Laying Down the Paw (10 page)

The kitchen contained fading, residual smells of bacon grease and pork chops, making Brigit's mouth water. Too bad her partner was a vegetarian. Still, those soy sausages Megan sometimes made for breakfast weren't half bad. They weren't half good, either. But a dog who'd gone without a meal for several days under the negligent care of a previous owner knew better than to ever turn down food, no matter how it tasted.

When Megan opened the back door for her, it seemed like a portal to heaven. Brigit saw a deep yard with a gnarly live oak and a tall pecan tree that, from the smell, served as home to an extensive squirrel family sure to provide Brigit with hours of entertainment. As soon as Megan unclipped her leash, Brigit had bolted into the space, running around and kicking up her heels, thrilled to have room to roam and romp. The dirt was soft under her feet, perfect for digging and hiding bones in. A
rrrruf!
from next door told her she'd have a friend in the neighborhood, a terrier judging from what she could see through a small gap in the fence boards.

The only downside was that darn cat. The stupid thing had followed them all through the house, had tried on several occasions to get Brigit's attention by swiping at her tail.
Pathetic.
Brigit sensed the poor thing might be lonely. Heck, she'd been there herself, back when she'd lived with her first owner, who rarely gave her attention. While Brigit would have preferred to share her home with another dog, she'd learn to tolerate the feline if she had to.

As Megan led her back to their cruiser, Brigit slowed to sniff the ivy, scenting two rats hiding in the foliage. Had she not been on a leash, she would've eaten one as an hors d'oeuvre, the other for dinner.

Or maybe she would've shared the second one with that cat …

 

FIFTEEN

WRONG NUMBER

Dub

He stared down at the phone number scribbled on the Taco Bell napkin in his hand. He shouldn't dial it. He knew that. Katrina Mayhew was his mother in name only.

But her crappy parenting hadn't been totally her fault, had it? It wasn't her fault she'd gotten addicted to drugs. Some people just couldn't control themselves. She hadn't come from the best family herself and the meth … it made her someone else.

Drugs could make a person do horrible things they never intended to do. Dub knew that better than anyone. And the dealers who sold the drugs, who got people addicted, who ruined so many lives? If it were up to Dub, every last one of them would be wiped off the face of the earth.

He picked up the landline phone, willing it to explode in his hand, to stop him from doing what he knew he was going to do.

Okay, so he'd call her. No biggie, right? He would just talk to her for a minute, make sure she was doing all right, catch her up on his life. She'd be proud to know he was making good grades. That he'd played on the basketball team at Gainesville State School—second string and they'd had a losing season, but still. She'd be thrilled to know that, after encouragement from Wes and Trent, he'd auditioned for a role and would be playing Mayor Shinn in
The Music Man
at Paschal High School. It wasn't the lead, but the fact that he'd been chosen at all, that the director had seen something in him, had made him think that maybe change was possible after all. And, of course there was Jenna. She'd seen something good in Dub, too, even if her parents only saw his rap sheet and had forbidden her from dating him.

He'd just call his mother.

Have a quick talk.

And that would be it.

Sure.

Trent and Wes wouldn't find out. There was no record of local calls on a landline phone bill, right?

He began dialing—
8-1-7
—angry to find the phone shaking in his hand.
For shit's sake
, he told himself.
Chill.

He finished dialing.

He'd nearly hung up when Katrina answered after the fifth ring. Her voice sounded wary, probably because she didn't recognize the number. “Hello?”

“Hi … Mom.”
God, it shouldn't be so hard to say that word, should it?

“Wade!” she cried, as if she'd just won a Caribbean cruise on
Wheel of Fortune.
“It's so good to hear from you! I've been hoping you would call!”

He wasn't sure where to start. “It was … uh … a surprise seeing you the other day.”

“It was fate, honey!” she cried.
“Fate.”

