by James Dekker
But he does answer. He sounds surprised to hear that it’s me. He sounds even more surprised when I tell him why I’m calling.
“I know him,” I say.
“Was he a friend of yours?” Detective Rossetti says.
I say, “No.” I explain how I met Titch. Then I ask him if he knows what happened.
“He was shot,” Detective Rossetti says. “As far as we can tell, he died instantly.”
“Do you know who did it?”
“He was shot in an alley a block from the bar where he worked,” Detective Rossetti says. “So far we can’t find anyone who heard or saw anything.”
“What about the gun?” I say. I watch cop shows just like everyone else. “Was it the same gun that killed Danny?”
Detective Rossetti hesitates. Then he says, “No, it wasn’t. Whoever killed Anthony left the gun right there. Probably whoever did it got the gun just to kill him. There’s no prints. Nothing we can use. I’m sorry, Megan.”
I don’t know how I end up at the bar, but I do. When I get there, it’s the middle of the afternoon. I open the door, half expecting the bouncer to block my way and tell me to get lost. But the bouncer isn’t there. I walk right in. I look around and see there are maybe a dozen people scattered around the place, men mostly, drinking beer. I see the bartender behind the bar. He looks at me as I walk over to him.
“I heard about Titch,” I say. “I heard what happened.”
“You did, did you?” the bartender says. His voice is hard.
“I talked to the police. They said he was shot not far from here. You didn’t hear anything?”
“I told you to stay out of here,” the bartender says. “And I told him to stay away from you. But neither of you listened. You kept coming around. People saw you come around. They saw you pestering him. And now look.”
I stare at him. “You think what happened to Titch is my fault?”
“I told you he didn’t see what happened,” the bartender says.
“But he did,” I say. “He did see.”
The bartender’s face gets even harder. “Did he tell you that?”
I shake my head. “He didn’t tell me anything. I just know it, that’s all. I know he saw.” He saw, and he was ashamed of himself that he saw and that he hadn’t said anything. I don’t know what else to say. I start to turn away.
“Hey,” the bartender says. I turn back to face him. “Titch was a good kid,” he says.
“I know.”
“He didn’t have any parents,” the bartender says. “He didn’t have a nice dad like you have. I bet you have a nice mom too. Titch didn’t have that either. He had me. That’s it. He worked hard. He was no genius, but he was doing okay in school. None of his teachers complained about him. He was going to graduate this spring, and then you know what he was going to do? He was going to try to get a job at one of those animal rescue places, you know, where they take in dogs that get abandoned or that were screwed up by their owners and they look after them? That’s what he wanted to do. He wanted to look after animals.”
“He wanted to get a dog.”
“Yeah,” the bartender says. “He wanted to get a dog. And what happens? Your brother happens, that’s what. Your smartass brother. Thought pretty highly of himself. Thought he could take on anybody, anytime. Smart talker too. Always mouthing off to people. Well, you know what about your brother? He wasn’t as smart as he thought he was. A nice kid like Titch is dead, and for what? For scum like your brother.”
I feel myself shaking all over, but I don’t say anything. I don’t say anything at all. I walk out of the bar, and I take the bus home.
When I get there, I see that my father’s car is in the driveway. I go into the house.
My father is in the kitchen. He’s making spaghetti sauce. I see a loaf of Italian bread and a bulb of garlic. My father makes the best garlic bread I’ve ever tasted.
He smiles when he sees me. It isn’t his usual thank-God-it’s-Saturday-and-I-can-kick-back smile. This one is a tired smile. A sad smile.
“Your mother called,” he says. “She won’t be home for supper. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a good meal, does it?”
I wonder if he knows about Titch. I wonder if I should tell him. I wonder what good it would do.
It’s so quiet in the house.
I go over to the stove and sniff the sauce. I tell him it smells great. It really does. I say, “Is there anything I can do?”
My father’s smile gets a tiny bit bigger. “You can make the salad,” he says. Then he says, “I love you, Meggie.”
James C. Dekker is a first-time author and a fresh new voice in teen fiction. He lives in Toronto, Ontario, and, as far as he knows, is not known to police.
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