Saving Room for Dessert (37 page)

“Yeah?”

“Told him my situation, told him I cut off my wife’s rent, and he told me he’d do my divorce for a hundred and fifty bucks.
So I said go on and do it, man. So see there? If you hadn’t given me that book, I wouldn’t’ve done that.
Life Strategies: Doing What Works, Doing What Matters
. Ol’ Phillip C. McGraw. Man done made me take a bite outta my life. So see there? Wasn’t for you, I’d still be messed up.”

“Oh you think you’re not, huh?”

“Oh, I’m ’onna pay you a compliment, you goin’ talk shit on me. Awright. Well see here, motherfucker, when I go to bed, I
sleep. And if I’m dreamin’ B-ball, you can believe when they put me in the game it ain’t ’cause I can fart, it’s ’cause I
can shoot, and I ain’t shootin’ no motherfuckin’ muffins either. B’lieve that.”

“Aw you’re so fulla shit. What time is it?”

“Time to go to work. Time to collar some non-pooper-scoopers.”

“See there? That’s what I mean? After twenty-six years, that’s my mission now?”

“Yes it is, my man. And you don’t soon get you a new holster, you keep showin’ up with that funky-ass thing a yours, Nowicki
goin’ shit a hat and make you wear it. Worse than Boo, man.”

“Can you imagine how bad he’d be on Boo if he’d’ve got stuck any lower on his back? Where his vest should’ve been?”

“Aw Boo man, that dude—what can I say? He is seriously fucked-up behint that.”

“You would be too you were sweatin’ a coroner’s inquest.”

“Hey, I sweat my own thing, man, remember? Inquest, inquiry, whatever—”

“Trust me, Rayf. The coroner is no Mrs. Remaley. That man asks hard questions.”

“Well you ask me, it look like pilin’ on, man. I don’t think No- wicki was right, suspend Boo’s ass on top a him lookin’ at
that inquest? Which I don’t even wanna think ’bout it, man,” Rayford said. “Excuse me while I put on my honky voice. I don’t
even want to think about it, sir.”

“You better think about it. ’Cause you’re sure as hell gonna get asked about it.”

“Just wish I hadn’t said what I said.”

“Well you said it, so just keep on sayin’ it. Whatever you do, don’t change it now.”

“Wasn’t plannin’ to. Just… just feel shitty, that’s all. For Boo. ’Cause every time I go over it, you know? What I said? Sounds
like what I said was he slammed her down. And her head went whump! I can’t think of how else to say that.”

“Well did he slam her down or not?”

“No. She just kinda fell back down. Like she was out already. Or maybe even dead already—”

“Hey don’t speculate, Rayf. Don’t say anything except what you saw and heard. You do that, you might make detective sergeant
yet.”

“Whattaya mean
might?
Already made it. They just ain’t give it to me yet.”

“Tell you what. When I get my Ph.D.? I’ll give you the first month’s therapy free. One hour a week, you can come in and vent
how they’re screwin’ you around on your promotion. Should have my office open in about three years.”

“Hey, motherfucker, I don’t get those stripes by Labor Day, I’m goin’ re-up in the air force.”

“Yeah, right. That’s you, off into the wild blue yonder—”

“No shit, man. I mean it.”

“You’re gonna be wearin’ Rocksburg black for the next twenty years, who you tryin’ to kid?”

“I’m tellin’ you, man, no stripes by Labor Day, I’m gone.”

“Uh-huh. C’mon. Time to collar some non-pooper-scoopers. Jesus, twenty gazillion years of human evolution and this is the
best I can do?”

R
AYFORD WAS
cruising the Flats. It was 2215 hours when he’d pulled in for gas and a coffee refill at Sheetz’s. And when he passed the
Rocksburg National Bank their sign said the temp was 81 degrees. That was a half hour ago. Fifteen minutes to go on his patrol,
and the air flowing in his windows was gluey with humidity and the raw smell of storm sewers clogged from yesterday’s daylong
downpours. The Conemaugh River had risen more than two feet in the last twenty-four hours, and the gutters in the Flats were
still rushing with muddy water. At least it had quit raining.

For most of his patrol yesterday, Rayford felt like he was back in Alabama during hurricane season. The only good thing about
it was that the weather had kept the civilians inside—except when they were in their doorways anxiously eyeballing the water
backing up out of the storm sewers. So he was spending his patrol tonight, like last night, mostly in the service mode, calling
the fire department to start cars and pump out cellars.

