Читать книгу Capitol Punishment - Andrew Welsh-Huggins - Страница 20

11

WE WENT TO NANCY’S ON NORTH HIGH TO celebrate, squeezing ourselves into a booth near the rear. Hershey called me just as my meatloaf arrived.

“I need you again tonight.”

“When?”

“Ten o’clock or so.”

“Where?”

“Can’t say.”

Something in his voice sounded different. Flatter, less exuberant. “Why not?”

“Top secret. Plus, I’m not sure yet.”

“What’s happening at ten?”

“I’m talking to someone.”

“Who?”

“Can’t tell you that either.”

“A source?”

“Just someone.”

“But why do you need me?”

A long pause. “It’s an uncomfortable conversation I need to have. It’s not completely related to what I’m working on, but since you’re on my dime, I’d like you along. How’s that sound?”

“Strange.”

“I can’t help it.” He sounded tired, and dejected.

“All right. Pick you up again?”

“Sounds good. See you then. Oh, and tell Anne I really enjoyed that book. You can pick it up tonight.”

“You finished it?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I move fast.”

“Right,” I said, and cut the connection.

BONNIE AND TROY LIVED in a white story-and-a-half house in Linden on the north side. It looked like another one of Deckard’s rehabs, with fresh paint, new siding, and newly poured concrete steps. Someone—I was guessing Bonnie—had done a decent job with flowers out front.

“What?” said the young woman who answered my knock later that afternoon. She stood behind a heavy black-metal screen door. A dog materialized beside her.

I held up my business card, pressing it against the screen so she could see. “Your dad asked me to come by. Check up on Troy.”

“He did what?”

I explained my meeting with Deckard.

“Hang on,” she said. She disappeared into the house. I made out what sounded like a phone conversation, Bonnie’s voice veering from defiant to distraught. It got quiet, and then I heard a murmured conversation in the living room with someone. After another minute Bonnie returned.

“He doesn’t want to talk to you,” she said. She was big like her dad and strong-looking, with long, auburn hair tied back in the remnants of a French braid and heavily made-up eyes that looked a little shinier than they had a few minutes earlier. An intricate weave of red roses was tattooed down her muscular right shoulder and arm. She was wearing yoga pants and a tight-fitting sleeveless blue shirt that said, “Arch City Roller Girls.”

“Did he say why not?”

“Just said he didn’t.”

“Any chance he could come to the door?”

“No.”

“It would only take a minute.”

“He doesn’t have a minute.”

“I’m not here to cause trouble. Your dad asked me to talk to him, and that’s it for starters. Shoot the shit about football for a while. Nothing else.”

I could see her hesitating. I caught her shiny eyes. She looked away.

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“What time?”

“Earlier. Sometime in the morning.”

“Ten?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“I’ll come by around then. So, you play?”

“What?”

“Roller Derby. Your shirt.”

“Oh. Yeah. I’m on the team.”

“How is it?”

“It’s good. It keeps me going.” She paused, as if realizing she’d said too much.

“Tomorrow.”

“OK,” she said, starting to shut the door. Then she stopped. “Thanks,” she added.