The Good Boy (29 page)

“It looks cute that way.”

Regret is like a fat sock stuck in Pete’s mouth because he’s talking to a girl—to Ri of all girls—and that means he sounds like a complete jerk. He would never think to make a comment like that about his own daughter, and half the time he isn’t sure what the hell she’s wearing. He would never dare make a comment like that about Rima, either, and 99 percent of the time she looks like a cracked fashion plate. He should apologize, but he can’t think how.

“You know, Petey,” Ri says, “you’re the one who’s hiding.”

Neither of them says sorry after that.

The house on Mayfield is a tiny old A-frame brick bungalow; a street lined with homes like this used to indicate a stable, working-class neighborhood.

Used to.

Today, Pete can name seven factions of three gangs that operate along these streets. If anybody’s working, they’re out selling product on the corner, and class isn’t made but ranked, measured by reputation.

Jenkins’s place doesn’t look bad from the outside: curtains in the windows, steps swept, grass growing. Given that the kid is a young banger with a good start on his record, Pete would bet this is an aunt’s place, or his grandparents’—some family member still willing to offer a solid address for his parole officer.

Pete passes the house and pulls over before the corner next to an abandoned grass lot. Across the way, a storefront church whose sign says
MESSAGE FOR THIS MESS-AGE
is shuttered, the mess apparently too much. A string of alternatives—United Liberty Baptist, New Fellowship, Inspirational MB—runs along Division’s main drag, but none has opened its doors to spread God’s word today.

Looking west, a place called Transmission Builders is the only business on Division that’s doing business—everything else is closed. That’s good: that means there are very few windows for people to peek out and wonder about the cute white girl who’s about to be sitting by herself in the squad car.

“Stay here,” Pete says. He snags the coffee cup before he gets out, a friendly prop, then goes back to retrieve his gear from the trunk.

Next to his stuff, Butch’s emergency kit is stocked with pharmaceuticals to counteract hard drugs in case of an accidental ingestion. Damn, how Pete wishes he had Butch along now, his neutralizer.

“Here you go,” he says when he gets back in the car, handing Rima the vest. He checks his mirrors to gauge how much Ri might see when he knocks on Jenkins’s door. She shouldn’t see much more than the sidewalk.

Rima sizes up the vest. “I don’t know, Petey. I don’t see anything so bad about this neighborhood.”

“You don’t know where to look.”

“There’s nothing here.”

“There doesn’t need to be anything except opportunity. Put on the vest. Pretend it makes you invisible.”

He ejects the magazine from his gun and checks the load before he sits up to strap on his belt and reholster. It’s only been a day since he carried, but the weight always feels awkward at first—a lot like when he wears his wedding ring. For a long while, he’s conscious of it.

Rima pulls the vest on over her red leather coat; it fits her about as well as a cardboard box, the neckline hitting her chin. “You think this makes me invisible?” she asks.

“Maybe not invisible. Prepared.”

“You mean
preposterous
. I can’t move.”

“Good.” It’s all he can do to get her to stay put.

“What am I supposed to do?” she asks. “What if someone comes by?”

“That’s what the vest is for.”

“This is not normal.”

“Different neighborhood, different normal. I told you: you come, you wear it.”

“Yes
sir,
” she says, sinking, sulking.

“You’re welcome to listen to the radio,” he says, and gets out of the car.

Up the walk, it’s clear that somebody called somebody since Pete and Rima arrived, because the front door hangs open, and there’s a woman waiting for him behind the screen door.

“Mrs. Jenkins?” Pete guesses.

“No. That’s my sister.”

Pete was right: it’s Dezz-yo’s auntie’s house.

“I’m looking for Desmond,” he says, his approach casual and also direct, up the steps like he’s got no reason to think she wouldn’t want to talk to him.

“Is he in trouble?”

“Depends. Was Desmond bit by a dog last night?”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen him.”

Pete smiles as he leans in to get a better look at her face, slender and drawn like someone who’s been sick, or just never ate very much. Still, she’s put together: her curls are beauty-shop precise, her jungle-print tunic fits like skin, and her gaze is so even that he can’t tell if she feels one way or another about her nephew.

He asks, “Is there any way for you to reach him?”

“What for? What the hell am I supposed to do if he was bit by a dog?”

