Читать книгу Minos - Burt Weissbourd - Страница 9
ОглавлениеCHAPTER TWO
The old oak table was messy but the rest looked okay. Which was something—what kind a shrink had his office over a Chinese takeout place that smelled like fermenting fish sauce? At least that’s what Sara was thinking when she walked into Abe Stein’s office. She sank into his worn, cherry-colored leather chair, wondering if he was as weird as she was. He was big, like a bear with a beard, she thought. A wise old bear that didn’t care how he looked. And everything about him, even his face, was kind of wrinkly—yeah, he looked more like a shaggy bear than a psychiatrist. Which was a plus, as far as she was concerned. It wouldn’t hurt if he got a new sport coat. She could see where his pipe—at least she assumed it was a pipe since he had the charred, chewed-on things strewn all over his desk—had burned a hole in the pocket of his tweed jacket.
The bear shrink just sat there, staring at her. What was he waiting for, she wondered? Did he think she’d pitch a fit or something? She could wait, too. It might be a good way to go, actually. The only use she had for a shrink was if he could get her in touch with Theseus, which definitely wasn’t part of any head-shrinker’s program. Un-unh. Never. She wondered if even Zeus, the king of heaven and earth, could move a shrink. Probably not. She’d bet he could zap one with a lightning bolt, though. Or turn him to stone. Yeah, that would be good.
He raised his pipe.
“Isn’t there some kind of no smoking deal?” Sarah asked, pulling her nose ring, wondering if he’d wince or shift his butt. Nothing.
“My landlord lives in Hong Kong.”
She wanted to smile. Smoky the shrink. Instead, she shrugged, who cares? When it was lit, Dr. Stein threw the match into a big stone bowl. She could already smell his nasty smoke.
“What happened at school?” he eventually asked.
Well, he got right to it, she had to give him that. And his voice was soft and friendly. Unless it was some kind of shrink trick. Sara looked him in the eye. “There’s danger. I called on the Oracle of Apollo, the keeper of truth, to reach Theseus. I need his help.”
“What kind of danger?”
“The Beast is rising. Only Theseus can stop him.”
Abe took that in. “And the fire?”
“It’s way too scary, what’s been going on. So I had to make my magic circle, cast a protective spell. Anyway, I was really into it, and I accidentally knocked over a candle with my Athame.” All of this said matter-of-fact. When she saw that he was confused, she took her Athame out of her canvas bag, showing him the double-edged dagger.
He nodded, thanks. Then, after a beat, “You know, two times I’ve set fires here in the office.” Abe smiled, remembering. “Without meaning to.”
“No kidding?” She leaned in, interested in this. “If you lie, I’m outta here.”
“Really. I’m serious. I don’t practice magic. But, as you can see, I’m a pipe smoker. What I’ll do is, I’ll light my pipe, then toss the match in the wastebasket, or in the ashtray. Every now and then, I think the match is out, and it isn’t. Next thing I know, my desk is on fire, or smoke is pluming out of the waste basket.”
Sara smiled, just barely, for the first time. “That’s why you have that big old bowl of an ashtray, huh?”
“Exactly.” He nodded again, plainly enjoying her quickness.
“How can we get this over with?” she asked then, taking advantage of his good mood.
“That depends.” Abe sat forward, taking her question seriously. “Why are you here?”
Her eyebrows rose, followed by her eyes. “Gimme a break.”
“Okay. You’re here because your father made you come. And he made you come because your school said you had to have treatment before you would be re-admitted.”
“So far so good.” This guy was smart, and tricky. But he seemed to like her, she could tell. Which surprised her a lot. People didn’t usually like her too well. Her dad said she needed to make a better first impression. What he really meant was she should lose the spiked collar. She fingered a spike, thinking about it.
“I propose another alternative,” Abe interrupted her musing. “I suggest that you consider the possibility that I could actually help you.”
“With what?”
“What would you like help with?”
Sara just snorted.
Abe frowned. “I’m not kidding.”
“No fucking way.” Her face tightened, sorry she’d let that slip.
He waited.
She better say something, get this back on track. What worried her most was that he would get in her way. Slow her down. Try and help with something he’d never, ever get. She hoped he’d give up on talking and just give her some medicine, which she’d never take, and ask to see her once a week. She could manage that. “Help me how?”
“What kind of help do you want?”
She decided to get it over with. Wake him up. “Mister, how about you help me fight the Beast? He’s rising. He’ll kill soon. I need a hero. I need more power. I need Theseus. Can you help me find him? Can you reach Poseidon, or Apollo? Huh? You up to that?” Shit. That ought to blow him off.
