by Clea Simon
‘I’m sorry.’ The whisper barely reaches me. The girl, still ten feet away, cannot have heard, but still she starts at this, rushes forward, garnering through some undetermined sense the meaning of his words. But I step in between them, glaring up at her with fierce concentration. Pity is a luxury, I want to tell her. And a boy may be a victim and a tool both, more dangerous for his apparent weakness.
She steps by me to take him in her arms, even as I growl. And as she does, I see her reach into his pocket to retrieve the foil-wrapped packet AD had given him, the source of that acrid scent.
‘It’s just to sell, Care.’ He struggles in faint protest. ‘I wasn’t going to smoke it.’
‘Tick.’ She holds him still, ignoring his protest. ‘You don’t need this. You’re not your mom. What you need to do is tell me what you did with the book.’
TWENTY-ONE
‘You do have it, don’t you?’ Her voice is low; her question direct. The boy continues to stare at the ground. ‘Tick?’
He nods. ‘I saw you drop it the other day,’ he says. ‘Before Brian and Randy— Before they came for you.’
Care looks thoughtful as she works back over the memory of our escape from Fat Peter’s – and our brief respite here. I recall the smell of the volume, the black leather worn soft by the pawnbroker’s hands, but do not know how the girl disposed of it once I fell asleep. I watch her face for my answer. Yes, what the boy says apparently fits with what she remembers.
He sees this as well and begins to spill words like water.
‘I thought you’d want it,’ he says, doling out his explanation like an offering to win her back. ‘I mean, I know how you feel about books.’
From my vantage point several feet away I see a pained expression pass over the girl’s face. The boy has evoked a shared memory, that much is clear. I can only hope that this touchstone does not cause her to lay down all of her defenses.
When she fails to comment he goes on, eager to fill the void. ‘I came back here while I was … while I was on my errands,’ he says. He looks down as he says this. In humans, this could indicate shame. It may also be a ploy of distraction, an adult usage I do not think beyond this hard-used child. His next words support this. ‘I didn’t think that AD would care.’
AD. I have come to hate this man, and not simply as the source of that foul-smelling substance. He has a power over this child – over the girl as well – that I fail to understand, and that I believe he will use without compunction. From my vantage point I watch the girl, waiting to see her reaction to his words. The mention of their former colleague – no, leader – should be warning enough that this child is compromised, and yet I have reason to be concerned. Emotion makes this young woman vulnerable, no matter how well schooled she may have been. Its influence, as much as the persistent sadness, is a sign of how that training was cut short.
‘AD.’ She sighs, and in her voice I hear the echo of something I cannot explain. Not the nightmare vision that I wrestle still to understand, but something other. There is longing and sadness, and I see her face go slack for a moment. ‘Tick, you can’t go back to him. You know that.’
The boy’s shrug is eloquent in its way, dismissive of her concern and powerless all at once.
‘When we first came to him, he wasn’t so mixed up with all that crap.’
‘He always used and cooked, too.’ The boy speaks and my ears prick up. Would that Care’s did, too. His tone reveals an allegiance she would do well to mark. ‘And he’s doing great.’
‘He’s doing—’ She shakes her head. The fight, it seems, is one to which she is accustomed, one she will not win today. ‘Tick, where’s the book?’
He smiles as if he’s won and nods his head back across the tracks. I stand and lash my tail, willing her not to act on his lead. Those thugs have tried to snatch her here, in open land, and failed. How easy would it be to lure her into a confined space? To subdue her in some hideaway, away from passers-by or their uniformed henchmen? She turns toward me and sees my back begin to arch. She pauses. ‘Tick?’
‘You remember the basement where we spent the night?’ He points to the drainpipe. To the brick beyond, more ruin than building, and thick with the shadows of the fading day.
She nods, assessing his words – her options. She wants the ledger, and I confess to curiosity about that worn black leather as well. Still … she stares at Tick, but he has already turned.
‘Come on,’ he says. She follows.
