I take it back. I take it all back. They are not crackheads. They are gangsters. Straight from the detective’s mouth.

She called to officially record my statement today. She said it’s a good thing I had a good memory (Um, whatever. Some of these 365 posts are like scouring a squeaky clean toilet again for fleeting shit skids. And they’re only 33 words.) because she couldn’t call me until today. She said she didn’t want to come over and draw more attention to me. And she apologized for the male detectives’ lack of discretion when they barged in multiple times last week.

After she turned off the tape recorder, we had a chit chat about what she knew and what I knew. Turns out, I knew a whole lot of things she didn’t know. Like the fact that the shitheads are renters. And what the property owner’s name is. I knew Juan’s first name, but I used the Internet to find his last name. Totally public record.

She thought the ghetto matriarch was telling the truth when she said she owned the house. “She lied to me!” she said, sounding surprised. “They were lying all over the place.”

No shit. Really? Because last I checked, juvenile delinquents and the adults that cover for them like to come clean with the cops. Tell them where they are hiding the crack and guns.

Near the end of the conversation, she said this, which has been on repeat, running through my head all fucking day. And the stop button is broken.

“What you have there is a bunch of gangsters. The people going in and out all the time — ALL GANGSTERS.”

She then blathered on about how she’s doing everything she can to get them out of our neighborhood (a good neighborhood, by the way), and the information I gave her will help.

I just hope it’s before someone pops a cap in my ass. Or worse.

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