“Tell me more,” he said softly.
Tricky bear shrink. Okay. Let’s see. You want more—chew on this, shrinko. Sara closed her eyes, mumbling softly. She could smell the Beast; she could feel the scary things, coming on. Sara let them come, then speaking louder so he could hear, “Wild, shaggy Centaurs ravage the women at the wedding feast of their Lapith friends. Drunken, rampaging Maenads take Pentheus for a wild beast and rip him limb from limb. His mother, Abave, tears off his head. Seven maids and seven boys, Helene children, are given each great year, a sacrifice to the Minotaur in Crete. Furies walk in darkness, with bat’s wings, writhing snakes for hair and eyes that weep tears of blood. The Beast is rising. He’ll kill soon. No one will listen. Not Apollo, bearer of light, not Poseidon, the horse-father, nor even all-knowing Zeus.”
“How can I help?”
Sara ignored him, crying softly. It was back, the thing in her gut, like she was passing small, sharp-edged stones. The bear shrink had tricked her. All she wanted to do was get him off her back. “You can’t help me. You’re making it worse,” she whispered. Her face was pinched. She raised her Athame from her lap.
Abe stood, puzzled.
Sara was up, whispering. “Oh great and patient Oracle. I pray to you. Let me kneel on Apollo’s altar, your devoted priestess. I summon you. There is no time. Hear me now. Please—”
Abe came behind her, holding her arm, taking her Athame, leading her back to her chair.
No one was listening. Why? Why was he touching her? Sara twisted her arm free and punched him in his big stomach. Then she stood still, silent, feet planted.
Abe stepped back.
Sara melted into the big leather chair, her feet underneath her, her head bowed, and her arms wrapped around her knotted stomach. When she finally raised her head to speak, her voice came out softly, “You can’t help me, and you don’t know who can.” Then she lowered her head, hugging herself tightly.
Abe stood above her. “Let me try, Sara. I’d like to try.” His furrowed brow formed a V as he waited for her to look up. “You may be surprised.”
***
The swing was a favorite spot for Billy Logan-Stein and his mom, Corey Logan. Neither of them could say exactly how it happened, but weather permitting—and their tolerance for foul weather was high—the two of them ended up on that creaky front porch swing maybe twice a week, spring, summer and fall. Today was a cloudy April day, and an on-again-off-again drizzle had left the sidewalks slick and gunmetal grey.
Corey was sitting beside her son, slowly rocking. She’d asked him a question, and he was thinking it over. They had the same black hair, parted in the middle, though hers was cut short and his was tied back in a little ponytail. She wore a blue sweater and form-fitting jeans, which is what she almost always wore. Today, she wore a pea coat—the same coat she’d worn at sea, running from Nick Season almost two years ago.
Billy liked long flannel shirts worn unbuttoned over a tee shirt and well-worn jeans. Corey had a patch of freckles on her nose that crept onto her cheeks when she smiled. Billy’s face was darker, and she thought, darkly handsome, even when he was frowning, as he was now.
Billy’s frown softened as he turned toward his mom. “Sara kind of freaked out,” he explained, in response to her question about the fire at school.
“Is she okay?”
“She’s not hurt, if that’s what you mean. But she’s not exactly okay either.”
“How’s that?”
“She’s got this idea that we’re all in danger, and she keeps talking about how these Greek Gods are supposed to help her. It’s kind of weird.”
“Greek Gods—like Poseidon or Zeus?”
“Yeah. Like in the myths. You know—”
Corey nodded. When Billy was younger, she’d told him the same myths her Greek mother had told her. “That is weird.”
“She got suspended.”
“I’m sorry. I like her and her dad.”
“She’s sort of a friend. I mean she’s younger, but she’s unpopular. I mean I’m unpopular, but she’s like poster-child unpopular, which is even worse. The popular kids make fun of her. And they can be really mean.” He nodded, ruefully, when his mom frowned. “I like her okay, and she’s friends with Randy. So we kind of all stick together, you know, look out for her.” Billy nodded again; he knew high school life. And then, an afterthought, “She sometimes reminds me of Maisie.”
Corey remembered Maisie, vividly—how she was before, and after, she was kidnapped by Teaser. “How so?”
“Really smart, fast…” And after a beat, “How’s Maisie doing? When I see her, she’s still so quiet.”