She feels one way all right.

Pete fakes a sip from his empty cup, maintaining casual. “Do you see my car out there?”

“Yeah, I saw your car.”

“Well, I work for the city, and I’m the dog police. I have a dog in custody, and that dog tested positive for rabies. Do you know what that is?”

“That’s some Cujo shit.”

“That’s right. And that’s why I’m trying to find Desmond. If he was the one who was bit, I’m here to make sure he gets the proper help.”

“I don’t know,” she says, painted eyes heavy. Could be she doesn’t buy the bullshit dog-police story; could be she wonders how Pete knew where to find Desmond. But the way she said
I don’t know
isn’t the same as saying
no
and that means there’s something Auntie does know. Pete’s just got to get her to say it.

“Listen,” Pete says, “I don’t want to scare you, but left untreated, rabies can be deadly. The incubation time for the virus runs anywhere from five days to two months. The victim could have the virus and not know it—especially because the initial symptoms mimic the flu. He might think he caught whatever bug’s going around when he’s actually fighting a much a more dangerous and complicated condition. That’s why it’s important that he get checked out now.”

“Can’t he just go to the hospital?” Auntie the one biting now.

“He should.”

“What’s the treatment?”

“Well, he’ll need to tell the hospital staff what happened. They’ll want to know specifics—about the dog, the circumstances. Then, depending on the severity of the wound, they may give him a course of antibiotics, or a tetanus shot, or a series of rabies shots.”

“Who pays for all that?” Auntie asks, glancing over her shoulder, back toward what Pete guesses is her kitchen. He wonders if Desmond’s sitting there at the table, shitting his low-rise jeans.

“I don’t think money is the concern here, ma’am. I mean, this could be life-or-death. Will you call Desmond for me, please?”

“No.” Her expression hasn’t changed, but her attitude has.

Pete takes another sip of nothing, mentally knocks himself in the chin, and looks down at his shoes. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure why you’re hesitant to help. Your nephew could have a serious condition. Will you just—wouldn’t you want to let him know that?”

When he looks up at her she’s looking at him and her mouth is open and she could say something, anything—but she doesn’t.

So, fuck it. “You know what? I hope the bite is deep. And painful. And I hope it gets infected. I hope he loses a leg, and I sure hope he blames you. Thanks for your help.” He turns and starts down the steps, and suddenly feels like vomiting, bile welling and sour in his mouth; why does he say such stupid things? Why did he just set fire to the trail he’d been following when he has no idea where to go next?

Then, when he reaches the sidewalk: “Officer?”

Pete wipes his brow, turns.

“I don’t know if it’s mine to say, but … would you come back here?”

Pete goes back to the bottom of the steps; he can’t return to the point of attack, and he can’t let her see him sweat. He says, “I’ve got other cases.” He knows he sounds shook.

Auntie comes out onto the porch and down the steps and says, real soft, “It wasn’t Desmond. Who got bit. But I know who it was. Maybe you give me your number, and I can get in touch with him, and have him call you?”

Pete swallows. “Okay,” he says, fumbling with the coffee cup as he reaches into his shirt pocket, which is just as empty. “Agh,” he says, fumbling still, “I don’t have my card.”

“Tell it to me,” she says, ready to punch the number into her phone.

He gives her his cell, but she won’t need it if she’ll give Pete just one piece of information. “I get a lot of calls and I don’t have much time. You mind telling me this person’s name, so I know to answer?”

“It’s DeWilliam. DeWilliam Carter.”

DeWilliam. One of the three leftovers on Leroy’s list. “Thank you,” Pete says, and this time he means it.

When he gets back in the squad Rima’s looking out the window and she says, “I think it’s going to storm.”

Pete starts the engine and he doesn’t feel sick at all anymore and he says, “You got that right.”

20

Joel isn’t so worried about the storm the vet forecasted; the sun is still shining, and untrimmed trees in front of a row of old three-flats protect this stretch from the wind and anything it might blow in.

What he is worried about is Mike getting blamed for the fallout at Zack Fowler’s. He can see it now: as kids keep talking, the story will turn and spin some more, and pretty soon somebody will put Mike and her dad together with Butchie, and from there it won’t take long. Just like the Green Man, Butchie will be the bad guy, and nobody will care what really happened.

