Winter and Night (2 page)

"Two sisters. Younger."

"Your sister and her husband— they abuse these kids? That why you don't speak to them, maybe?"

The question was asked with no change of manner. Hagstrom sipped his coffee and waited for the answer.

"No," I said.

"That the truth, Smith?"

"Yes."

"So why'd the kid run away?"

"You heard him. He says he's got something important to do. He also says he didn't run away."

"When I was his age, 'something important' only meant a girl. Or a football game."

"Could mean the same to him."

"Does he do drugs?"

"I haven't seen him in a while. But he doesn't look it."

"True."

Hagstrom studied me, making no effort to hide it. I finished my cigarette and shoved it in the Coke can. The cop with the paper flipped the pages. The other kept typing. Somewhere else a phone rang.

"I'll release him to you if you want him."

"All right."

"I never did the paperwork. What he said, he didn't take anything from that wino? It's true. I got no reason to hold him, except he's a green, underage kid who doesn't even know how to pick his targets. A wino on Thirty-third Street, jeez. Will he tell you where his parents are?"

"I don't know. But I can find them."

* * *

I took Gary in a cab to my place downtown. He slipped me worried sideways glances as we moved along near-empty streets. For most of the ride he said nothing, and I gave that to him. Then, as the cab made a left off the avenue, he shifted his large frame to face me on the vinyl seat. "Uncle Bill? Who's Captain Maguire?"

I looked out the window at streets I knew. "Dave Maguire. He was an NYPD captain. My uncle."

"My mom's uncle too?"

I nodded.

"I never heard about him. All these cops, it seemed like he was a big deal."

"He was." That was about as short an answer as I could give, but he didn't drop it.

"I heard them say you were Captain Maguire's kid. What does that mean?"

I turned to him, turned back to the window, wished for a cigarette. "When I was just about your age I moved in with Dave. For the next couple of years I kept getting in trouble and he kept getting me out. It got to be a joke around the NYPD. Dave was the only one who didn't think it was funny."

Gary gave a thoughtful, companionable nod; this was something he understood. After a moment he asked, "Did you?"

"Think it was funny?" I asked. "No, I didn't."

He was quiet for a while. As we turned onto my block he said, "You moved in with him, like you mean, instead of living with your folks?"

"That's right."

"Did my mom too?"

The cab pulled to a stop. "No," I said.

I paid the cabbie, unlocked the street door, had Gary go ahead of me up the two flights to my place. At this hour, on this street, there was no one else. Even Shorty's was closed, everyone home, sleeping it off, getting ready for another day.

Upstairs, I showed Gary where the shower was, gave him jeans and a tee shirt for when he was done. The kid in him had stared around a little as the cab stopped and he realized this street of warehouses and factory buildings was where I lived. He gave the same wide eyes to my apartment above the bar, and especially to the piano, but he said nothing, so I didn't either.

I made a pot of coffee and scrambled four eggs, all I had in the house. When he came out of the bathroom, dirt and grease scrubbed off, he looked younger than before. He was wiry, long-legged, and he didn't quite fill out my clothes, but he came close. His shoulders were broad and the muscles in his arms had the sharp, cut look lifting weights will give you.

I watched him as he crossed the living room. The circles under his eyes seemed to have darkened; they looked as though they'd be painful to the touch. He'd found Band-Aids for his knuckles. I saw a bruise on his jaw.

"Hey," he said, his face lighting up at the smell of scrambled eggs and buttered toast. "I didn't know you could cook, Uncle Bill."

"Sit down. You drink coffee?"

He shook his head. "Uh-uh. Coach doesn't like it."

I poured a cup of coffee for myself, asked, "Football?"

"Yeah." He dropped into a chair, shoveled half the eggs onto a plate.

"What position?"

"Wide receiver," he said, his mouth already full. Then he added, "I don't start yet," to be honest with me. "I'm just a sophomore, and I'm new. This school, they're pretty serious about football."

I looked at his broad shoulders, his muscled arms. "Next year you'll start."

"Yeah, I guess. If we stay," he said, as if reminding himself not to get too sure of things, reminding himself how many times he'd started over and how many times he'd have to. I had done that too.