“You know your dad can’t really talk about that. It’s no secret, though, that he’s still working with her. What I do know is that she’ll be back next fall. Her mom’s home schooling her. I ran into Amber at this parent food drive deal, and she told me that Maisie will be in your senior class.”
“That’s good…really good. Aaron and his family will be back from China then, too. I mean I really like hanging with Amy’s friends, but they’re seniors already and they’ll be gone next year. It’ll be good for me to have Maisie and Aaron around, especially if Amy’s gone.”
“I get that.” And shifting gears, “Who says you’re not popular?”
“Hey, I’m your son—I know what I know.”
“I don’t get it.”
“When you were in prison, I got drugs for the popular kids. I’ve told you about that.”
Corey nodded.
“When I stopped. They got pissed off. They never forgave me. And now I’m with Amy, who used to hang with them. I think Dave, the ringleader, has a crush on her. So now they routinely give me and my friends a hard time.”
“Can I do anything?”
Billy smiled at his mom, imagining her bracing Dave or Russ. “No, we’re okay. We pretty much ignore them.”
“You’re popular with Amy,” Corey remarked, thinking Billy was more and more like Abe, the way he was so realistic about his life, and the way he could talk about it.
“Amy’s cool,” Billy said, smiling now and rocking. He was taller than Corey, and still gangly. His long arm was draped over the back of the porch swing, around her back. He touched her far shoulder, and when she turned that way, surprised, they laughed, a private joke between them. “I really like her.”
“How are you two doing?” she eventually asked.
“She wants to go out.”
“What exactly does ‘go out’ mean?” Corey ran her hand through her short, black hair. There was a braided red and black bracelet tattooed on her wrist.
“It means we see each other a lot. You know, lunch, after school, even at night on the weekends.”
“Sounds serious.” Corey watched his face. Billy’s first, and last, girlfriend, Morgan, had ended their relationship six months after her family moved to New York City less than a year ago.
“I dunno. We’ve only been together—what?—it’s not even three months.”
“I’m sure she’s had her eye on you for quite a while. She was just waiting for you and Morgan to break up.”
“You think?”
“Yeah, that’s what I think, and even if you factor in that I’m your mom, I’ll bet I’m right.”
Billy smiled. “It’s not always, well, a good thing, to have a mom who’s so sure of everything.”
“Fair enough…so what’s worrying you?”
“Well she’s had lots of boyfriends, and she might lose interest.”
“Why would she do that?”
“I’m not so…you know.”
Corey took a beat, putting it together. Okay, Mom. “You mean you’re not as experienced as she is?”
“I guess.”
When Billy was uncomfortable, he got vague, monosyllabic. “Listen. I went out with guys who weren’t as experienced as I was, and the ones that I kept seeing were the ones that didn’t pretend it wasn’t so.”
His black eyebrows tilted down. “How do you do that?”
Corey leaned in, pleased that he was asking her about this. Pleased, too, that he was smart enough to know she could help. “Tell her. You can even ask questions about what she likes.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Hey. Let her take the lead. It’s just the two of you, you know. No one else cares.” Her smile, when it came, was open and warm.
He thought about that. “Huh,” was all he offered, along with another tap to her far shoulder.
***
At the end of his day, Abe returned phone calls. He rubbed his thumb over a well-worn spot on the old oak desk and dialed Jim Peterson’s number at work. Abe believed the groove in his desk had been worn while he waited for doctors. As he held for Dr. Peterson, he was thinking about Sara, how she was so sensitive, even hypersensitive; Sara didn’t miss much. And the mythological universe she’d constructed was, at first glance, both orderly and detailed. No small accomplishment. Still, he had no idea why she’d built it, or what purpose it served. He hoped to answer those questions. He couldn’t do that, though, without her help. And why would she ever want to help him unless she thought he could help her? She didn’t think that now; he knew that much. After holding for a very busy receptionist and an even busier nurse who asked if he was waiting for “Doctor,” he explained that he, too, was a doctor returning Dr. Peterson’s call, and Abe was put through right away.
“Jim, Abe Stein,” Abe said. They’d had patients in common, and though they didn’t know each other well, Abe liked and respected Jim. He was sure Jim wouldn’t have sent Sara to see him if the feeling wasn’t mutual.
“Nice to talk with you, Abe, sorry about the circumstances. I’m worried. I’d appreciate your take on Sara.”
“My take?” Abe was wary—something about the way some doctors assumed they were part of some special club, that Abe would just tell him about Sara, his daughter, Abe’s patient.
