“Baby, when we bust them greedy fools, they’ll come clean. Or I’ll knock some sense into that Ro’s head,” Debra Hastings had said.
“I know how this looks...” Weathers began, hands in front of him.
“I know exactly how it looks, sucka,” Debra Hastings said, pointing at him. “You two figured you’d be slick and beat Pebbles out of whatever reward or lost treasure map you geniuses angled to find in this car.”
“I wouldn’t have used the gun on Peebles,” Waid said. “It was just for scare.”
“Shut up,” the aunt said, moving forward.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Debra Hastings stopped before Weathers, who wore overalls. “After all this time, you suddenly believe that bullshit about the Hauler?”
“Who?” her niece said, something familiar tickling a corner of her memory.
“It was on the other night on Astonishing Mysteries, Dee,” Weathers said pleadingly.
“I oughta slap the shit out of you, Ro. You two simple Negroes were smoking weed and watching that show when you thought this brilliant idea up, weren’t you?”
Waid looked chagrined. “They showed the car. You know, on the what you call it, the re-creation.”
“Of all the stupid,” she began.
“Who are you talking about?” Pebbles Hastings asked.
“Hauler Kershaw,” her aunt answered, exasperated.
That elicited a tingle of familiarity. “The football player.”
“Yeah,” her aunt drawled.
The younger Hastings snapped her fingers. “You two were a couple in high school.”
Her aunt sighed. “Aw, shit, here we go.”
1998
Hauler Kershaw: “I told you guys, I’m not gonna hurt anybody.”
Police Detective Tim Guidry: “We know that, Hauler. We know that. We just want you to pull the car over.”
On television screens across the Southland and the rest of the country, millions of viewers watched in real time as the LAPD did what was later dubbed the first ever little-old-lady chase through the tony neighborhoods of Los Angeles. Black-and-whites on his tail, Fenton “Hauler” Kershaw was driving his mint silver-gray 1967 Jaguar XKE through the winding roads of Brentwood. Unerringly, akin to his actions in his previous career as a Super Bowl–winning running back dodging defenders, Kershaw evaded the numerous dead-end streets and cul-de-sacs of the area with seeming ease.
An LAPD helicopter and two others from competing news outlets followed the Jag on its roundabout course while in-studio news hosts supplied the hyperbolic narrative. They knew that Kershaw was talking with a police negotiator. He had both hands free to drive and shift as he was using the then fairly recent Bluetooth device, which the talking heads made sure to mention for the enthralled afternoon viewers. Activity stopped at numerous workplaces throughout the city as people gathered in lunchrooms or offices to watch the chase. Kershaw had been a well-paid and well-exposed pitchman for the Bluetooth device. Later, after his capture and trial, after his stabbing death during a prison riot had spawned multiple conspiracy theories, a transcript of the communications during the slow-motion chase was released.
Guidry: Hey, man, it’s Tim again. You’re getting close, huh? Hello? I’m losing you. Hauler, you still there? Hello? Hauler, you still there? Come on, man, talk to me. Hello? Hello? Hauler? Hello! Hello, don’t freeze me out, man...We can resolve this. We’re almost at the goal line, right?
The transcript noted in parentheses that the phone cut off and the negotiator redialed.
Guidry: This is Tim again.
Kershaw: Oh, hi, Tim—
Guidry: Are you going up there, Hauler? What do you want to do? I know you’re not running.
Kershaw: I just need to clear my head is all, Tim.
Guidry: I know you do, man, but you got everybody scared.
Kershaw: I just want to get to my house, Tim. You know what I’m saying? I just want to walk through my front door and lay my head down in my own bed. You hear what I’m saying?
Present
Before the sun went down, they strung up four mechanic’s lights to see. As uncle and nephew put the Falcon back together, having essentially removed only the interior fixtures, niece and aunt sat on upended milk crates talking.
“When Hauler died in prison in ’04, there had already been plenty about how the cops had framed him for his girlfriend’s murder because of his brother.” Debra sipped from a can of beer. “Or that, what’s his name, Brody Deets had done it because she’d left him for Hauler.”
“He’s an actor, Aunt Deb. And a second-rate one at that.”
She spread her arms, holding on to her beer. “I know, but us colored folk think all them white folks in the public eye congregate together plotting on us, so you know.” She snickered.
Her niece chuckled too.