I keep close as we cross the wasteland, flanking the boy but out of reach. I stay before her, in her sight, ready to react. I will not flee at the unexpected but rather sound the alarm – what alarm I can, with howl and hiss and claw. It is not much of a guarantee, but I owe it to the girl. In truth, my aching side reminds me, I am hunting now on borrowed time, and while I do not understand just how our lives have become intertwined, I respect it – the debt owed from one lone creature to another as the roles of hunter and of prey shift and mutate like the shadows in my dream.
‘This way.’ The boy ducks into the pipe and I steel myself. This is too like a trap, its narrow, unlit passage perfect cover for all manner of evil. A trickle of water, opalescent and polluted, flows out into the rocky dirt and I sniff at it for signs of movement. Signs of life.
‘Don’t, Blackie.’ She has come up behind me and misinterprets. ‘That’s not healthy.’ She bends to touch me – no, to pick me up, and I must leap ahead. I will do her no good couched in her arms. If I am ensnared, so be it: at least I will give warning. But as soon as I descend, I see the graying light ahead. The day is fleeting but this tunnel, at least, is not obstructed and so I dash through it and beyond, whirling as I do to catch sight of any ruse or ambush. There is nothing. An unseen crow mocks us from the lowering clouds, and that is all.
Care emerges behind me, blinking, her trepidation clear as she cranes her head.
‘I told you.’ The boy sounds petulant now, his value doubted. ‘It’s my safe place – mine alone.’
He turns and wordlessly we follow, my guard hairs up and senses keyed for trouble. Down pitted streets where cobblestones show through broken asphalt, we make our way. Only the puddles here give evidence of the passage of machines, their oily stench almost as overpowering as that of the foil-wrapped packet that Care has taken from the boy. It hangs between them, I can see, as he glances back and as she shoves her hand once more into her pocket. But he moves freely, without the cramped and desperate look I remember from their former colleagues – from AD’s crew, almost a child again as he jumps across a pothole and skids on greasy stone.
And then he stops, one hand out as if to still us, too. A trick he has learned from Care. We pause, waiting for his signal. Waiting, too, for the ambush that will finally arrive. Three men. I now have names for two – Brian and Randy – and while I do not share the human’s reverence for naming – my own now lost to time and water – I find some comfort in the knowing. These are the brutes who would see me dead. There is peace in clarity. Satisfaction in my knowledge.
‘Tick?’ The girl’s voice is soft, barely a murmur. After a moment, he responds.
‘All clear,’ he says, stepping into the street. I pass in front of Care, mindful as I do of the superstition about my kind, half remembered, and pause for a second, waiting. No, there is no other movement here, no watchers waiting, and so I turn and follow, freeing her to walk as well. We cross the street to a familiar entrance and descend to Tick’s basement hideaway at last.
‘Here.’ On his familiar turf the boy becomes an eager child again, heading straight for the pile of bricks where once he had his stock of food. ‘I came here when they let me go. When I got away.’
He moves two bricks, one in each of his dirty hands, and then two more, before pulling out a large flat shape wrapped in rags. Peeling the cloth back, he reveals the ledger and hands it, proud as a prince, to Care, who immediately takes it over to where a gap lets in the last of the afternoon light.
‘Let’s s
ee what’s gotten AD all riled up,’ she says and pauses. ‘Thanks, Tick. You did well.’
The boy glows, despite it all. And Care opens the book.
TWENTY-TWO
I am, as previously noted, a cat. And while this means I possess senses more keen than those of many creatures, as well as the ability to reason and to evaluate that which I observe, I do not read. And while I doubt the boy’s ability to do so either, despite Care’s obvious concern and tutoring, I see no point in huddling with her as she examines the ledger, murmuring as she runs one finger down each scribble-filled page. Instead, I examine the cover, rubbing my jaw against the tattered binding to capture its scent – its essence – and begin my own analysis.
Leather, but better quality than expected. Fat Peter may not always have been the small-time hustler that his shop suggested, not if he kept his accounts in a volume such as this. Though considering his trade, that dusty window full of junk, it is more likely that the book came in as collateral – some poor accountant too tangled in his own numbers to have anything else to offer as his bond.