"You used to play football, Uncle Bill?" he asked, reaching for a piece of toast.

"No."

He glanced up, clearly surprised; this was probably heresy, a big American man who hadn't played football.

"We left the U.S. when I was nine and didn't come back until I was fifteen," I said. "Your mom must have told you that?"

"Yeah, sure," he said offhandedly, but a brief pause before he said it made me wonder how much he did know about the childhood Helen and I had shared.

"The rest of the world plays soccer," I said. "Not football. I played some soccer, basketball when we came back, and I ran track."

"Track's cool," he said, seeming relieved to be back on familiar ground. "I run track in the spring. What events?"

"Longer distances. I started slow but I could last."

"Track's cool," he repeated. "But except when you're running relay— I mean, it's a team but it's not really a team. You know?"

"I think that was why I liked it." I brought a quart of milk and the coffee I was working on over to the table. "Take the rest," I said, pointing at the eggs. "It's all yours."

"You sure?"

"I don't eat breakfast at four in the morning. You look like you didn't get supper."

He ate like someone who hadn't eaten in a week; but he was fifteen, it might have been two hours. Between bites, he said, "Thanks, Uncle Bill. For getting me out of there."

"I've been in there myself," I said.

"Yeah." He started to grin, then stopped. He flushed, as though he'd said something he shouldn't. He bit into a piece of toast. "How come you don't come see us?" he suddenly asked.

"Hard when I don't know where you are."

He poured a glass of milk. "You and my mom…"

He didn't finish his sentence and I didn't finish it for him. I said, "It happens, Gary."

After that I waited until he was done: all the eggs, four pieces of toast, two glasses of milk, a banana.

"Feel better?" I asked when the action had subsided.

He sat back in his chair, smiled for the first time. "You got anything left?"

"You serious? I could dig up a can of tuna."

"Nah, just kidding. I'm good. Thanks, Uncle Bill. That was great."

"Okay, so now tell me. What's going on, Gary?"

The smile faded. He shook his head. "I can't."

"Don't bullshit me, Gary. A kid like you doesn't come to New York and start rolling drunks for no reason. Something wrong at home?"

"No," he said. "What, you mean Mom and Dad?"

"Or Jennifer? Paula?"

"They're kids," he said, seeming a little mystified at the question, as though nothing could be wrong with kids.

"Are you in trouble?" I kept pushing. "Drugs? You get some girl pregnant?"

His eyes widened. "Hell, no." He sounded shocked.

"Is it Scott?"

"Dad?" Under the pallor, he colored. "What do you mean?"

"I told Hagstrom it wasn't. That you wouldn't run away to get away from Scott. But guys like Scott can be tough to live with."

He didn't so much pause as seem caught up, blocked by the confusion of words. His shoulders moved, his hands twitched, as though they were trying to take over, to tell me something in the language he was used to using. "It's not like that, Uncle Bill," he said, his hands sliding apart, coming back together. "I told you, I need to do something. Dad, he gets on my case sometimes, I guess. Whatever. But he's cool." His hands were still working, so I waited. "I mean," he said, "this would be, like, cool with him. If he knew."

"Then let's call and tell him."

I hadn't expected anything from that, and all I got was another shrug.

"He gets on your mom's case, too, am I right?" I asked. "And your sisters'? That can be hard to take."

"I—" He shook his head, not looking at me. "This isn't that. That's not what it is."

"Then what?"

"I can't tell you."

"Christ, Gary." I put down my coffee. "How long since you left home?"

"Day before yesterday."

"Your mother must be worried."

"I left a note."

A note. "Saying what?"

"I said I had something to do and I'd be back as soon as I could. I said not to worry."

"I'm sure that helped." I was sorry about the sarcasm when I saw his eyes, but it was too late to take it back. "We have to call them, Gary."

He shook his head. "We can't."

"Why?"

Nothing.

"Where are you guys living now?"

"Uncle Bill. Uncle Bill, please." He was leaning forward the way he had in the police station, and his eyes looked the same. "You got to lend me a few bucks, let me go do what I got to do. I'll pay you back. Real soon. Please—"

"You left home without any money?"

