CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Little D didn’t hang around for the cops. He said he and the police didn’t “get along.” He had dialed 911 because it seemed faster and easier than breaking down my door. I gave the police a report. When the patrol car left, I called D to give him the all clear.
He arrived fifteen minutes later, disc in hand.
“You all right?” he asked. “Damn, that’s a nasty bruise on your cheek.”
“I’ll live.” I felt lucky to have nothing worse than a bruised cheek and a puffy lip. “Thank God you came by.”
He sat on my sofa. “That motherfucker strong. Rung my bell.”
I explained what I’d learned from the police about Diesel.
“Hmm,” Little D said. “I recall the name, but it’s not one I’ve heard on the streets.”
“Probably hangs out on different streets than you.”
Little D chuckled
