The Good Boy (40 page)

The store clerk rings Joel’s total to a dollar thirty-six; that means he can’t afford the cup of noodles he doesn’t want anyway. Or the battery.

He wishes he were a thief.

“I don’t have enough,” Joel says, “sorry.” He puts his wallet away and heads for the door.

Back outside, the streetlights haven’t come on yet, and dusk is a dirty blanket. Lots of animals—crepuscular animals, they’re called—move at this time, and that’s because their predators come out at night. Joel decides he’d better get off the street in case the people around here are nocturnal.

“Hey,” says the thief, who’s waiting outside the door. “Give me a dollar.”

“I don’t have a dollar,” Joel lies.

“I saw your wallet,” the man says. “Give it to me.”

“No.” Joel starts toward the corner, but the man reaches out and grabs the handle of his pack and yanks him backward.

He says, “I’m not fucking around.”

Joel takes a step back and pivots, the combination of slack and spin breaking the man’s grip. “I’m not fucking around either!” He can’t believe he said that,
fuck,
but: “You don’t get to do whatever you want just because you’re a bad guy. I
do
have a dollar—plus one lousy penny. That won’t even pay for the beer you stole! Is that what you really want? A plain old dollar?”

The man seems amused, his lips thin as thread. “I’ll take your bag, too.”

Joel shrugs the pack from his shoulders. He says, “Fine. Take it. You can’t take anything that means any more to me than what I already lost. I’m not afraid anymore. I’m not afraid of you or anybody.”

The man blinks, unmoved.

“I said take it!” Joel unzips the pack’s main compartment. “Here—I have a sweatshirt. Take my sweatshirt. I also have a walkie-talkie. It needs a battery, but it will connect you with my friend. I bet you don’t have any friends. Or here—how about this book—
White Fang.
Have you read it? Would you like to read it?”

Without a single change in expression, a single shift in stance, the man reaches out like a whip and snatches the pack, Joel juggling the book as he tries to hold on to one strap; he gets a hold on the front pocket and pulls—“You son of a bitch!—” his fury against the man’s grip.

Until the pocket rips at the seam, and the pack is out of Joel’s hands, and the man is off and running.

Joel chases him down the side street, the thief’s stride long and loping until he turns down an alley; by the time Joel makes the same turn, the man is gone.

Past an apartment building, the alley stops at a T where a line of single-car garages crosses the way. Joel stops and waits, and watches, but in his limited view he sees no movement, finds no trail. The only sound comes from cars over on the boulevard.

Then, the streetlights snap on and the alley blazes bright; still, there is no sign of the man. It’s like he turned to dust.

Joel returns to the street to see if any of his things were left behind and he wonders what it is the thief was really after. Joel wasn’t much of a mark—he didn’t have a phone or a computer or anything of value; he didn’t even get Joel’s last dollar.

White Fang
sits in the dirty grass and when Joel picks it up and wipes it off, he thinks of Beauty Smith, a thief, too. He took White Fang even though he hated him, and tormented him, and only wanted to make him fight.

Maybe there was nothing the thief wanted, and it was only the taking that mattered. To make Joel feel bad. To make him fight.

Joel tucks the book under his arm and turns back for the alley, the garages. He feels bad, alright. And he’s going to fight. But not for nothing.

At the T in the alley, he picks out a gently sloped garage roof and finds a way to get up on top of it. Two streetlights hang over him, all-night night-lights, but he doesn’t mind. He probably won’t sleep.

The apartment that looks back on the garage is three stories tall, a whole night’s selection of real-life movies. He won’t snoop, though; he’s got too much to think about. There may be no Tomorrowland, but there is tomorrow. The judge. His only hope.

He takes Butchie’s tags between his fingers, the plastic raised where his information is printed. He tries to trace the letters, but his fingers are too big.

He looks at his watch: it’s going on twenty-hundred hours. Twelve hours until court opens. He empties his pockets. He has a dollar and a penny and Owen Balicki.

“Owen,” he says, and the silent boy with the crooked smile who stares back at him looks hopeful now. Hopeful, and also like he understands—like maybe he’s lost someone important to him, too.

“I owe you an apology,” Joel says. “I was going to use you. I was going to say that you’re the boy who’s missing, and that we were out looking for you. That’s why I put you in my pocket. I wonder if you think we’re friends, because I don’t think I was ever very nice to you. And now you’re all I’ve got left.”

