“What’s that?”
“You kill him.” The girl looked up as she spoke, and I felt a chill.
“No one is killing anybody, Taylor. You got that?”
“You’re not inside that house. You don’t know.”
I pulled my chair a little closer and muscled into the girl’s space. “You think it’s that easy to kill someone?”
A shrug.
“Trust me, it’s not. Have you told your mom any of this?”
A shake of the head.
“Okay, I’ll talk to her next week. Till then, we just let things lie.”
I thought she was going to cry again. Or embroider her case for putting a bullet in Johnny Woods. Or maybe both. Instead, Taylor got up and walked out onto the street. I paid for the ice cream and found her waiting at the corner. There wasn’t much more to say so I put her in a taxi. Gave the cabbie her address and the fare plus twenty. Then I wandered down Broadway. Thought about my young friend and her developing taste for murder.
A lot of folks wouldn’t see the threats of a fourteen-year-old as anything but idle. I wasn’t one of those folks. A kid can pull the trigger just as smooth and easy as anyone else. Sometimes even easier. I knew that, mostly because I’d lived it. Or close enough.
The worst times were always late at night. The times I’d make the mistake of falling asleep and he’d get home, come looking for me. It was better when my older brother, Phillip, was there. Even if he’d been kicked quiet.
Either way, the old man would eventually get to it. Stand me up in the living room and take a good look. Close enough so I could smell the liquor-what I know now was liquor. Back then it just smelled like a beating. Mingled with cigarettes, sweat, and fear. My old man was afraid of most every big thing in life. That’s why I was out there in the first place. In the living room. At three in the morning. No fear here for Dad. Only control.
He’d pick a topic. Didn’t matter what. Maybe it was just the way I looked at him when he pulled me out of bed. Didn’t matter. I’d try to stand tough. He’d walk back and forth. Ask me questions.
Did I think I was a tough guy? He’d show me tough.
Did I think I could get away with the bullshit I pulled with everyone else?
I wasn’t that goddamn smart and he damn well knew it. School. Sports. Whatever. I half-assed everything. Goddamn faker.
He’d move close on that last word and wait for me to flinch. Who the Christ did I think I was fooling, anyway?
Didn’t matter the question. Didn’t matter the answer. There was no right answer. Nothing, nobody worth answering to. I knew that. Still, the questions got louder. The old man got closer. Finally, I’d try something, some sort of response. When I got older, I realized that was a mistake. Just what he was waiting for. He’d stop pacing, hover close.
“What did you say?”
From the corner of my eye I could see my mom, virtual rosary beads in hand, half praying, half asking my dad to go to bed and forget about it. Not much fucking chance. I’d answer again. And wait. I knew it was coming, but it never failed to amaze. The speed. The ferocity. Whip-fast. Loud and fierce. In my ears first, then exploding across my face, slamming my eyes shut, scorching white bursts just underneath the lids. It was just an open palm to the face. But it was the first shot and it always shocked me, scared me, hurt far more than whatever followed. When I was nine, I cried. When I got a little older, I just stood there and took it. Either way, it didn’t matter. Whatever my reaction, he always followed up with another shot, probably so he didn’t have to think about the first either. It was usually a half-closed hand to the head. Then he’d bring his fists to the party. Once, twice, as much as it took until I went down. After that, it was okay. The old man was sated. He’d grumble something to my mother and go to bed. My mom would come over and ask if I wanted a cup of tea. I’d say no. Then I’d go down the hall and get back into bed. I’d hear him next door, breathing already heavy, nothing else between us save a layer of drywall and a lifetime of regret.
No one would talk about it the next day. Or the day after that. None of us, not even Phillip. Instead, we’d just wait. Until we were old enough where we could leave. Or kill him. It was the last part that stayed with me today. The killing part seemed real to me back then. It seemed real to me now. Maybe even a little bit right. I’d take what Taylor said seriously. And do what I could to make sure she stayed a kid.
CHAPTER 17
I woke up the next morning, looked at the clock, and allowed myself a smile. Then I picked up the phone and dialed.
“What?”
Fred Jacobs sounded like he might have been asleep all of five minutes.
“Wake up, Fred.”
“Kelly?”
There was a fumble as he dropped the phone. Followed by a curse or two. Then my favorite reporter came back on the line.
“Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
“What?” I said.
“It’s six-thirty on a Saturday morning. People like to sleep on Saturday mornings.”
“Get out of bed, Fred. Take yourself outside for a nice run.”
More fumbling, then the line cleared.
“What do you want, Kelly?”
“Vince Rodriguez and Dan Masters.”
Jacobs didn’t respond. I allowed the silence to thicken and congeal before I continued.
“Saw them over at Belmont and Western the other day. Asked me what I knew about Johnny Woods.”
“You think that was me?”
“I know it was you, Fred. No one else knew I was looking at Woods.”
Fred Jacobs could lie with the best of them. At six-thirty on a Saturday morning, maybe not so well. “Okay, Kelly. It might have slipped out.”
“I bet.”
“Sorry.”
Across the line I could hear the scratch of a match followed by a smooth inhale. Jacobs had lit up his first heater of the day.
“What do you expect?” he said, and blew smoke through the receiver. “You know how this stuff works. Besides, you love being down there.”
“You think so?”
“Hell, yeah. You got the itch, Kelly. Just no badge anymore to scratch it with.”
“Thanks, Fred. I’ll write that down. Next time, just try a little harder to hold up your end of things.”
“Don’t worry about that.” Jacobs’ voice puckered at the mere thought of his not living up to the journalist’s code of ethics. A code he had just admitted to trampling not ten seconds earlier.
“Okay, Fred. I need a little more info.”
“Knew that was coming.”
“It’s painless. An old Sun-Times reporter named Rawlings Smith. You know him?”
“This have to do with my story?”
“Could be.”
Jacobs thought about that for a second. Trying to figure out how he could get his scoop without waiting on me.
“He’s in Joliet,” the reporter said. “Working at a paper called the Times.”
“Never heard of it.”
