The call came in: 628 Delaware, possible drug overdose.
“The Latch” Wilson said, and Joe Bradbury shook his head.
“Latch is in the 1000 block, rookie. 628 is this side of the train tracks.”
Wilson turned red but didn’t argue.
Bradbury let the truck roll silent, flasher free, so as not to draw attention from the crew at the Latch.
The less attention, in any case, the easier it was to work.
The Latch was once the Latchnik Community Center, padlocked by the city after budget cuts years ago and then firebombed when the ballplayer it was named for was convicted of assaulting underage girls.
The abandoned complex was like a Farmer’s Market for dope.
Politicians promised to tear it down but somehow it still stood.
A guy was motionless in the parking lot of what had been a You Buy, We Fry fish market, a salmon with gang tags cresting the water on the flaking paint of the north side of the building.
One scrawny woman was there with the motionless guy, panicked.
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