Of course everybody knew she was talking about her Dominican ex‑husband, Joaquin, who was the only honest numbers runner in the projects, and that she and her Joaquin hated each other’s guts and each had worked to get the other arrested for the last twenty years. Miss Izi Cordero, vice president of the Puerto Rican Statehood Society of the Cause Houses, who had actually been standing just thirty feet away when Sportcoat pointed his ancient peashooter at Deems’s skull and cut loose, said the whole ruckus started because Sportcoat was blackmailed by a certain “evil Spanish gangster,” and she knew exactly who that gangster was and planned to tell the cops all about him.

“Sportcoat,” she said grimly, “is under an evil spell. She said Sportcoat shot Deems because the mysterious ants had returned to Building 9. Billings, known affectionately as “Bum-Bum,” head usher at Five Ends, whose ex‑husband was the only soul in that church’s storied history to leave his wife for a man and live to tell about it (he moved to Alaska), had her own theory. The old deacon could no more explain why he shot Deems than he could explain why the moon looked like it was made of cheese She told the gathering that Sportcoat was planning to preach his first‑ever sermon that upcoming Friends and Family Day at Five Ends Baptist, titled “Don’t Eat the Dressing Without Confessing.” She also threw in that the church’s Christmas Club money was missing, “but if Sportcoat took it, it was on account of that fever,” she noted.

“Sportcoat had rheumatic fever,” declared Sister Veronica Gee, the president of the Cause Houses Tenant Association and wife of the minister at Five Ends Baptist Church, where Sportcoat had served for fifteen years. The morning after the shooting, the daily gathering of retired city workers, flophouse bums, bored housewives, and ex‑convicts who congregated in the middle of the projects at the park bench near the flagpole to sip free coffee and salute Old Glory as it was raised to the sky had all kinds of theories about why old Sportcoat did it. His late wife, Hettie, had been the Christmas Club treasurer of his church. He had coached the projects baseball team for fourteen years. There were a lot of theories floating around the projects as to why old Sportcoat-a wiry, laughing brown‑skinned man who had coughed, wheezed, hacked, guffawed, and drank his way through the Cause Houses for a good part of his seventy-one years-shot the most ruthless drug dealer the projects had ever seen.

Deacon King Kong by James McBride