Owen doesn’t say anything, of course, but he looks like he knows exactly what Joel’s talking about. And now Joel thinks that maybe the reason Owen’s smile is crooked is because that’s what happens to your smile when you lose someone you love.

“I’m sorry,” Joel says, and then he lies there, and he tells Owen all about how he lost Butchie.

27

Pete turns in to the Hermitage Manor Co-op’s parking lot, now a ghetto circus: four squads parked at haphazard angles block the drive, top lights ticking. Behind them, a couple of uniforms hold the line against a band of young bangers who perform for one another, a sideshow. Most of the rest of the neighbors have come outside, curious about the main attraction.

Which happens to be at Carter’s place.

“What the fuck?”

Pete drives past Carter’s to park under the El tracks where huge puddles of water still stand in pockets of gravel after yesterday’s downpour.

“What the fuck,” he says again, because he pulls in right next to Mizz Redbone.

“I always said that was a dumbass nickname,” Elexus says from the back. “Mizz Redbone. LaFonda thinks she’s all that.”

In the rearview, Pete can see Elexus combing out her wig: she’s got the crown over one fist and she’s running her long plastic fingernails through the locks as though they belong to a childhood doll. He thought she would spend the ride up here trying to talk her way out of being held against her will; instead, she’s kind of warmed up to the role. All things considered, she hasn’t had much else to warm up to, but—

“I need you to cooperate with me now, Elexus.” Pete turns to look at her directly to make sure she’s tuned in. “I want to make this as easy as possible, and so I’m going to need you to pretend you’re my partner.”

“What, like I’m undercover—dressed for a hooker sting or something?” She puts on the wig and pulls her thigh-high boots up over her bare knees. “You know I’m gonna need a gun or something, make me legit—”

“More like you’re going to need to
stay
undercover. I can’t have anybody knowing you’re back there. But, if you be good, I promise there will be a reward.”

“Are you out of your goddamn mind? I ain’t no dog. I want to come with you. I want to see Elgin.”

“You’ll see him soon enough. Right now I need you to be my ace in the hole.”

“I’m in the hole all right,” she says, picking at a strand of fake hair that has stuck to her glossed lips.

Pete opens the back window, just enough to let some fresh air in but not enough so that anyone could see inside. He could leave the squad running, let Butch’s heat alarm kick in if Elexus gets too steamed, but he figures a quiet car with a cracked window is better than an engine-powered cage. Anyway, she could use the air.

“Now stay,” he says.

When he gets out he hears her tell him to fuck off, but she doesn’t sound like she means it.

As he crosses the lot, a train skids the rails on the curve up above, grating and near deafening; Pete imagines that’s how his nerves must sound, so close to coming off track, at this point. He adjusts his badge on its lanyard and does a visual sweep of the peripheral spectators; he doesn’t recognize any threats, and no Elgin Poole, but he makes firm eye contact with anybody who wants a look. He’s got to keep it together.

“Who’s the lead here?” he asks the first uniform within earshot, a baby face stationed against the back bumper of the first in the corral of squads. The outright disdain on the kid’s face means he hasn’t seen much inner-city action yet—not by a long shot.

“Step Lyons,” the kid says, like he could spit.

“Fantastic,” Pete says, because no matter what kind of flop he is with victims and witnesses, Step is excellent with suspects—being insensitive and focused on facts and therefore a big asshole is exactly how a cop should be when he’s got someone in the crosshairs.

On his way up Carter’s steps, Pete’s heart bucks: this could be it. This could be where he finds his son. And Butch.

He feels the last of his logic blot out as he pushes open the door.

“You want a statement? I’ll give you a statement. Take this down. I’ll spell it for you. F-U-C-K Y-O—”

“I get it, Carter,” Step says to the young man in the tight fro who hasn’t bothered to get up from the couch or to take his feet off the coffee table, either. Step looks down at Carter from the other side of the table, Finch and another uniform backing him. “I have to say I’m impressed you got all the letters in order there. But you know what’s funny? I don’t actually need you to say a thing. You want to know why? I’ll tell you—hell, I’ll spell it for you: I’ve got your D-motherfucking-N-motherfucking-A. You know what that spells?” He checks with his boys: “Either of you know what that spells?”

