Stealing Candy (21 page)

From what she could tell, the lights were dim. No bustling activity. Too early for business, she supposed.

Maybe there were workers behind the scenes…prepping food in a kitchen or going over books in an office that was obscured from her view.

Hot and miserable, she rapped again. Harder. Still no one came to the door. She turned at the sound of footsteps behind her, and practically bumped smack into a tough-looking Hispanic youth who had bounded the steps.

“Whoa.” Sighing in exasperation, the surly youth grudgingly gave Saleema space to pass by.

Saleema stood, staring at the teen’s innumerable tattoos. Not only were his arms and legs inked, but there also tattoos above his brows, on the sides of his face, and both earlobes. Additionally, a vivid Puerto Rican flag was splashed across his neck.

His white wife beater was dampened with perspiration. A white towel, draped around his neck, accessorized his summer look.

Using the end of the towel, he mopped beads of sweat from his sullen face. “See something interesting?” Glowering with unprovoked teenage rage, he reached inside a deep pocket of his army green cargo shorts and pulled out a set of keys.

“I was wondering—” She had no idea what she was wondering. Unprepared, Saleema cleared her throat and pondered briefly, trying to formulate a question in her mind.

“You looking for Don?” he asked, helping her out, but sounding aggravated by the imposition.

She figured Don was the owner. “Yes. Is Don inside?” she asked hopefully. She’d left home looking cool and city chic in a loose cotton sundress and wedge sandals. Beaten by the sun for approximately ten minutes, she was already sweltering. She felt grubby. No longer crisp, her sundress was now rumpled and damp, and was sticking to her skin. Wanting some relief from the heat, she eyed the door, yearning to get inside and enjoy the glacial chill that an industrial air conditioner could provide.

“He don’t come in on Thursday.” The boy lowered his head dismissively and began studying the keys on the ring. Sweat dripped onto the towel as he clinked and clanged, sorting through the collection of keys.

“Damn.” She was unable to conceal her disappointment.

“Yo, I don’t have nothing to do with renting out this spot. I just clean up.”

“Do you work here?” she asked, though she was pretty certain that she already knew the answer since he had possession of the keys to the front door.

He leaned back, indignant. “What’s it to you?”

She was handling this all wrong.
Stop interrogating him,
Saleema told herself sternly. Changing her approach, she said, “My sister—” Then, as if she were too choked up to go on, she closed her eyes, pitifully and shook her head.

“Come on, lady. It’s too hot for this shit. You think your sister is locked up inside the banquet hall or something? Get real.” He grunted a sound of disgust.

Saleema pulled her hands away, taking a peek, gauging the situation. The boy turned his head toward the glass doors of the banquet hall, no doubt longing to get inside and cool off. He pulled his white T-shirt up and wiped his face. As suspected, his narrow chest looked like it was splattered with graffiti.

He pulled his shirt down. His scowling face was soon drenched by another outpouring of perspiration.

The mixture of sweat and a greasy complexion made the boy appear to be melting. Cranky and restless, he rattled the keys.

She knew she had to act quickly before he completely dismissed her. “My sister escaped from that detention center in the northeast.”

“Huh?”

“My sister and a girl named Maria. Maria Gomez had her Quinceanera at this banquet hall—”

“Oh, yeah? The black girl who talked Maria into breaking out of the center—that’s your sister?” His eyes twinkled with interest.

She didn’t appreciate his assumption that Portia had been the mastermind. Saleema wanted to defend Portia, but held her tongue.

“Do you know Maria?” she asked calmly.

“Yeah, she lives around here.” He paused. “Well…she used to live around here before she got knocked.”

“Do you have her address? I really, really need to speak with her parents.”

His eyes shifted as he considered Saleema’s request, and then he shook his head. “No, I’m no snitch.”

“Portia…my sister. She’s still missing.”

“Sounds like you need to be talking to the cops.”

“They’re not cooperating. Would you help me out? I can pay you,” she said sheepishly.