Rayford liked service much more than protection these days, especially when he cruised the Franklin, Jefferson, Bryan, and
Miles block. That’s when, during some part of his patrol, he’d see Joe Buczyk doing part of his ARD by driving Pete Hornyak
to and from his medical appointments or shoveling up dog crap before he cut the grass, in both their yards, or like tonight,
hosing the mud off Hornyak’s sidewalk.

It helped even more that Nick Scavelli was still in the Mental Health Unit, though it was almost a sure pop he was going to
be transferred to Mamont State Hospital once it was determined he was incapable of aiding in his defense for stabbing Canoza.
Rayford learned on the sly from a female aide who worked in Mental Health that all Scavelli did all day was ask people if
they’d saved room for dessert.

“Asked him, since when you get dessert with breakfast? He just said if you ain’t gonna save room for it you ought to eat it
first. And that’s all he says. Doesn’t know what day it is.”

Cold as it sounded, Rayford had to admit it helped him as much as Canoza that Mary Rose Scavelli was dead and buried and that
Coroner Wallace Grimes had ruled her death a result of natural causes.

“That sound they heard in Pittsburgh was me sighin’ in Rocks-burg,” Rayford told Canoza after he reported back to work. “Thought
sure your ass was gonna get nailed ’cause of what I said.”

“Piece a cake,” Canoza said, but Rayford knew he was blowing smoke.

Because Chief Nowicki allowed Canoza to serve his suspension—for not wearing his vest—while on medical leave, Booboo showed
up for work wearing his vest and had been wearing it every day since he’d come back, and not even once did he have to be reminded
to put it on.

And most of all, as far as Rayford was concerned, it helped that he’d had a private, intense discussion with Nowicki the day
Canoza returned to duty, at the end of which Nowicki swore on his shield that Rayford would be a detective sergeant by Labor
Day or he’d know the reason why, which satisfied Rayford enough to call Reseta at home just to tell him, “I told you so.”

Rayford was pondering all this as he was passing the Scavellis’ house when something to the right of the porch steps caught
his eye, and he hit the brakes, backed up, and parked. He saw a sign that said “House For Sale” that he knew hadn’t been there
yesterday. He tried to recall what Stramsky had told him about the Scavellis and their two children who had died in the fire
in their house on Norwood Hill. He thought Stramsky had said they had had no other children, but this sign wasn’t a legal
notice put up by anybody from the city or the county. It was a sign somebody had bought in a hardware store with a white space
at the bottom for a phone number. But the Scavellis must have a relative somewhere, Rayford thought, or who else would be
able to make a claim on the property in order to sell it?

Rayford got out of the MU to check the sign to satisfy his own curiosity, but there was something not right about the sign.
He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something goofy about it. He read it a dozen times, thinking there had to
be something weird with the phone number, because what could be weird about the words “House For Sale”? When he was looking
at the number for about the tenth time again and stretching his memory to make some association with it, something else caught
his eye: a flame through the window in the cellar. It looked like a cigarette lighter. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared,
and he wondered if he was seeing things.

A moment later he saw what was obviously the glow of a cigarette.

Some motherfucker’s squattin’ in this house. Just when tonight looked like it was goin’ be a lovely night of sweet service,
some motherfucker got to pick this place to squat. She-it, this ain’t no squatter. This is some diddy-bop think he found a
cool place to smoke.

Rayford tried to remember where all the doors were in the Scavelli house as he stepped back on the sidewalk to call the base
on his epaulet radio. He knew there was a door out of the kitchen in the back of the house and another one on the south side
facing the Hle-becs’ house. He thought those were the only two, but he walked around the north side of the house to make sure.
He found no doors but he did find two block-glass windows, one with a clothes-dryer vent in it.

Satisfied that there were only the three doors, he went back onto the sidewalk and called for backup for a possible burglary.

Two minutes later Reseta pulled up with no lights or siren.

“What’s up?”

“Somebody smokin’ in the cellar. Probably some kid.”

“Try any of the doors?”

Rayford shook his head. “Just checked to make sure there wasn’t one on the north side.”

“So there’s just the one in the back and one in the side, right?”

Rayford nodded.

“Okay,” Reseta said. “I’ll take the back.”

“Ain’t goin’ in, are ya?”

“Hell no, I’m just gonna rattle the door and holler. Damn Sca-vellis. Dead or locked up, still can’t get away from ’em.”