I sniff the cover again, open-mouthed, and close my eyes to better take it in. The quality of the hide and its deep perfume reminds me again of the man I had trailed and his own badly cured pelts. He had been afraid, this man who had accosted Care, the stench of fear overpowering those sad, dear furs even in his own place of business.
What had he been seeking? My companion has surmised, with reason, that his stated goal was not his real one; that this man – this Bushwick – has most likely by now searched the office where her mentor once offered sanctuary. Did he find that which he sought? Did he seek it for himself, as he had said, or for another? The deep warmth of the leather calms me, but I am mulling over that stranger – the third man at Fat Peter’s. Did he seek this ledger, too? Was he affiliated with the treacherous AD, or was there something other here at work, something that I have as yet failed to grasp?
‘Look at the cat,’ the boy whispers, but I ignore him. ‘He’s totally asleep.’
‘Shh.’ Care would silence him, though for the benefit of my supposed rest or to aid her own concentration I cannot tell. ‘Come here.’
She does not speak to me, and so I continue with my cogitations. The boy, however, climbs over to where she sits and folds himself under her arm. My eyes remain closed, of course, as I persist in my analysis. My ears, however, twitch, registering every motion, even as the boy’s lips begin to move, sounding out the words and symbols held before him.
‘Do you know what this means?’ The girl’s voice is soft, though her concern is more for the child cuddled close than for my supposed slumbers. ‘These numbers here?’
‘The items?’ The boy is guessing, and she prods him further.
‘What do you see?’
‘Three four eight one oh.’ He makes the numbers out slowly and then stops. ‘Three four eight one one.’ Clearly, she is moving him down the list. ‘Three four eight one two.’
‘Very good.’ The sound of paper as she turns a page.
‘Three four eight one four,’ says the boy, and I sense rather than hear Care start.
‘Wait.’ The page again. She is turning back. ‘Well, Fat Peter skipped a number, Tick. That seems unlike him.’
More pages turn but she ceases to speak. I have shifted again. The last of the afternoon sun now rakes the basement floor; the shadow of the two children stretches along the uneven dirt and I align myself with that, my sore side absorbing what is left. The light gives precious little warmth, but what there is my fur absorbs. I think of those pelts again. Of that strange fat man and all his clothes. These children could use half as much. They could use my fur, were things to come to that. I do not see what they have that he would want. Nor Fat Peter’s role in such transactions as would interest him.
‘No, he never skipped a number.’ Care is speaking to herself as much as Tick, but I hear him turn to look at her. ‘There’s no item listed. No name, either. Just—’
‘Do you think this is what the old man found out?’ His question seems so guileless, but I am instantly alert. This boy turns like a centipede, slipping into corners. He has even bragged of this, if only Care will remember.
‘Maybe, Tick.’ She’s thinking – of his absences, I hope. Of his time with AD and Diamond Jim’s men. ‘You’re sure about what he said?’
‘Something about weighing down the scale,’ the boy repeats. ‘And that Fat Peter’s not on the same level. I think that’s it.’
‘Fat Peter must have been involved in the theft from Diamond Jim’s. Why else would the old man have passed that along?’ she asks, as if not expecting the boy to reply. ‘Maybe it’s as simple as that – and that he was killed when those thugs found out. They wouldn’t have had the old man’s technique but they’d have their ways. And if they even suspected him …’ She doesn’t say more. There is no need. We all saw what became of Fat Peter.
In her arms, the boy begins to squirm. Discomfited by the memory, perhaps. Or by some knowledge that he dare not share.
‘What is it, Tick?’ Care sits up and I do as well, taking in the scene before me. The boy does not stand; does not pull away as if to answer a call of nature. Instead, he stares first at me and then, my green gaze too cool for his liking, at the pile of bricks that had concealed his prize. ‘Tell me.’
He bites his lip, as if to keep the words inside.
‘I don’t know, Care.’ He doesn’t look happy. ‘I mean, maybe I got it wrong?’
The girl nods. ‘You mean the old man’s message? Do you think AD heard it? Or …’
He shrugs, not willing to say more.
