NORTH OF TWENTY-THIRD Street, the underground suppressors automatically slow the car down to thirty. I take it off auto and make some quick doglegs to avoid police checkpoints, just in case somebody’s already reported a stolen vehicle. After a few maneuvers, I head up Third Avenue.
The slower speed gives Lamont a good look at the city, and I can see that he’s disgusted. In this part of town there’s no mix of rich and poor. It’s all poor. Everybody with money has moved closer to Fifth Avenue. On this block, just about every building is shuttered and boarded up. The few shops that are still open have long lines outside. When I pause at a stoplight, a squad of grubby kids scurries up to knock on the window.
“Get away!” Lamont yells. “Leave!” He pounds back from his side of the window.
“They just want candy,” I tell him, then press the horn to startle the kids so they move on. I’m not worried about the candy kids. I used to be one myself. I’m more worried about the teen gangs, like the one I see lurking on the next corner. That bunch would think nothing of slashing a tire or throwing a waste bin through a windshield.
“Who’s in charge here?” asks Lamont, his voice rising. “Where’s the mayor?”
“There’s no mayor,” I tell him. “Gismonde runs everything.”
“Who?”
“Nal Gismonde,” I reply. “The world president.”
“What happened to Roosevelt?”
“Never mind.”
I don’t think Lamont’s up for a history lesson right now. Like Fletcher said, baby steps. I doubt he’d believe it anyway.
As we approach a little bodega at the corner of Fifty-Third Street, I hear shouts from inside. Through the shop’s dirty window, I can see figures scuffling. Suddenly, two young guys burst out of the front, carrying bags. The shop owner runs after them. He grabs one guy by the arm. Not a good idea. The young guy swings his elbow back like a hammer, catching the store man hard in the face. He falls onto the pavement.
“Did you see that?” Lamont says, pounding on the smooth dash panel. “Where in God’s name are the police?”
“The police don’t bother with street crime,” I say, “unless the victim is rich, or connected. Otherwise you’re on your own.”
“That’s insane!” says Lamont.
“That’s life,” I tell him.
I can see that Lamont is starting to boil inside. I’m sure he’s wondering what kind of world he came back to. I see him looking back at the shop owner in the street.
“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?” Lamont says.
I have to laugh. Just a little. I can’t help it.
Whoever this guy is, I have to admit he does a pretty decent Shadow impression.