Saleema and the boy shared an uncomfortable silence.

“How much are you talking about?” He moved in closer.

Wearing all those tattoos, the boy gave the impression of being street savvy and highly experienced in conning people.

“Thirty bucks?” she offered, starting low.

“That’ll work.” He stuck out his hand, surprising her when he didn’t demand more money.

“The address, please?”

“Oh, yeah, right. It’s 315 Erie Avenue.”

Satisfied, Saleema exhaled and peeled off three tens.

“Ain’t nobody home. Maria’s mother is in Pittsburgh. That’s where they took Maria, you know,” the boy said after pocketing the money.

“Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

“You didn’t ask,” he said, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“What about her father? Is he around?”

“Nah, Maria’s old man is back in Puerto Rico. Yo, that black girl…uh, your sister…Word is she got in a white Caddy with some dude who was flashing dough.”

Saleema’s stomach clenched painfully.
Portia got in a car with a stranger?
This was terrible news. Her greatest hope was that one of Portia’s girlfriends was helping to hide her. Whenever ugly, terrifying thoughts crowded her mind, she’d managed to push them away and imagined that Portia was stowed away in a friend’s basement, scared of being caught, but safe from harm.

“The dude tried to sweet talk Maria…tried to lure her into his car, but Maria’s loyal to her roots. She would never mess around with a black cat.”

“Who told you about the man driving the Cadillac?”

The boy started backing up, gesturing with his hands. “Yo, what’s with the twenty questions? I gave you all the information I have.”

“I just need…I’m wondering how you could know…um, who exactly told you about Portia…my sister?” She was so shaken, she stumbled over her words.

He shrugged. “Word gets around.”

“Will another twenty buy a name?”

Saleema reached in her purse and extracted a twenty-dollar bill. “I need a name.”

“Angelica,” the tatted boy said. He snatched the money out of Saleema’s hand. “Twenty more will get you a last name,” he said, smiling and posturing like he’d just won a game of craps.

But Saleema didn’t need a last name. She knew it. She rolled her eyes at the boy, whirled around.

“Twenty bucks!” the boy shouted. “I’ll give you Angelica’s last name and address.”

Ignoring him, Saleema trotted off to her car.

“So this is the last place Portia was spotted?” Khalil asked, surveying the McDonald’s parking lot.

“Yes, Portia and Maria were hanging near the entrance, bumming money from patrons as they came and went. The guy driving the Cadillac took the ramp that leads to I-95 South.”

“I’m impressed by your investigative skills.”

Saleema shrugged off the compliment. “That inked-up kid led me to Maria’s best friend, Angelica. I hit her up on MySpace. Angelica was very eager to tell me everything that Maria had confided over the phone. Teenage girls love to gossip.”

“Still, you did some pretty good detective work.”

“Getting this far was easy. Now, I’m at a dead end. That predator could have taken Portia anywhere. Who knows what he’s doing to her?” She shook away images of a maniac having unlimited access to Portia, torturing her at his leisure.

“I know, but what else can you do at this point? It’s time to step back and let the police handle this.”

“I can’t step back. Portia’s not at the top of anyone’s list… not her family and not law enforcement. Besides, even if the police knew something, they wouldn’t tell me. I’m not family.”

Khalil nodded in understanding. “And her family’s not particularly interested.”

“Not in the least,” Saleema huffed.

He gave her a comforting pat on the back as he started the ignition.

Saleema sighed in frustration. “I hate giving up.”

“We’re not giving up, but there’s no point in hanging around here.”

“I know,” she conceded, studying the parking lot as Khalil wheeled
around, exiting the lot. Taking one last look over her shoulder, her eyes swept the area, as if Portia might be hiding somewhere in the shadows.

“Do you have a recent picture of Portia?”

“Yeah, I took a group photo of all the girls. Why?”

“I’m getting an idea.” Eyebrows crinkled, Khalil wheeled out of the parking lot and merged into the traffic on Oregon Avenue.