“I’ll level with you, Abe. I’m okay with the black clothes, the Wicca, the spells. I’ve learned to live with the piercings, the pentagrams, even the tattoos. And Lord knows, since she was a child, I’ve encouraged her interest in Greek mythology. But this is different. She’s depressed. She’s become uncommunicative and reclusive. In the past few weeks, it’s gotten worse. To her, these Greek stories are becoming real. And setting a fire at school is a felony. Help me out here. I’m lost. I don’t know what to do.”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
“Can you help her? What’s the matter with her?”
Abe hesitated. “Jim, you’re putting me in an awkward position. If I’m going to treat Sara—and I suggested we meet three times a week—I can’t have side conversations with you. If you want to come in, I’ll talk with Sara first and work out what I can and can’t say.”
“Cut me a little slack here, Abe. I know how this works.”
Abe was quiet. “I’ll do my best to help Sara,” he eventually offered.
“Okay. I know. That’s why she’s seeing you.”
“Jim, I need time with her. I can’t say yet how long. I can only help her if you give us time and room.”
“I’m sorry if I was out of line, I’m just—I’m just upset, and honestly, sometimes I’m so worried it’s hard to bear.”
“I understand.” And he did. Abe could still see Sara—she was imprinted, indelibly, in his mind—waving her Athame, calling on the Oracle of Delphi to help her. It was as if she’d embraced, no, ingested, Greek mythology, then added a dash of the occult. And now, she was insisting that worrisome aspects of her modern life were driven by the strict rules and harsh consequences of the ancient Greek Myths.
Abe could hear Jim, taking a slow breath, using his inhaler. “Take what time you need, Abe,” he eventually said, “But please work out with Sara some way to keep me in the picture. Okay?”
“I’ll try.”
“Thanks for your help.” Jim said.
“I haven’t helped yet,” Abe wanted to say. “And I’m not sure I can.” Instead, he said, “I’ll do my best.”
Abe set down the phone, wondering why Sara had retreated to a world that existed, what?—he checked a mythological timeline. It estimated that Theseus was born in 1273 BC—more than 3,200 years before her father was born.
***
Minos still kind of liked this stretch of Broadway. Even though it had changed, lost its funky, one-of-a-kind character. Even though the best places, like Meteor Man, were gone. Change is usually for the worse, Minos thought. But he liked how he still knew his way around both sides of the street: he knew where to find wallets, cheap jewelry, funny T-shirts, Pagan trinkets, CDs, cigarette cases, dirty magazines, even exotic knives. He knew the stores for rich kids, like the Gap or Urban Outfitters. What was bothering him then? What it was, he decided, was that he missed the old Broadway Market. He missed the candy store, and the newsstand with papers from all over the world. Most of all, he missed the men’s underwear place, Meteor Man, and the Rubber Rainbow Condom Company which used to be upstairs and was very cool. He wasn’t sure why he missed these things, but he did. The Oxygen Bar had been upstairs, too, but Minos thought it was, at best, some kind of joke. Breathing fancy air was a fool’s game.
What he still liked about this stretch of Broadway—the one big thing—he realized, were the people. Especially the kids. Weekends there were always kids, passing through, checking it out. All kinds of kids. That’s what he liked, yeah. He thought the kids from everywhere else tried to look like they belonged here, and sometimes that made them weirder looking than the real street kids. There were ordinary people, too—tourists, parents, suburban kids, local high school kids, college kids, shoppers. In fact, statistically speaking, most of the people cruising Broadway were mainstream. But it wasn’t their place, and they knew it. That was what drew them here. The street folk set the tone. Leather, metal, piercings and tattoos meant to shock, and, always the hair, the wild and crazy hair. Some days, it was like getting a little glimpse of the marketplace from Star Wars, some of the kids were so wonderfully weird-looking. Which was good for Minos. He fit in. He belonged here. He was the genuine article, the real deal. Minos was a grown-up version of a wonderfully weird-looking kid. Grown-up on the outside, anyway. On the inside, he was like the other kids, more or less. He smiled, liking how he could feel old and young at the same time. This was a good place for it, too. Often, he would sit at one of the little tables in the coffee shop and watch the kids go by.
Minos sat, checking out a handsome boy with green hair. Before long, he was thinking about the boy he’d lost. He thought he might turn green with envy, remembering how Minos, the Cretan Bull King, had gone to the Delphic Oracle to find his missing son. Unbeknownst to the Bull King, his son, Glaucus had gone into the cellar at the palace, where he’d fallen into a great jar of honey, head downward, and drowned. The Oracle had said, “A marvelous creature has been born amongst you: whoever finds the true likeness for this creature will also find the child.” The Bull King learned that a heifer-calf had been born that changed its colors three times a day—from white to red and from red to black. He brought his soothsayers to the palace and Polyeidus of Argos said, “this calf resembles nothing so much as a ripening blackberry,” and Minos sent him to find Glaucus.