The backup closest to Pete says, “I think that also spells
fuck.
”

Finch says, “Actually I believe it spells
Carter, you’re fucked.
”

“Smart, Finch. Hey, I’ll bet you can read pretty well too. Read him his rights.” Step motions to the other backup for the cuffs.

“You have the right to remain silent…”

“Ow, ow!” Carter says when the other cop pulls him up off the couch; Carter’s favoring his right leg.

“We know you’re a tough guy,” Step tells him. “Don’t worry: we’ll treat you accordingly.”

“You have the right to an attorney…”

Step gets out of the way to use his phone, probably calling McHugh; while he’s punching the numbers he notices that the front door is open, and then he notices Pete. “What the fuck now?” he asks, and ends the call before it starts. Step looks like shit, so Pete can only imagine what he must look like.

“Can I get a minute?” Pete asks.

“I think you ran out of minutes back at the hospital, Pony.”

“A half a minute,” Pete says, walking toward him. “Not even that. I only need as long as it takes me to tell you—” and he’s close enough now to bend Step’s ear, “DeWilliam Carter is also under investigation in the case I’m working. Conspiracy to kidnap a child.”

“What? I didn’t hear about that. Since when?”

“Since he took my son.”

Step eyes the room, finds a bathroom door. “My office,” he says, leading the way.

“Your son,” Step repeats once the door is closed, pinched shut in its uneven frame. “I thought your daughter was the wild card.”

“McHugh told you.” Pete looks down, scuffs the toe of his boot on the dirty tile. “How’d you get to Carter?”

“Aaron Northcutt got pretty talkative after you left. His father said it was most likely because you scared the shit out of him but I think his mom’s the one who put him up to it.”

“Well, Aaron is right: Carter was there. That car parked outside? The custom-painted job—Mizz Redbone? I know for a fact they went to Zack Fowler’s in that car. But I don’t know if Carter is the one who shot Aaron Northcutt.”

“That’s the case
I’m
working,” Step says. “Anyway, what does your son have to do with it?”

“That’s Elgin Poole’s car. I think Carter is in on this with him. I think they abducted Joel—”

“Wai-wai-wai-wait,” Step says. “Elgin Poole? Don’t tell me this is some weird conspiracy against you.”

“What I’m telling you is my son was there, at Fowler’s. And Elgin Poole was there. And now my son is gone.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Ask Carter about his leg.”

“What do you mean his leg?”

“He was bit by a dog.”

Step’s eyebrows go uneven: he knows which dog. “Where’s Butch?”

“Missing. Same as Joel.”

“Why haven’t you told anybody about this? Why didn’t you tell McHugh?”

“My reputation precedes me.”

“This is different.”

“It is? You’re the one calling me Pony.”

Step’s phone buzzes. “It’s McHugh,” he says. “He’s waiting for me. What the hell am I supposed to do here?”

Pete takes off his badge, puts it in his shirt pocket. “Let me talk to Carter. Here. Now. If you take him in, I’m that much farther away from finding my son. He knows what happened. Please, Step.”

Step presses his lips together. His phone buzzes again.

“That’s Elgin’s car out there,” Pete says. “He might be responsible for all of this and I’ve been in every hood from here to Gary looking for him. Carter has to know something, and if it turns out he’s another fall guy, don’t
you
want to know? Before you talk him into a plea deal, too?”

Step looks up at the doorframe where the door doesn’t fit. He sighs. Then he silences his phone, reaches past Pete, and yanks open the door. “Officers,” he says, “I’d like a word with Mr. Carter. Give us the room.” He tucks his phone into his pocket and looks back at Pete, says, “Let’s just see.”

The front screen door hits the latch and bounces, closing slowly behind Step’s backups. DeWilliam Carter has taken a seat on the coffee table now, hands cuffed in front of him.

“What happened to your leg?” Step asks.

“I want my lawyer.”

“You’ve got a lawyer already?” Step asks, taking a seat next to him. On his right. “That’s good. Is he representing you for your dog-bite lawsuit?”

“I don’t have no lawsuit.”

“But you do have a dog bite,” Step says, patting Carter’s thigh.

“Get the fuck away from me,” Carter says, turning from his knees, but not before Step grabs his thigh and squeezes, buckling Carter’s entire body.