Maybe he had learned a little something from our prior lessons after all.

Q’s hysteria turned contagious. The big thug broke eye contact, looked at his friends who continued to back up. They all shifted and moved off around the dirt pool, slowly at first, then in a big hurry, cowardly curs with their tails between their legs.

I put the Colt in the pocket of the army coat and picked Tommy up, his rib bones hard against my hands, he was so damn skinny. He wrapped his legs around my waist. I buttoned the coat around him. He’d stopped shivering.

I went back into the foul-smelling apartment only dim enough to show the outline of furniture, found Q huddled in the kitchen, next to the wall and fridge, his arms over his head. “Whatta ya want? Whatever it is take it. Take it and go.”

His plea stopped me short and gave me an idea. I nudged him with my foot. “You know damn well why I’m here, asshole.”

“No, I don’t, swear to gawd I don’t.”

“I want my money.”

“What gawd damn money’s dat?” His head came up, indignant. Money was his life and easily superseded his fear.

I kicked him, but not hard. “Don’t you play dumb with me, you candy-ass punk, I’ll shoot you right here. You know me. You know I’ll do it and not think twice about it.”

“Aw’ite, aw’ite, doan shoot. All the green I gots is in a bag behind the vent, behind the vent under the water heater.”

I kicked him again. “Get it and hurry up.”

I followed as he crab-crawled quickly through the living room area, down a short hall to a closet. Tommy’s legs had relaxed, his whole body limp. The comfortable heat after the constant cold put him right to sleep.

At the end of the hall, Q started to open the door. I kicked it closed. “You come out with a gun it’ll be your last conscious act. You understand me?”

“I ain’t no fool.”

“Get it then and make it snappy.”

He opened the closet. Inside sat a fat water heater just like he said. He fumbled in his pocket and came out with a slot screwdriver, the key to his riches. His hands shook. Blood dripped from his broken nose onto his wrist as he fumbled with the four nearly stripped screws. When the vent came off, I grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him away with my free hand. I reached inside and felt a Mac-10 submachine gun on top of a nylon gym bag. I pulled the bag out.

“How much is in there?”

“Dere’s forty-five.”

“Forty-five, that means you can tell Jumbo he still owes me another—no, you tell Jumbo this is interest only. You tell him he still owes me the entire one-twenty-five. You got it?”

“Jumbo? I doan know no—”

I shoved him with my foot, then put it on his chest pinning him. “Don’t even try to tell me you don’t know Jumbo.”

“Awite, awite, I knows him. But all dat money ain’t his. Some’ve it’s mine.”

“You can work it out with him. This is your boy, isn’t it?” I said, indicating Tommy Bascombe under my jacket.

“Hell, no, that ain’t my boy.”

I put more weight on his chest.

“Awite, awite, he’s my lil rugrat, whatever you say, awite.”

“I’m taking him, holding him ransom until I get the rest of my money. You understand? You want your kid back, you better tell Jumbo to pay up. And I don’t have to tell you what will happen if you go to the cops. You or your woman out there.”

The idea came to me all of a sudden, some smoke to cover for the taking of Tommy.

“We won’t rat to no cops, dat’s for damn sure.”

“Now get up. You’re going to walk me out of here just in case some of your homies think they can take me on.”

“Aw, man.”

Outside on the sidewalk, night had slammed down without fair warning. Tommy still slept against my chest and grew heavier with each step. I tried to hold him up with one arm the other in my pocket holding the Colt against Q’s spine. He carried the bag of money.

“Where’s your hooptie?”

“I ain’t got no ride.”

“I’m not going to steal your car. You’re going to drive us out of here.”

“Right dere.” He pointed to a Cadillac Escalade, Kelly green with twenties on the wheels. He’d moved up the food chain, an aberration for such a weak-kneed, pencil-neck geek.

“Get in.”

Chapter Twenty-One

He drove us east on 124th Street with the heater on full, then over to Alameda northbound to Imperial Highway. I started to sweat. “Pull in right here.”

I pointed to a no-name tire shop. Mexicans inside hard at work, long after dark, finishing up their twelve-hour day, with four cars up on lifts, a couple still in queue waiting. He didn’t question, but pulled right over, anxious to get rid of me. I opened the door and hesitated. “Don’t you want to say goodbye to your son?”

“Ya, ya, bye, kid, doan you worry none. I’ll git yo sorry ass back.”

I found it difficult to stifle a smile. “Don’t forget, tell Jumbo, no cops. And keep that woman in enough dope she doesn’t cause a problem. You hear?”

I got out. He gunned it before the door closed, pulled right out in traffic without looking. A Bimbo bread truck slammed into the side of his perfectly kept Caddy with enough force to slew it sideways over the curb and into a power pole. The crash startled Tommy who jumped. He rose up like a prairie dog over the vee at the top of the jacket. “Wow.”

I walked down along the side of the tire shop, Tommy in one arm, the bag slung over my shoulder.

“You hungry?”

He looked up at me his eyes large and wet. “Where’s my mama? I want my mama.” He put his head back against my chest. It never ceased to amaze me how a parent could abuse a child, starve him, torture him, and the child continued a rabid loyalty.

“She’ll be along soon. She told me to get you something to eat, said that you haven’t eaten in a good long while. What do you like best to eat? Hot dogs, hamburgers, French fries, vanilla malts?”

“I want my mama.”

We continued through a field onto the next street. “Okay, how about an ice cream? My boy always likes ice cream after we have dinner.”

“You gotta boy?”

“Yep, just about your age. He loves ice cream.”

He hesitated. “Chocolate ice cream with hot fudge?”

I thought about it, not wanting to lie. Where would I get chocolate ice cream and hot fudge? “Yep, we could do that. First, your mama said to get some good food in your belly before the sweets. You know the rules. So what’ll it be?”

He brought his head up, looked around. “Go left here over to Lucy’s, they have great taquitos with real guacamole. Whenever Mama gets a little extra money, she takes us out for a treat, Lucy’s for the real guacamole.”

The word guacamole didn’t fit with someone so young, and it would’ve been cute the way he’d said it had he not been too anxious to defend the witch of a woman who had mistreated him, the woman who so readily agreed to sell him off like so much chattel.

I knew Lucy’s and they knew me. I’d have to chance it. Three blocks later we walked into the sit-down part of the walk-up restaurant. People lined up outside and on the inside waiting their turn for dinner. I went right to the door off to the side like in the old days and looked over the tops of the folks’ heads at the girls behind the window taking orders and serving the food. I didn’t see who recognized me, but the door’s solenoid automatic lock buzzed. I pulled. We were in. The door closed automatically behind us. The warm, sweet aroma inside smelled of fresh cooked tortilla, carnitas, and cilantro. My stomach growled. Not so many years ago, years that now felt like decades, I stood in the back by the same stainless steel table and ate all the free food Lucy’s owners put down in front of us, patrol cops who kept the restaurant safe for the inexpensive price of a little food.

I let Tommy down on the floor. He didn’t flinch at the cold. He was a tough kid. A fat woman I didn’t recognize came over with a tray of tacos, beans, and rice, and chips with salsa. She looked us over, my battered face, dirty bandaged hands, and Tommy’s naked feet. She shook her head and started to leave.