Unfadeable: Chapters 6–11

The drywall has cracks, thin fissures cutting through the plaster patches.

The trim warps, bulging outward with protruding nails barely holding it in place.

I eye the hallway warily.

My hand reaches for the can of Mace I keep tucked in an easily reached pocket along my backpack.

“For free lunch, I’m always punctual,” I say.

A wispy beard dangles from his chin, and a gray film shimmers along his eyes like they’ve captured moonlight.

“Just because I know a name doesn’t mean you’re not a stranger. I assume everyone’s fake.”

“Let me make you a proposition: finish our chat and keep all the pizza. Consider it a consultation fee.”
My hand hovers over my bag’s handle. “Consultation for what?”
“You’re bright and have opinions. I just want to see what you think about a few things.”

M cocks his head like he’s appraising jewelry.

“An unsolicited lie.”

M pauses for a second, his head tilting as if I’d said something profound.

I point toward his elaborate workstation.

“TIF stands for Tax Increment Financing. Think of it like the neighborhood bank account. Imagine some community leaders got together and told the politicians downtown that their community needs to control its own destiny and be in charge of fixing itself. And the politicians responded by setting aside so much of the tax money in an account for them to decide how to use it.”

“This whole game is rigged.”

“You like the neighborhood griot,” M says like a doctor making a diagnosis.

“I used to be a private investigator. Put all my lawyer education to practical use. Till my eyes started going bad.”

I just want you to canvass the neighborhood. Learn who your neighbors are. What businesses are here. Who’s doing what.

He’s wearing a custom brown pin-striped suit with a deep auburn shirt matching his stripes, tie, and pocket square.

He turns on an uncommitted smile in case I might be kin to someone important.

“Fif—?” I barely stop myself before a barrage of cusswords tumble out.

A nearby plaque tells James Sidney Hinton’s story.

He was the first African American to hold office in the state legislature in Indiana.

Slowly I turn around, trying to find the legacy built in this man’s honor.

Screws pop out an inch or so from the playground set as if someone couldn’t be bothered to make them flush against the surface.

“You mean a park that doesn’t fit and that no one asked for?” I scoff.

Without her fancy going-to-a-meeting clothes and hat as her armor, she looks like any other frail elderly woman.

Ten minutes later, I wipe away the sheen of sweat from my forehead and step back to appreciate my handiwork.

His voice thick and flat with condescension, the male officer snaps on latex gloves to go through my backpack.

The officer makes a derisive snort.

I have priors with this cop and he’s not inclined to show me any favors.

Not bothering to close the door behind him, M hobbles with a slight stiff-legged limp.

“We are detaining her and investigating for trespass, among other things.”
“I get it, I get it. You have to ascertain who she is and such.”

“Right now, you’re dangerously close to obstructing an officer during the course of his duties. That’s a jailable offense.”

“Heard a friend had stepped in it. Thought I’d see what was up.” M slips his hand free from hers and wipes his pant leg.
“Meddling. As always.”

“Please, you every bit as gangsta. You send her to tag my house? Send me a message?”
“She...took initiative.”

“Aaries has what I call...an adversarial relationship with school,” M says.
“That sounds like all of my relationships,” I say.

The windshield wipers for no reason flail once, waving hello, and the truck idles its way down the alley out of sight of the park, the police, and, most important, Mattea.

I slump in the back seat and fold my arms tighter.

We come up to the intersection behind Clifton Corner where the Village Bodega is. It’s part convenience store, part farmers market, all run as a nonprofit.

I bound out of the truck as soon as it slows to a stop.