Polyidus found Glaucus drowned in the jar of honey. Minos demanded Glaucus be brought back to life and locked Polyeidus in a tomb with Glaucus and a sword. A serpent approached the boy’s corpse and Polyeidus killed it with the sword. Another snake came and seeing its mate dead, this snake slithered off and returned with an herb that brought its mate back to life. Polyeidus used this same herb to miraculously resurrect Glaucus.
Minos loved that story—the serpent, the resurrection of the boy, and especially the part about the wondrous heifer-calf. He could bring that heifer-calf here, to the new market, Minos was thinking. The kids would stop by and watch it, pet it, maybe get stoned and hang out, ooing and ahing as the calf changed colors. Never knowing its meaning.
Today, he had business, the Master’s business. He stood up, then began walking his walk, keeping it slow, head down, sort of a shuffle. He walked straight past The Smoke Shop, then flared out his long leather coat and straddled one of the high stools at the Space Station.
The Space Station was out-of-date-high-tech sci-fi. Sleek futuristic lines, metal, space-age shapes, and those cool, stark colors—black, silvers and greys. The tables were like ice-cream cones, pointed at the bottom, sliced off by cold flat surfaces where the ice cream should have been. He scanned the vegetarian menu, considering what to order. There were three drinks he especially liked. He chose the Moon Beem, a concoction of orange, papaya, banana, ginger and bee pollen, watching when the guy behind the counter got a good look at his face. The kid just nodded—okay by him—and went about his business. Minos was wondering where the kid got his big hoop earring when he heard the sound, a light snapping. When Minos turned, there was Snapper, looking pretty much like he remembered him.
Just seeing the finger-snapping, scheming tease made Minos really mad. Snapper was nineteen now, tall, graceful, and irresistible to men and women. He carried a leather bag, like a purse, on his shoulder. He was one of those people who could get away with things, make them look easy. Dangerous things. Yeah. Because of his looks, he could fool people. Even take advantage of them. As far as Minos was concerned, Snapper was a boil on the Master’s fair skin, a boil that needed lancing.
When he sat beside Minos, Snapper winked. “Hey, ugly buddy.”
Minos just stared. No one could get under his skin like Snapper. He reached inside his leather coat, took out a package, set it on the counter. He watched the slut snap his fingers, check it out.
“You know, I’ve been thinking. El Jefe—” Snapper winked when Minos looked puzzled. “Your boss—he made a mistake. And mistakes, they are sometimes hard to fix. Even for a big cheese. You know?” Snapper tapped the package then put it in his purse. “I’ve been thinking what we have here is a beginning, a good beginning.” He nodded once, slowly. Minos could hear his fingers snapping under the table. “See you soon. Maybe next time, you wear something, you know, not so colorful. Okay?” Another wink, and he was gone.
There it was. When Snapper left, Minos shuffled along behind him, keeping back, watching. His mind was working now too, super fast. He didn’t like it when Snapper called the Master names, like boss, or El Jefe—whatever that was—or big cheese.
At the entrance to Urban Outfitters, Snapper met another boy. He was really good-looking, like the Snapper, only buff with this shoulder-length, red-orange hair. And the boy’s very cool hair had these perfect wavy curls, like in a shampoo commercial. Minos knew this boy, though he couldn’t remember his name, or where he’d met him. Maybe it was in another life, he thought to himself, then he smiled on the inside at his private joke.
The boys went south, down Broadway, past the Greek Restaurant. Minos followed from across the street, shuffling along just fast enough to keep them in sight. He was good at that, moving his feet in quick steps, head angled down to avoid any eye contact. They went past the taco place, past Seattle Central, stopping in at a new trance and techno spot that looked to him more like a man-sized video game, finally turning west on Pine then south toward the Blue City Café. At the café, the redheaded sweetie gave Snapper a hug. Snapper gave him a book from his purse, then the sweet-looking boy went inside. When Snapper turned back down Pine, Minos shuffled after the finger-snapping slut. He was going to talk to him, he decided, and fix this. The Master was always busy, and so kind, so forgiving, he couldn’t take proper care of himself. He needed Minos for that. Okay, he’d make this problem go away, and then he’d have time to play. He had an idea for a new game.
