“How do you know it was the Lakers?”
“It’s gold with purple writing, that’s like their colors. My stop is coming,” Jiffy said, sounding relieved. He stood up and moved for the door. “I’m sorry for your brother,” he said. “It takes you down, man, like all the way.”
Isaiah went home and got online. The up-model Accord was called the EX and it listed for twenty-seven thousand dollars and change. Add in tax and license, call it thirty. Not a blue-collar or a young man’s car; the average age of an Accord driver was fifty. Middle-aged black men and Latinos no doubt bought Accords but in Isaiah’s experience they tended toward big American cars, SUVs and pickup trucks. And the driver was heading east into East Long Beach. Sixty percent white according to the census figures. Playing the odds, the driver was white.
Okay, so where was this guy going? If his destination was Signal Hill, he would have been on Willow or PCH. If he was heading to the harbor area, he would have been going south. Maybe he was taking Anaheim through East Long Beach to Blair Field or Colorado Lagoon but somehow that felt wrong and that had to do with where the driver was coming from—the west. Head that way on Anaheim and you’d go under the 710 Freeway, passing a bleak industrial zone, and then on into Wilmington, neither area known for white guys driving new Accords. Either that or the driver was on the 710 and got off on Anaheim but if he was going to Blair Field or Colorado Lagoon there were easier ways to get there. No, the guy lived in East Long Beach.
The Laker decal Jiffy Lube said was in the back window was a gold basketball with Lakers written over it in purple script. In Isaiah’s eyes it was ugly and decals weren’t easy to get off once they were on. You’d have to love the Lakers to stick a thing like that on your thirty-thousand-dollar car. And on the same day Marcus was killed, the Lakers were playing Allen Iverson and the Philadelphia 76ers. No real fan would miss that game and it was on at six-thirty because of the time difference. The accident happened around six, so maybe the driver was in a hurry to get home to see the game and just happened to murder Marcus on the way.
The driver was white, mature, had a good job, lived in East Long Beach, and was a Lakers fan.
After running over Marcus, the driver probably avoided the whole area. He’d be a fool not to but time had passed. Maybe he was back to his usual routine. If he didn’t get off the 710 at Anaheim he’d have to keep going, get off on 7th, and double back. Marcus always said habits were hard to break. Didn’t matter if they were good or bad.
At five-thirty the next day, Isaiah seated himself on the retaining wall next to the Anaheim off-ramp. He watched cars go by, dozens and dozens. He used his phone to take pictures of the Accords. Three were late-model but none were silver or had a Lakers decal. The pictures came out fine if the car stopped at the light. You could see the license plate number and the driver’s face. But if the light was green and the cars were moving, the photos were blurred and useless.
At home again, Isaiah microwaved a burrito and went out on the balcony. It was twilight. The crows were gathering, arguing over whose sky it was; smells of onions, garlic, and cilantro drifting up from below. He was mad at himself. Furious, in fact. Marcus was killed right in front of him and he couldn’t give Detective Purcell a single clue. And it worried him, the prospect of seeing the Accord and not being able to remember the license plate or what the driver looked like. He’d be as useless as he was now.
Next day, he sat on the retaining wall and played a game with himself. He’d look at a car for three seconds. A thousand one, a thousand two, a thousand three. Then close his eyes and say what he remembered. He figured three seconds was about as long as the Jiffy Lube man had to see the Accord. What Isaiah found out was that three seconds is not a lot of time.
Homegirl, something on her head like a scarf, different colors, the car was a—shit, I don’t know. License plate number B R—shit.
Latino guy, pickup truck, twenties? Wearing a brown shirt, writing on the door, ARGO Construction? AGRA? AFCO? License number 2 U—shit.
Hundreds of cars later, he was getting the hang of it. He had to block out the engine noise, the exhaust fumes, the glare of the sun, the stares from the drivers, and the kids yelling hey, mister, are you a bum? And see. Not think about seeing or telling himself to see, just see, cutting everything out of the frame except the car and taking a snapshot with his eyes.
American car, big, green like pea soup, white guy, glasses, thirties or forties. What was he wearing? Shit. License plate X R 7 G U—shit.
Buick Regal, gold color, black guy, fifties, bald, double chin—what else? Dammit, there was something else. License plate R 7 5 3 B—9—C9? C8? Shit.