“Six.”

“What?”

“Six minutes. Didn’t go out for six minutes. Waited till Jason put down the second batter.”

“Okay, six minutes. Why’d you wait?… Besides wanting to see Jason, of course.”

Teasdale gave Frank, then Jose, a long, disbelieving look. He frowned, a man who knew that there were such things as stupid questions.

“You live ’round here, and the shooting starts,” he said patiently, as though explaining to a child, “you don’t go sticking your damn-fool head out your door.”

“You knew it was James Hodges?” Jose asked. “When you looked in the car? How’s that?”

Teasdale’s eyes rolled at another stupid question. “It was his car,” he said, again slowly, patiently. “It was where he always parked. Him and his buddy, that skinny bastard Pencil. Drive up every evening. Sit there for an hour, maybe two. That’s how I know.”

“They doing any business?”

“Not here. They just sit there.” Teasdale’s eyes narrowed. “Letting us know.”

“Know?… Know what?”

Teasdale took a deep breath. “That Bayless Place was his.”

“Why’d he have to prove that?” Jose asked.

“He just comes around. Sits there, just letting us know.”

“When’d he move in?”

“February… no, March.”

“You see anybody in the street before the shooting?” Frank asked.

“Like I told you,” Teasdale said evenly, “before, I was watching the Birds. And after, I was watching the Birds. When Jason put down the second man up, that’s when I went out. The street was empty. Nobody there. Nobody.”

“You know anybody who’d want Skeeter dead?” Frank asked.

Teasdale half laughed. “Pick a page in the phone book.”

It got quiet in the house as he looked steadily at Frank.

“Somebody’s goin’ to take his place, you know.” Reproach was a knife in Teasdale’s voice. “It’s the way it’s gotten to be around here.” He swung his head back and forth. “Isn’t one bunch of gang-bangers, it’s gonna be another.”