, but they weren’t yet certain what it was.
“Where’d you get that hat?” Troy demanded.
“Are you asking me?” Hector said.
“Yeah, I’m asking you. Where’d you get that hat?”
I glanced toward the market entrance. Denny Creer and another cop had walked in.
Slowly recognition crossed Hector’s face. “I know who you are now,” Hector said.
Now it was Troy who looked confused. I had a horrible recognition, but I dismissed it just as quickly.
“Who am I?” Troy said. “What are you talking about?”
The cops were walking towards us.
Hector stepped back, and retreated toward the back door.
“Hey, what’s good to eat here?” the other cop said.
“Try the chicken,” Denny said. “It’s Troy and Lee. What’s up guys?”
Troy was still watching Hector. He looked troubled like he was trying to figure out a calculus problem.
“You know who that is, right?” Denny said.
“I’m not sure,” Troy said.
“Hector Ruiz,” Denny said. “I’m surprised to see him in public. We just heard there’s a contract out on him.”
Troy’s eyes narrowed like it was all coming clear in his brain now. He nodded, but said nothing more.
“I think he’s the bastard who shot Pat,” Troy said when we got back in the ambulance. “He thought he was shooting me.”
“Why would you say that?”
“I was going to testify.”
“I don’t know. I think that’s a reach.”
But I could see he was convinced.
That afternoon when we stopped at Capitol and Broad, Troy went over to the pay phone and called Victor. He turned his back on me and spoke in a hushed tone.