“What’s your idea?”

“We can crop Portia’s image out of the group shot.”

“Okay…”

“Portia has been abducted and we’re going to get the community involved in finding her.”

“Portia is considered an escaped criminal…not a kidnapped child.”

“But we both know whoever was driving that white Cadillac abducted a minor.”

“True.” Saleema gazed at Khalil, nodding, encouraging him to continue.

“Portia’s family may be apathetic, but I’m sure we can generate some interest in the community; persuade people to get involved in helping to find her.”

“How are we going to do that? If Portia’s own mother doesn’t care that she’s missing, what makes you think we can rouse the neighborhood?”

“We can start by posting fliers. I could get some of my students together. Section by section, we can blanket the city with Portia’s picture.”

Saleema’s heart lifted. “That’s a great idea.” Feeling a rush of warmth toward Khalil, Saleema couldn’t hold back a smile. Not only was Khalil intelligent, he was also a problem solver. A very appealing trait.

“I love it when you smile,” he said sincerely.

She blushed and ducked her head shyly. Pulling herself together, she looked up and gazed at Khalil with a no-nonsense look in her eyes.

“Back to the subject…” he said, taking a hint and redirecting himself to the topic. “I’m thinking…a candlelight vigil in Portia’s neighborhood might be a good way to get the ball rolling.” Tapping the steering wheel with his finger, he waited for Saleema to respond.

Cynically, Saleema shook her head. “They do vigils for murder victims in Portia’s neighborhood. I seriously doubt anyone will have any sympathy for a runaway.”

“Hmm.” He stared ahead at traffic, which had slowed.

“Honestly, you and I are probably the only people who are actively looking for Portia. The police couldn’t care less. And her neighbors…” Saleema frowned. “Put it this way, Portia is an acquired taste. She’s boisterous and has a bad attitude. Her neighbors are probably thinking, ‘good riddance.’ I can’t imagine them experiencing a sense of loss.”

He absorbed her words and then said, “We can make them care.”

“Obviously, you’re not from the ’hood.”

“You don’t know everything about me,” he said with a sly smile.

Saleema went silent. He was right; she didn’t know everything about him. She only knew that he was charming, kind, educated, ambitious, successful, and oh so handsome. She knew enough about him to realize that until she got her life together, she would feel vulnerable if she allowed Khalil any role in her life that extended beyond friendship.

But we have so much in common,
she argued with what she perceived as rational thinking and sound judgment. Sighing, she stole a wistful glance at him, and then quickly averted her eyes. She’d be so
embarrassed if Khalil caught her in the midst of a longing gaze.

“If you think a candlelight vigil is over the top, then how about a community meeting? I know the director at the Haverford Recreation Center. I could talk to him.”

“Khalil,” she said, with strained patience. “The people in that neighborhood are concerned about surviving another day; they’re not going to go pouring into a recreation center over a girl who had daily fistfights with their kids, cursed out and even got violent with teachers, and kept trouble brewing everywhere she went.” Saleema shook her head. “Portia was a piece of work. But I understand her. She reminds me of myself.”

“You didn’t give up on yourself, did you?”

“No, of course not.”

“And you haven’t given up on Portia…”

“Where’s this going?”

“You have faith in yourself and obviously you believe there’s hope for Portia, so don’t be so quick to give up on the people in the ’hood. Our ancestors had an indomitable spirit. It’s still alive, lying dormant. We can bring the black community together and make them care about all the Portias of the world.”

“How?” she questioned softly.

“The offer of a reward will lure them to a meeting. It can also be an incentive for someone who knows something that will lead us to Portia’s whereabouts.”

I don’t have any money to put up for a reward.
Saleema swallowed as she tussled with a bout of guilt over all the frivolous spending she’d done before opening Head Up. If she had even a portion of the money she went through on reckless shopping sprees, she’d be able to put up the reward money without a second thought.