Uh-oh.
He feared where she might be going with this.
Better take control of the conversation.
“So, uh, I played basketball in Gainesville. And I tried out for a play here. I'm gonna be in
The Music Man
.”

“Is that right? That's great, hon. Just great. I've missed you so much!”

“I'm making good grades. “Mostly B's but I've got an A in Hist—”

“You think you could come by? You know, so we can talk in person? I'd love to see you.”

Dub hesitated. “I'm not sure that's a good idea.”

“What do you mean ‘not a good idea'? I'm your mother. Your
mother
, Wade. How can you turn your back on me?”

There it was. The same old guilt trip.
“I'm not turning my back—”

“Just come by for a little bit,” she said, her voice softer now, sweeter. “Come see where I'm staying. I've got things together now. I just want you to see. That ain't too much to ask, is it?”

There was a long silence during which Dub nearly hung up the phone. But he didn't.
He couldn't.
“
He
isn't there, is he?”

“Oh, hell no! I am done with that sorry son-of-a-bitch.”

“You sure?”

She huffed. “Would I lie to you?”

Yes. Yes, you would. Over and over and over again. And I'd be stupid enough to keep believing you …

She didn't wait for him to answer. “Come on over. I'll make you dinner. I've got corn dogs in the freezer.”

Frozen corn dogs. Dub supposed most teenage boys would be thrilled to eat junk food but, even though Wesley's homemade meals tasted like rubber, they meant something. That Wes
cared
.

“Come on,” his mother said. “You'll break my heart if you don't come by.” She gave him the address. “You got that, hon?”

Dub felt sick. He put a hand to his eyes. “Yeah. All right. I'll see you soon.”

He hung up the phone, rounded up his history book, and slid it into his backpack. Might as well make good use of his time on the bus to get the required reading done. He put on his favorite hoodie, the white one with the black tornado, the Gainesville State School mascot. He didn't dare wear it to school here. Though the name of the reform school appeared only in small print on the top left side, things were bad enough already without him reminding people he had a criminal record. But on the east side of town where his mother lived the sweatshirt could give him some street cred.

Wes was out shopping for groceries, which meant Dub could avoid the usual grilling about where he was going and when he'd be back. Sometimes he wasn't sure his foster fathers totally trusted him. They probably shouldn't. He left a note on the kitchen counter.

Gone to library. I'll be back by dinnertime.

D.

He caught the number 6 bus on 8th Street, switching to an eastbound number 24 on Berry. He'd just finished the chapter in his history book when the bus arrived in the Morningside neighborhood. It pulled to a stop with a
whoosh
of the air brakes.

Dub looked out the window at the rundown apartment complex where his mother lived. The place was made of that god-awful pink brick they used way back. The gray awning over the walkway was torn, a loose corner flapping in the wind. Three young men of various races hung out in the parking lot, sitting on hoods of beater cars, drinking beer.
Damn.
He wished he'd brought something for protection. A piece of pipe. A knife. His brass knuckles.

Dub should get on a westbound bus and head back to Fairmount. That's exactly what he should do. But instead, he found himself jumping up from his seat and hollering “Wait!” as the bus driver began to close the doors.

“Hurry up!” the driver called back to him. “I've got a schedule to keep.”

Dub hurried to the front of the bus and climbed down the steps to exit onto the sidewalk. The doors slid closed behind him with a
shwuck
, as if shutting him out of the new life he'd left behind. He slid the back of his hand across his forehead, like he could wipe away the thought.
Stupid.
All he had to do to go back to his new life was get on another bus. Hell, he could probably call Wes to come pick him up. Wes was close to his own mother. He'd understand Dub's need to make sure his mother was safe.

As Dub crossed the street, making his way toward the complex, he noticed the three men stiffen. He knew what that meant. They saw him coming and planned to defend their turf. As much as he wanted to turn and run right now, he knew that was the worst thing he could do. One whiff of weakness and these guys would be on him like white on rice.