***
Corey was waiting at a Broadway coffee shop, sitting at the window, watching the street. She liked it here: liked the parade of color and style, the wild hair and clothes, the “hot” spots, the fringe. Her work often led to this odd adolescent mecca. Corey found runaways, and for homeless youth, Broadway was a place to hang.
This evening, she waited for Snapper, a runaway and a friend, who wanted to talk with her. As she waited, Corey was thinking, absentmindedly rubbing the back of her neck, taking in the street life. Corey was puzzled about her son Billy, wondering why a child as grounded and gifted as he wasn’t more popular at school. What mattered to these kids? Looks? Money? In some ways, it was simpler on the streets. On the street, kids learned what counted early on.
In private school, she’d seen how the school community formed its own self-contained culture. Each school was a little different. At Olympic, the tone, the norms of this little society, were set by the “popular kids,” a small clique of look-alikes—thin, attractive thoroughbreds—and they ruled. They dictated who was in, what was cool. There was this very specific status hierarchy—everything from grasshoppers to God had its proper rank—and everyone knew exactly where they stood at all times. She thought the administration was way too accepting of this set-up.
It hadn’t been like this “in her day,” as Billy would put it.
It was 1989 when Corey turned seventeen. Her mother died that year, and she lived alone on their boat, the Jenny Ann, supporting herself however she could. After school, while her girlfriends were shopping and talking about boys, Corey was canning fish. Summers, she fished in Alaska on a purse seiner. Still, she’d learned to like who she was, and not think too much about how other people saw it. Maybe it was easier then, she didn’t know.
When Billy was almost thirteen she was framed by a corrupt lawyer. She spent twenty-two months at the Geiger Corrections Center, the Federal Prison in Spokane. When she got out she was sent to Abe for a psychiatric evaluation. The evaluation was a requirement to get her son back from foster care. After a rocky start, she and Abe connected. Together, they brought down that sonofabitch lawyer, Nick Season—who was running for State Attorney General—and she was vindicated. During her time in prison, though, it was that self-acceptance that got her through the unbearable times. The hardest times were at night, worrying about Billy in foster care.
She saw her friend Buzz weaving through the crowd toward the coffee shop. Buzz was African American. His head was shaved. He sagged his baggy pants under a sleeveless red T-shirt. Over his T-shirt Buzz wore his signature silver-studded, black jean vest. As he got closer, she couldn’t miss the tattoos, wrist to shoulder. On Broadway, Buzz was a regular. She stood, flagging him down.
Buzz caught her wave and moved through the small tables, slinking into the seat across from her. “Yo, “ he said.
“Hey.” She smiled. Corey liked Buzz. He’d been on the street a long time, and he kept up with the gossip, or “buzz,” hence his street name. “How you doing?” she asked.
“Excellent, is how I’m doing.” He touched the back of her hand. “And yourself?”
“I’m okay. Yeah.”
He looked around. She patted his arm. “Get something for yourself and tell me what’s doing.”
He gave her a thumbs up, knowing a free meal when it was offered.
When Buzz sat down again, there were three packaged sandwiches on his tray, and a nice grin on his face. He tilted his head toward the cashier, who was watching him like a hawk.
“Snapper’s back,” she said to him, after she’d paid his check.
“Snapper?” Buzz shook his head. “I don’t think so. That boy’s long gone. He split last summer.”
“He called. He wants my help.” She’d been hired to find Snapper by his mother. When she finally found him, almost fifteen months ago, she hid him until she could work it out with his abusive father. Mom paid her fee.
“You sure it was him?” Buzz tapped one of the rings on his right hand against the table.
“Un-huh. We talked on the phone.”
“Must be danger, he asking you to help with it.” Buzz nodded. “The Snapper can dodge a bullet.”
It was true. Snapper was a natural-born scammer, an easy-going street hustler, and it often got him in trouble. “I was supposed to meet him here at five-thirty. He’s half an hour late.”
“You know the Snapper. He come by, ask you to go with him to Portland, say. You say when. He say now. He got something going. You say how long? He say who knows. Long as it take to score. The Snapper does his own thing in his own time.”
Corey and Buzz talked for another ten minutes. Corey waited on after that. She was feeling edgy, up and down. Part of it was what Billy had said about the popular kids, especially how they made fun of Sara. Some of it was Snapper. Where was he? Snapper, she knew, was notoriously unreliable. Still, he’d made this sound important. Corey sat, brooding, for another ten minutes. Snapper never showed.