‘Fat Peter’s death isn’t your fault,’ she says, her voice soft. ‘Everybody knew Fat Peter was no thief. If he were involved with that necklace, it was as a fence – a resale man. Everyone knew he could move stuff. But, maybe, if he paid someone, gave out credit …’ She nods, the possibilities becoming clear. ‘That might explain a ticket not entered in the book, a marker for those emeralds, especially if he expected Diamond Jim to send someone looking. Someone tougher than the old man.’
She thinks on that for a while. ‘The old man wouldn’t have taken the job if he thought he was setting up an execution. Diamond Jim must have kept that from him, and that’s pretty hard to do. So maybe Fat Peter knew something else, something about who commissioned the job or why they hit Diamond Jim. But if so, why …’
Another pause and then she turns, slowly, to appraise the boy.
‘Unless the jewels came to him first, before he found out where they were from. Fat Peter never could resist a bargain, and if a thief brought him something nice, he’d be hard-pressed to turn it down. Especially if he could get it cheap – if he could bully the seller down to a rock bottom price.’ Her voice fades as she sorts it out. ‘And then, if he found out; if he wanted to return them … Tick?’ An edge has crept into her voice. She tries to hide it, softening her questions with a singsong quality. ‘Did you steal from Diamond Jim? Did you maybe do a smash-and-grab, a quick pocket and hare, perhaps? Please, tell me.’
‘No.’ He’s shaking his head so hard, his overlong hair swings back and forth. ‘No, I don’t do that anymore, Care. You told me what could happen and I don’t want to go back. No way. Not even if I’m hungry. I don’t steal.’
Her voice grows softer and my fur begins to prickle. ‘What about that little weight you gave me, Tick? The brass thing? Didn’t you pick that up, maybe, at Fat Peter’s?’
‘I didn’t.’ His lower lip sticks out and I fear tears. ‘He gave that to me. Honest.’
The girl bites back the obvious response. ‘Maybe there’s a silver lining,’ she says instead. ‘I never did like you hanging out there with everything that went on in that shop of his. And it was probably one of those flash boys who brought the wares to Fat Peter. Nobody will cry when one of that crew washes up on the riverbank. I wonder who the old man was looking at? Was there some big money on the other end of the transaction? Diamond Jim�
�s wares are major league and that necklace sounded grand. Even once he broke it up, Fat Peter must have had somebody in mind for the stones.
‘Unless …’ She reaches for the ledger again. ‘Unless they were on consignment.’
‘What do you mean?’ The boy sits up as she starts to leaf through the pages. The sun has moved, and so I join them. The basement is damp after the recent rains, and the shared warmth is welcome. ‘Like on order?’
‘Exactly.’ She runs her finger down a page. The light has grown dim and she must lean forward to make it out. After a moment, she pauses to dig into her pocket. The rumpled ticket is the worse for wear, and she holds it flat, squinting at its surface. I cannot resist a look myself, but as I jump up on the windowsill, the better to view the tiny scrap, my shadow falls upon it.
‘Hang on,’ she says, standing. Reaching up to the open well, she leans on the sill beside me. The markings are clear to me, although she struggles to make them out. Would that we could combine my eyesight and her comprehension. ‘Eight one three,’ she says. ‘And no name on the line.’
Back to the page then, and she nods with something like satisfaction. ‘The missing entry – the one Fat Peter skipped – it’s got to be tied in with the stolen necklace. The old man always told me: “Never trust a coincidence.”’
She sinks back to the floor, the ticket in her hand. ‘So maybe Diamond Jim hasn’t gotten the emeralds back yet. And maybe this is what those creeps were looking for.’
‘Wouldn’t Fat Peter have given that up?’ Tick isn’t looking at the ledger. He reads Care instead. ‘I mean, if Brian or Randy showed up to hurt him?’
‘You’d think.’ Care goes back to the ledger. ‘Maybe things got out of hand. Maybe he died before they could get the info. That could be why they still want the ledger.’
She sits there quiet, deep in thought, the boy by her side. This is their circle, the rules they know. But something is eating at the boy, something besides hunger and his own filth. He’s fidgeting again, and while she reads I examine his face – the way he chews his lip. I mutter softly, a murmuring rumble to break her reverie, but it’s the boy – agitated, alert – who looks up.
