Payback Time (20 page)

"No."

"No idea?"

"I don't know anything."

"I've been a reporter for thirty years. I can tell when someone is lying, and you're lying. So let me lay out the situation for you. You work for the
Seattle Times.
Something doesn't smell right about Angel Marichal. I don't know what's causing the stench, and maybe you don't know everything, but you've got ideas. You tell me what you know, I'll take it from there, and if it comes to something, we'll share a byline."

"I don't know anything," I repeated.

"That's it? Final answer?"

"That's it."

His voice went ice cold. "Wrong answer. Unless you call me back with a better one, you're finished with the
Times.
No basketball stories, no baseball stories. The summer internship you were hoping for? Gone. And don't even think about asking for a letter of recommendation for whatever fancy-ass college you want to go to. Goodbye."

T
HE AFTERNOON CRAWLED INTO EVENING.
I wished my parents were home so that I could hear them moving around downstairs, but I knew they'd stay late at their office. Snow always messed up deliveries.

Around six I went down to the kitchen, flipped through the newspaper, and half watched the Sunday night football game for an hour. Then I microwaved a frozen pasta dinner, ate it in front of the TV, returned to my room, propped up some pillows on the bed, and sat there, my legs stretched out in front of me.

My parents came in around nine. I went downstairs and heard all about a delivery truck that had slid into a ditch in Shoreline. As I listened, I thought of my dad saying I could talk to him at any time. I wanted to talk to him now, but I couldn't think of a place to begin. By nine thirty I was back in my room looking out the window. Snow was falling, and the forecast was for snow all night. There'd be no school Monday.

I fell asleep quickly. I had about a million dreams that night, but I remember only one: I was back at the Tacoma Dome. The title game had ended; the parking lot was emptying out. I was waiting by the players' gate for Angel, just as I'd waited after the semifinals. I had a notebook with a long list of questions for him, but as I looked at the questions, the words somehow morphed into a foreign language that looked like Russian.

The players' door opened and guys started spilling out, walking down the long, brightly lit chute to the parking lot. I knew I should ask somebody something, but I couldn't think what.

I was about to leave when the door opened a final time and Angel stepped out, alone. He started toward me, down that walkway.
What do I want to ask him?
And then, like a miracle, the questions in my notebook morphed back into English. At that exact moment a car pulled up at the end of the long chute. The car had a Washington license plate—I remember that detail as clearly as everything that followed. The window came down. A hand holding a gun appeared.
Tat! Tat! Tat! Tat!
Then the car was speeding off toward Interstate 5; Angel was down on the ground just like Thomas Childress had been, his blood staining the concrete, and I was sitting up in my bed sweating from every pore of my body.

I'd never get back to sleep, so even though it was a little before six a.m., I put on about four layers of clothes and headed out into the frozen morning, making the first footsteps in the white snow as I walked up to Sunset Hill Park. I stared out over Puget Sound until the first rays of the sun lit up the peaks of the Olympic Mountains. There was something more than terror in that dream, some detail that gnawed at me. What was it?

Frustrated, I grabbed hold of the chain-link fence and gave it a shake. Snow cascaded from the little wires where it had settled. Then, out of nowhere, I knew. The Washington license plates. In my dream those plates had been as vivid as the gunshots. But knowing
what
detail mattered only increased my frustration. Why did it matter? I had no answer.

I turned and headed for home. I'd gone about one hundred yards when I stopped in my tracks. My phone call to Aramingo High ... what had the guy said to me? "
We've got some homeboys out there who are going to pay him a visit.
"

Homeboys in Seattle.

The Washington license plates in my dream.

Nobody had to fly in from Philadelphia. The Aramingo guys were connected to a Seattle gang; it was Seattle guys who'd be coming after Angel.

I hurried home, frustrated that the snow slowed me. By the time I was back in the house, it was nearly eight. I didn't know whether Kimi would be up, but I called anyway. She answered right away. "You're going to have to make it quick."