Except the judge. The judge will want the truth.

A few blocks south of Fullerton, Joel and Butchie find Holstein Park, where the surrounding streets have been made into an improvised parking lot. Joel isn’t sure what the jam is about until he discovers the attraction: a red-and-blue-striped big-top tent stands behind the baseball diamond, a star-studded marquee draped from its tip-tops announcing the Midnight Circus.

Joel hears someone playing bongos; the crowd’s reactions provide random lyrics. Joel pictures a fire-juggling gypsy and trapeze artists linked by fingertips and white horses trotting in bright-plumed headdresses, his own memories still as magical as whatever spectacle must be inside.

Around the back of the tent, a girl in pigtails and a peacock blue leotard is bending in ways Joel’s sure his bones couldn’t go. She walks over herself and then flips to her feet when a man wearing an old-timey suit and a red ball on his nose comes out from the back flap-door, a black-and-white-spotted dog following. Butchie stops Joel at the fence to get a whiff as the dog and the man get a drink of water from a metal trough, the man on his knees, their tongues lapping in time. When they’re finished, the girl produces two jump ropes from a trunk, tossing tasseled ends to the man. They begin to twirl, one rope over the other. The dog watches, head going around and back, and then he jumps in, all four legs up in synchronized double-Dutch. Butchie looks up at Joel; he can’t believe it either.

A round of applause from inside the tent must be a cue, because the man tucks the ropes into his hat and the threesome disappears through the flap, the free show over. Joel decides they’d better move on in case the real show will be over soon, too, and the audience comes out for the parking-lot version of clown cars.

“Come on, Butchie.”

The dog obeys in spry steps, like he could double-Dutch, too.

When they reach Milwaukee Avenue, the street splits off and Oakley is nowhere to be found, so Joel decides to stop in an abandoned field underneath the El tracks to consult Rand McNally. Butchie seems pleased to stop where there’s grass, even though it’s actually dead grass and tough-looking weeds. Joel lets him off the leash and Butchie sniffs out a place to roll over and scratch his back.

Joel finds a spot in the grass, too, and when he sits down, he also finds that his legs hurt. It’s no wonder: according to the map, they’ve traveled a little over six miles from Molly’s house. What is a wonder is why anybody would walk this far unless they had to.

He kicks out one foot, stretches for his toes, and thanks himself for telling his mom no to cross-country tryouts. She said she thought he would like the idea of challenging himself, though what
she
liked was the idea of keeping him out of contact sports. At this point, the idea of walking or running someplace to win anything seems loony as a tune.

But to save something …

Joel walks his fingers along the rest of their route past the Loop, across the Eisenhower Expressway and around Union Pacific’s rail yard to the courthouse. Nothing seems as far away as home.

He leashes Butch and they follow the angled street along the El tracks until they reach a tiny, triangular park where a drinking fountain stands, water running, nobody thirsty in sight.

Joel takes a drink and says, “Come on,” to Butchie, about the fountain; the dog looks around like he’s not sure.

Joel splashes water at him. “You’re the one who wants to be in the circus.”

Butchie dances and finally stands, his paws on the ledge just for a second before he gets down and turns circles, shaking off the attempt.

“Come on. Like this.” Joel drinks to demonstrate.

Butchie dances some more and stands again, paws on the ledge. He cocks his head and snaps at the water, tongue in the way. He doesn’t get much to drink, but he looks pretty proud of himself.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Joel announces to nobody, “the amazing Butch O’Hare!” He pats the dog’s head and presents a Jewel bag like a magician’s handkerchief. He blows air inside, then fills it with water so the dog can have a real drink.

When a jogger approaches, an eye on the fountain, Joel says, “Okay, Butch, better try the disappearing act.” He dumps the water and takes up the leash and they jog, too—in the opposite direction.

A few blocks down, Joel finds Oakley again and also a Cuban café where he smells a grill going. There’s got to be a steak on it. He’s never tried Cuban food, but he sure wishes he could.

Past the building, a fenced-in dining patio is empty except for one table where someone left the crust of a sandwich, a ring of red onion, and a dollar tip on the bill. If the pit of Joel’s stomach were in charge, he’d be over that fence just for the crumbs.