'Kind of drops in when your mother's not around, keeps an eye on you…like that?'
'She keeps an eye on everything, the bitch.'
'You don't like having her around?'
'Not really.'
'So…'
'She's gonna do what she wants anyway.'
'Okay. You got that list we talked about?'
'Not written down, exactly But I could tell you stuff about them if you want.'
'Who cleans the house while your mother's gone?'
'Juanita. She comes in three days a week.'
'Un huh. And who cooks?'
'I can always call take–out…there's a lot of different restaurants.'
'You got a summer job?'
He gave me one of those 'Are you crazy?' looks kids his age specialize in.
'So what you do is dress yourself, make a few phone calls, watch TV…'
'Get high…'the kid supplied.
'And wait for the summer to be over?'
'You got it.'
'Make the list, kid. I'm not your fucking secretary, understand? You want this done, you got to do your piece.'
'Okay, okay. It's no big deal. I just thought…if you wanted to get started right away, it'd be easier.'
'Just make your list,' I told him. 'Do some work.'
I went back over to the garage. The NSX was gone— deep ruts in the bluestone where it had peeled out. I dialed Mama's joint.
'Gardens,' she answered.
'It's me.'
'That woman call again. Two times.'
Belinda. Nothing to do there. 'Anything else?'
'No strangers.'
'Okay. Tell the Prof it's quiet up here. Did Michelle call in with a new number yet?'
'No.'
'Okay, take this one down I'll be here for a while.'
'Good. Okay. Be careful.'
'I am.'
I sat there for a while, working it through. Nothing. The kid was a field mouse, that's all. Spooked by the headlights. His list would be useless— cold ground doesn't hold tracks.
The Prof was right about one thing— the whole town was lousy with money. I couldn't see an easy way into any of it. Sooner or later, the kid would need to go out, do something. If I could get him to go alone, I'd have time to look through the house.
I walked back into the bedroom. A stiff white card sat on the pillow, a few words in careful calligraphy on its face.
Call me.
After dark.
F.
There was a number in the lower right corner.
Back at the big house, the kid worked on his list. I watched TV. Every half hour or so the kid would come into the living room, bitching and whining about how it would be easier for him to concentrate in front of the TV— he always did his homework that way. I ignored him each time and he finally stopped.
He made a couple of phone calls. I didn't pay attention. A knock at the back door. The kid got up, came back with a couple of meatball heros, handed me one. I got myself a glass of cold water, sat down to eat. The bread was doughy, with no real crust. The sauce was thin and weak. The meat tasted like aged basset hound. In the city, the only people who'd visit that restaurant would be holdup men.
The kid didn't seem to notice, munching away, washing it down with a couple of Cokes.
It was late afternoon by the time the list was ready. He had the names for all six checkouts, phone numbers for three, a street address only for one.
'It was all in the papers, the other stuff,' he said, handing it over, not meeting my eye.