"Okay, I'll be as quick as I can. Remember what you said about missing something?"

Then I described my dream and repeated the words the Philly guy had said to me over the phone. The phone stayed quiet. I waited. "Kimi?"

"I remember the walkway by G-1," she said. "I remember thinking that it was perfect for photographers because it was bright and there was no place to hide. If gang guys figure out Angel's playing in the Tacoma Dome on Saturday night, they can get him. There's a big sign that says
PLAYERS ONLY
. They'd have to be blind to miss it. Going in or coming out—they can get him."

"So what do we do?"

"Call McNulty. Tell him what you told me. Tell him Angel can't play."

"All right, I will. And then I'll call you right back."

"That won't work, Mitch. I'm going out for breakfast with my father and my aunt; they're in the car waiting for me right now. Besides, I think we should talk." There was a pause. "Okay, I've got it. I'm meeting Rachel at the library at ten thirty to study for a chemistry test. See if you can get one of those study rooms. I'll meet you there at ten."

A
FTER
I
HUNG UP,
I took a shower and ate a cup of yogurt, mainly to let some time pass. I figured Coach McNulty was keeping late hours preparing a game plan. I didn't want to be the one to wake him. At nine, I called. The phone rang four times before he answered.

"What do you want, Mitch?" His voice sounded annoyed.

"There's something I didn't tell you at Hattie's Hat, something important."

"So tell me."

"The Philadelphia guy. He's got connections in Seattle. That time I talked to him, he said..." I raced through my explanation, knowing that I was talking too fast, but unable to slow myself. When I finished, I expected McNulty to ask me questions, but he didn't say a word. "This matters, doesn't it?" I said. "A connection with Seattle gangs makes everything more dangerous, right?"

"I don't see how," McNulty said. "You didn't give Angel's address to anybody, right?"

"I didn't. I know I didn't."

"Then nothing has changed. Angel's not coming back to Lincoln and there's no way they'll find his house."

"But there's something else," I said quickly, "something that goes with it."

"I'm listening."

For the second time, I described how easy it would be for some gang guy to drive a car to the end of the walkway at the Tacoma Dome, stick a gun out the window and fire, and then lose himself on the freeway.

"Mitch, there's not a chance in the world anybody is going to try anything at the game. Police and security guys will be all around the Tacoma Dome. They'd never get away with it. I'm not yanking Angel off the field because of some vague feeling that—"

"It's more than a vague feeling," I said.

"No, it isn't. You've got no names, no car license number, no reason to think anything is going to happen." He stopped, and when he spoke again his voice was controlled. "Listen to me. You feel guilty about Philadelphia. Okay, I understand. You want to do something to make up for it. I understand that, too. But this is your last phone call to me. Everything is under control, so stop playing Sherlock Holmes."

The phone went dead.

I bundled up and headed to the library. I thought it would be empty, but the snowfall had driven the homeless guys inside, and young mothers had brought their little kids, too. Lynn Miller is the librarian there, and she knows me. I asked her if there were any study rooms available.

"Technically no," she said, "but the woman who signed up for Room C i sn't here. The snow might keep her at home. I'll let you use it, but if she does show up, you'll have to leave."

I took Room C and texted Kimi where I was. Five minutes later she was sitting across a study table from me. She took her gloves off and blew into her hands to warm them. "What did McNulty say?"

"That there will be police and security guys all around."

"So he's going to let him play?"

I nodded.

"But that's crazy."

"Maybe," I said. "But maybe not."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"McNulty thinks I'm making stuff up because I feel guilty about blowing Angel's cover."

"And you buy that?"

"I'm not sure. I don't have anything concrete. No names or description of a suspicious car. It's all based on a dream."

Kimi put her hands flat on the table. "I'm going to talk to my father, tell him everything. He'll know what we should do."

My eyes widened. Her father? The funny little Asian man with his garden hoe and his rows of perfect petunias. What would he know about gangs?

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she said.

I chose my words carefully. "Kimi, your dad is a bright man, but this takes street smarts, not book smarts."