Rayford heard Reseta announcing his presence by hollering and pounding on the kitchen door, then drew his nine and turned
his MagLite on, his gaze darting from the front door to the side door and back.

A few seconds later, the side door inched open, and somebody started tiptoeing toward Rayford, who brought his MagLite up
alongside his nine, blinding the burglar, and shouted, “Freeze! Police! Get on the ground! Now! Get down!”

The tiptoer threw up his arms to ward off the light, then spun around and ran smack into Reseta, who caught him by the arm
and put him on the ground with a hip toss. Rayford rushed to assist Reseta, and in a moment, the burglar’s hands were cuffed
behind his back and Reseta was patting him down. He found nothing, then rolled him over.

“Oh man, look here. Look who we have here.”

“Who?”

“My little Irish runaway. Little Billy Arbaugh. Remember him?”

“The one split from his foster home?”

“None other. So this is where you’re livin’ now, huh?”

“Fuck you.”

“Every time you run, Billy-boy, you’re goin’ right back there, don’t you know that? Till everybody gets tired chasin’ you,
then it’s the next step up the penal ladder.”

“You can take me back but you can’t make me stay.”

“Well if you’re gonna run, hotshot, why don’t you really run, huh? You think comin’ down here to the Flats is runnin’? From
Maplewood? What is that—two and a half miles?”

“Whatta you care, fuck-face? Ain’t none of your business.”

“More and more, kid, I wish it wasn’t. But it is. So get up.”

Reseta took one arm and Rayford the other and they tried to pull him up but he went limp.

“Aw, c’mon, kid, don’t pull this crap, c’mon, get on your feet, you’re just makin’ it harder.”

“You think I’m gonna make it easy for you to take me back there, you’re fulla shit. Those pigs, all they feed us is rolled
oats. Oughta be arrestin’ them, not me.”

“Rolled oats?” Rayford said.

“Hey, that’s one for the Children’s Bureau to figure out.”

“Oh yeah, like ’em fuckers give a shit.”

“Well it’s their job, kid, not ours.”

“Why don’t none of you fuckers believe me? I told the fuckin’ judge, that guy down the juvey center, teachers, guidance counselors—”

“Told everybody what?” Rayford said.

“Don’t listen to him, Rayf, he’s gamin’ us.”

“What’d you tell everybody, huh?”

“They’re starvin’ us to death. Those fuckers took out big insurance policies on us.”

Reseta started dragging the kid toward the sidewalk. “And there’s black helicopters gonna fly ’em to Brazil after they cash
in.”

“Big fuckin’ joke to you, huh? Littlest kid in the house, he’s seven years old, he don’t weigh thirty pounds. Look at me,
look how skinny I am. If I didn’t find this place, eat the food here, I’d be dead now. They won’t even let us drink water,
they’re tryin’ to kill us, I’m tellin’ you. All you gotta do is go there, see for yourself, you don’t believe me.”

“Whattaya think, James? Think we oughta check it out?”

“Children’s Bureau, Rayf, that’s their job, you know? Don’t listen to this kid, all he’s done from my first contact with him
is lie. He’s a pro, I’m tellin’ ya.”

“Wouldn’t hurt to check it out, would it?”

“Hey, I went to the house, remember? I saw the other kids. They’re not starvin’! But you wanna check it out, be my guest,
it’s your collar anyway, you got here first. I’m goin’ home, try to get some sleep.”

That said, Reseta let go of the kid’s arm and headed for his MU.

Instead of slumping as Rayford expected him to do, the kid straightened up. “You gonna check it out, huh?”

If this kid was a liar, he was Oscar material.

Rayford started to lead the boy out on the street, but there was Reseta standing by his MU, one foot still on the street.
“Hey, Rayf, I don’t wanna see you do somethin’ dumb, okay?”

“Yeah? So?”

“So think, man, c’mon. Foster children? Big policies on their lives? Husbands, wives, ex-husbands, ex-wives, yeah, but foster
kids? Don’t take this wrong, Rayf, okay, but the only reason you’re even thinkin’ about checkin’ this out is ’cause of your
own baggage, man.”

“What baggage? What’re you talkin’ about?”

“Aw, man, c’mon, I have to spell it out?”

“Yeah. I think you do ’cause I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Rayf, for six years, man, when we run what do you talk about? Huh? Subject comes up once a week at least.”

“You lost me. What?”