As he came near, he mustered his inner tough guy, walking in a loose-limbed swagger, one that said
I ain't scared of you pussies.

He forced himself to lock eyes with the black man, who seemed to be the leader. Dub knew looking away would be a sign of fear. The man had short hair with a swirl design shaved over each ear and eyes that were dark and dangerous and hard and soulless. The eyes of a man who didn't give a damn about anyone but himself. The eyes of a man who'd make you sorry if you crossed him.

Dub was all too familiar with eyes like that.

One of the others, an Asian guy with a neck tattoo, stepped forward, his eyes narrowed until they were only dark slits in his face. He leaned to the side to take in Dub's backpack, got in Dub's face, and said, “What the hell you doing here, college boy?”

Dub was years away from college, but he wasn't about to let these thugs know how young he really was. For once, he was glad his experiences had aged him, taught him how to take care of himself. And he thanked the puberty fairy for not holding out on him.

“You don't want to fuck with me,” Dub said coolly, his eyes locking on the Asian man's now. Wes may have learned how to behave at cotillion, but Dub had learned it on the streets. “I just got out of the joint.”

Of course the “joint” had been the state school for juvenile offenders, but these guys didn't need to know that.

The Asian's eyes opened wide now and his brows arched. “Prison? No shit?”

Funny how being incarcerated made people fear him in nice neighborhoods, but got him respect in places like this.

The black guy cocked his head. “What you doin' here?”

“None of your fucking business.” No sense telling them he'd come to see his mommy.

The man chuckled, slid off the hood of the Dodge he'd been sitting on, and extended a fisted hand with scabby, skinned knuckles. He'd either been in a fight or worked with machinery. Dub's money was on a fight. If this guy had a decent job, he wouldn't be hanging out in a parking lot like this in the afternoon.

“Welcome, brother,” the man said. “I'm Marquise. 'Cause I'm hard and cut—” he lifted his shirt to show off a tight set of abs, “like a diamond.”

Dub wondered if Marquise used that lame line on women and whether any of the women were stupid enough to fall for it. He also doubted whether the name was legit. Dub understood guys like this. They might hang together, but sharing personal information? Not gonna happen. Nonetheless, he curled his fingers and bumped fists with the man.

The guy lifted his chin to indicate the Asian. “The nosy one is Long Dong.”

The Asian smiled, but it was more evil than friendly. Guys like this didn't make friends. They only hung with people who could provide them with some type of benefit, whether it be sex, drugs, cash, or alibis.

Marquise hiked a thumb toward the Latino. “That's Gato.”

Dub knew from his third period Spanish class—in which he'd earned a B
+
the last six weeks—that
gato
meant
cat
. He could see why the guy had the name. His moves were sleek and catlike as he slid down the hood of the car and stepped over to give Dub another fist bump.

“WC,” Dub said, introducing himself.

“WC?” Marquise asked.

Dub wasn't about to tell him the initials stood for Wade Chandler. His name was none of their business. Besides, they might laugh at the fact that his mother had named him after a character on
Friends
. “WC,” Dub repeated. “White Chocolate.”

“White Chocolate?” Marquise grinned. “I like that, man.”

Dub raised a hand and headed off. “Later.”

The men engaged in speculation as he walked away.

“I bet he's going to see Yolanda. Get hisself a little sumthin-sumthin',” said Long Dong.

Dub had no idea who Yolanda was, and he didn't want to find out. The only girl he was interested in was Jenna.

Eyeing the numbers on the apartment doors, Dub spotted 215 and took the stairs up to it. He hesitated again before knocking.

Last chance, dude,
he told himself.
Turn around and go back to Trent and Wes's house. What did this woman ever do for you?

Still, he found himself rapping once on the door.
Rap.
His mother might not have ever done much for him, but that didn't excuse him from doing anything for her. He needed to protect her—not only from Leandro, but from herself.

Dub heard the grating noise of a chain bolt being slid open and the
click
of the dead bolt as it unlocked.