He glanced away. "I had some when I got here. But some guys…"

I looked at the skinned knuckles, the bruise. "You got mugged."

"Three of them," he said quickly, making sure I knew. "If it was just one—"

"They don't play fair in that game, Gary."

"Yeah," he said, deflating. "Yeah, I know. Look, Uncle Bill." I waited, but all he said was, "Please."

"No," I said. "Not a chance. Not if I don't know what's going on."

He shrugged miserably, said nothing.

"Gary?" He looked up at me. I asked, "Did you know I had a daughter?"

He nodded. "She… she died, right?"

"In an accident, when she was nine. She'd be a little older than you are now, if she'd lived." I looked into my cup, drank coffee. "Her name was Annie," I said. "I never talk about her to anyone."

He said, "That's… I get that."

"Do you know why I'm telling you about her?"

"Yeah. But…"

"Why?"

"Because, like, you're telling me something important, so I'll tell you. But I can't."

"It's partly that," I said. "And it's partly, I want you to know kids are important to me." I spoke quietly. "Maybe I can help."

A quick light flashed in his eyes, a man who'd seen water in the desert. Then his eyes dulled again: the water was a mirage, everything as bad as before.

I waited, but I didn't think he'd answer me, and he didn't.

"All right," I said, getting up. "You look like you haven't slept in a long time. I have people who can find your folks, but I'm not going to wake them now. Take the back bedroom. I'm not going to sleep, Gary, we're three floors up, and I have an alarm system here, so don't even think about it. Just get some sleep."

"I—"

"You can sleep, or you can sit around here with me. Or you can tell me what's going on. That's it."

His eyes were desperate, trapped; they searched my face for a way out. What they found was not what he wanted. His shoulders slumped. "Okay," he said, and his voice was a small boy's, not a man's. "Where should I go?"

I showed him the bedroom in back, unused for so long. I brought him sheets for the bed, offered to help him make it up. "No, it's okay," he said, and he looked like someone who wanted to be alone, so I started out.

"Uncle Bill?" he said. I turned back. "Thanks. I'm sorry." He shut the door.

I cleaned up the dishes, put the milk away. I went through the clothes Gary had left neatly in the laundry basket, picked up the jacket— the word arched across the back was WARRIORS— from off my couch. I was hoping for something, a label, some scrap of paper, that could get me closer to finding where he'd come from, but there wasn't anything. Back in the living room, I put a CD on, kept the volume low. Gould playing Bach: complex construction, perfectly understood. I kicked off my shoes, lit a cigarette, stretched out on the couch, wondering how early I could call Vélez, the guy who does my skip traces. Wondering what it was that was so important to Gary, so impossible to talk about. Wondering where my sister lived now, whether everything was all right there, the way Gary had said.

The searing crash of breaking glass came a second before the alarm started howling. I yanked myself off the couch, raced to the back, but I wasn't in time. When I threw the door open I saw the shards, saw the pillow on the sill and the chair lying on the floor, and knew what had happened. Gary was a smart kid. He'd been afraid to mess with the catches, afraid the alarm would go off before he got the window open. So he smashed it. Held a pillow on the broken glass in the frame, lowered himself out, dropped to the alley. And was gone.

I charged down the stairs and around the block to where the alley came out, because I had to, but it was useless. I chose a direction, ran a couple more blocks calling Gary's name. A dog barked; a drunk in a doorway lifted his head, held out his hand. Nothing else. Finally I stopped, just stood, gazing around, like a man in a foreign place. Then I turned, headed back to the alley. I checked under my window, where the streetlights glittered off the broken glass. No sign of blood: I let out a breath. I straightened, looked up at the window. Light glowed into the empty alley and the alarm was still ringing.

I'm sorry, Gary had said, before he closed the door.

Two

Back upstairs, I silenced the alarm, killed the music, called Vélez. I didn't give a damn what time it was.

"Better be fuckin' important," was how he answered the phone.

"It's Bill Smith," I said. "I need you to find someone."

"Oh, no shit?" he groaned. "Dios mio, man, they got to be found now?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Ay, Chico—"

"All you have to do is put on your underwear and go sit at your computer, Luigi. Come on, man, it's important."