"You don't know anything about my father."

"I know he's not in a gang."

"How do you think we got to America?" she asked, her mouth set.

"You told me Microsoft hired him."

"Microsoft brought us here from Seoul, yes. But I was born in North Korea."

It was my turn to be surprised. "How did you get out? I didn't think anybody ever got out of North Korea."

"You want to know? Okay I'll tell you."

 

It happened when she was five. Her family lived way north in some city with a strange name I can't remember. They just took off one day: her father, her mother, her aunt, and Kimi. She described long train rides, long walks under cover of darkness, lots of hiding during the day. And then, just before they were to cross into South Korea, they were caught.

"We were in a warehouse by a river," she told me. "I was lying down behind sacks of rice. A soldier came in, his flashlight playing over the burlap sacks. The light fell on my mother, and he shot her. Not a word of warning. He just shot her. My dad jumped out and hit him. The soldier fell, and my dad hit him over and over. I still remember the sound. Finally the hitting stopped; the soldier was still. My father motioned, and we followed him out of the warehouse. It was twilight, nearly dark. He led us across a field to a riverbank. He pointed to the other side and we stepped into the river. It was shallow, but moving very fast. Halfway across, the current caught me and I lost my balance. I thought I was going to drown, but my father grabbed me. After what seemed like forever, we were on the other side, safe. My aunt, my father, and me—but not my mother."

When she finished, I just sat, looking at the table. What could I say? Seconds ticked away. "I'm sorry," I said at last. I waited. "You're right, Kimi. Talk to your father."

She nodded toward the small window. "Rachel's here."

I stood and headed toward the door.

"Let's meet in the commons before school tomorrow," she said.

"There won't be school, not with all this snow," I said.

"I heard a forecast. It's supposed to get twenty degrees warmer and rain all night. There'll be school."

T
HE RAIN BEGAN AROUND EIGHT
and kept on falling all Monday night. By Tuesday morning every trace of snow was gone. I arrived at Lincoln High half an hour early. The cheer squad must have worked through the snow day decorating the school. Posters were taped on doors and along hallways. Black and red streamers hung from the ceilings of every hallway and all through the commons. Banners reading go lincoln! fluttered from classroom windows.

When I pushed open the door into the commons, I spotted Kimi sitting at a back table, her face tired, her hair pulled back into a haphazard ponytail. "What did your father say?" I asked once I took a chair across from her.

"He says we should think the way gangs think."

"What does that mean?"

She leaned toward me. "What do these guys know about Angel?"

I thought for a moment. "They know that he goes to Lincoln and that he's on the football team."

"That's not much, which is why they won't wait until the night of the championship game to make their first move. My dad is sure they'll come to Lincoln High looking for him."

"But they won't find him. McNulty's keeping Angel away from school and out of practices. So there's no problem."

"Don't you see, Mitch? They won't find Angel, but we could find them. If we figure out who's after Angel, we could pass a license plate number to the police. If we had something solid, the police would pay attention."

"There are hundreds of cars here every day. How will we spot them?"

"Those guys up at the Moonlite Mini-Mart found us, and it didn't take them long. We didn't fit in. So we look for gang guys hanging around Lincoln, guys who don't fit in. We can take turns. I'll cut first, third, and fifth periods. You can cut second, fourth, and sixth. We can walk around, or hang out across the street from school, or sit at a window table at Zestos." She paused. "Look, I know it's a long shot, but I can't stand doing nothing. And if we don't see any strange cars, we'll feel better, won't we?"

"Okay, we'll do it. Only I'll take first period. You've got a test coming up in chemistry."

W
HEN THE FIRST BELL SOUNDED,
I walked out of the school and across the street. It felt strange to be outside during class hours. Groups of kids milled about, smoking and talking, but I avoided eye contact. My plan was to walk the perimeter of the school a few times, go to Zestos for coffee, and then walk the perimeter a couple more times, my eyes taking in everything, though what I wanted to see was nothing.