plan his moves and heal his hand.
But first, he needed fast money for bus fare. He flicked the dead roach into the kitchen sink and went outside to get some help.
On the narrow sidewalk was broken cement. A skateboarding boy looked at Diet Cola and crossed the street. There was a row of tenements with fancy new siding, like a gold-plated row of garbage cans. Diet Cola opened a front door and let himself in. The place smelled like cigarette smoke and cat litter, and an old woman (she was what, sixty by now?) looked at him without surprise. She had on the same baggy dress she wore the night the cops came for him.
“You’re out early,” she said, rolling a cigarette and licking the paper. “What happened to your hand?”
“My hand’s fine. What happened to your face?”
“I thought you were doing a year.”
“I’m out on good behavior. I need money, Ma.”
Her teeth were out, and her laugh was strangled in phlegm. “Good be— Good behavior! Hoo!” She waved arthritic fingers at the living room around them. Her eyes began to water. “Welcome to Fort Knox, Mister Goody Two-Shoes! Take all the gold you can carry!”
Fido the tabby cat lay on top of her purse on the kitchen table. He pulled on the purse handle, and Fido tumbled onto a radiator. There were thirteen dollars. Fort Knocked was more like it.
She opened a drawer and pulled out a butcher knife, which she waved a foot from his face. “You’re not my son no more, so keep your pinkies out of my purse.”
“Look,” he said reasonably, “I need a couple hundred bucks for a business opportunity.”
“I don’t have it. What exactly for, anyway?”
“Plane ticket to Atlanta,” he lied. No sense telling the truth, in case she ever thought to give him up to the cops.
“I’d pay for one way if I could. You’re back in my life way too soon.”
Diet’s face flushed. “I don’t need that much.”
“You’re a sorry excuse for a man, Dieter.” His real name was Dieter Kohl, and he hated that name as much as he hated his own mother. She walked over to the pantry and pulled out couple of large plastic bags filled with soda cans and bottles. “Here, I’ve been collecting these on the street. You can cash these in. Get off your lazy ass and pick up around the city, earn your own airfare.”
Diet Cola hauled off with a roundhouse left and clipped his mother on the jaw. Just a little love-tap, since she got right up off the floor and punched him in the gut.
“Get out, you fat bastard!” she said. Her eyes blazed, and she held up a pair of scrawny fists. Which was funny, because he could take her anytime.
He picked up the bags of cans and headed out to look for more.
On the other side of the city, the officer stood in the Durgins’ living room and took notes as he listened to Carrick and Brodie. No, Carrick said, he’d never seen the man before.
“He was a devil,” Brodie added. “It took two angels and a bullwhip to stop him.”
“He was about six feet tall and well over two hundred fifty pounds,” Carrick said. “He had shaggy blond hair with a ponytail, and he smelled like last week’s cabbage.”
After the officer left, Carrick and Brodie sat together on the couch and traded brave looks. They placed shaking hands on each other’s faces. “We have to call Mack,” Carrick said.
“No, darling,” Brodie said. “Let’s go see him.”
Chapter 5
Friday night was Elvis Night at the Bump ‘n’ Grind on the south side of Lowell. Elvis wannabes climbed the stage and exposed their appalling lack of talent to about fifty cover charge-paying, Bud-swilling customers. Calliope Vrattos slapped away a groper’s hand as she threaded her way through the tables with a tray of drinks. Apparently, some guys thought a leer was the highest compliment a man could pay a woman. She’d had enough of the touching, the noise and the
But first, he needed fast money for bus fare. He flicked the dead roach into the kitchen sink and went outside to get some help.
On the narrow sidewalk was broken cement. A skateboarding boy looked at Diet Cola and crossed the street. There was a row of tenements with fancy new siding, like a gold-plated row of garbage cans. Diet Cola opened a front door and let himself in. The place smelled like cigarette smoke and cat litter, and an old woman (she was what, sixty by now?) looked at him without surprise. She had on the same baggy dress she wore the night the cops came for him.
“You’re out early,” she said, rolling a cigarette and licking the paper. “What happened to your hand?”
“My hand’s fine. What happened to your face?”
“I thought you were doing a year.”
“I’m out on good behavior. I need money, Ma.”
Her teeth were out, and her laugh was strangled in phlegm. “Good be— Good behavior! Hoo!” She waved arthritic fingers at the living room around them. Her eyes began to water. “Welcome to Fort Knox, Mister Goody Two-Shoes! Take all the gold you can carry!”
Fido the tabby cat lay on top of her purse on the kitchen table. He pulled on the purse handle, and Fido tumbled onto a radiator. There were thirteen dollars. Fort Knocked was more like it.
She opened a drawer and pulled out a butcher knife, which she waved a foot from his face. “You’re not my son no more, so keep your pinkies out of my purse.”
“Look,” he said reasonably, “I need a couple hundred bucks for a business opportunity.”
“I don’t have it. What exactly for, anyway?”
“Plane ticket to Atlanta,” he lied. No sense telling the truth, in case she ever thought to give him up to the cops.
“I’d pay for one way if I could. You’re back in my life way too soon.”
Diet’s face flushed. “I don’t need that much.”
“You’re a sorry excuse for a man, Dieter.” His real name was Dieter Kohl, and he hated that name as much as he hated his own mother. She walked over to the pantry and pulled out couple of large plastic bags filled with soda cans and bottles. “Here, I’ve been collecting these on the street. You can cash these in. Get off your lazy ass and pick up around the city, earn your own airfare.”
Diet Cola hauled off with a roundhouse left and clipped his mother on the jaw. Just a little love-tap, since she got right up off the floor and punched him in the gut.
“Get out, you fat bastard!” she said. Her eyes blazed, and she held up a pair of scrawny fists. Which was funny, because he could take her anytime.
He picked up the bags of cans and headed out to look for more.
On the other side of the city, the officer stood in the Durgins’ living room and took notes as he listened to Carrick and Brodie. No, Carrick said, he’d never seen the man before.
“He was a devil,” Brodie added. “It took two angels and a bullwhip to stop him.”
“He was about six feet tall and well over two hundred fifty pounds,” Carrick said. “He had shaggy blond hair with a ponytail, and he smelled like last week’s cabbage.”
After the officer left, Carrick and Brodie sat together on the couch and traded brave looks. They placed shaking hands on each other’s faces. “We have to call Mack,” Carrick said.
“No, darling,” Brodie said. “Let’s go see him.”
Chapter 5
Friday night was Elvis Night at the Bump ‘n’ Grind on the south side of Lowell. Elvis wannabes climbed the stage and exposed their appalling lack of talent to about fifty cover charge-paying, Bud-swilling customers. Calliope Vrattos slapped away a groper’s hand as she threaded her way through the tables with a tray of drinks. Apparently, some guys thought a leer was the highest compliment a man could pay a woman. She’d had enough of the touching, the noise and the
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