“Yeah,” I said, “it has been.”
I looked around the room and noted a couple photos of men and women in police uniforms on the wall, including one of what seemed to be a younger version of the man in front of me.
“Are you a police officer?” I asked.
He pulled out a clipboard and clamped some forms onto it. He handed me the clipboard and dug around on the desk for a pen.
“Was. Retired. You thinking about renting for a year? I can give you a break on the price if you agree to stay that long.”
I kind of liked the idea of renting from someone who would know how to look out for trouble if it came.
“A year sounds good. I can use all the breaks I can get.” I took the pen he offered and began filling out the form. I was happy to discover that I could complete it without having to refer to my little book.
He showed me to the apartment, a moderate-sized but well-kept place with windows that looked out through the branches of the trees lining the street, and over the busy street itself. Not much noise came through the windows, even though I noted a bus stop just a few blocks up the hill.
I liked it.
I spent the first night of my new life sleeping on the floor, curled up beneath my coat, duffel bag under my head for a pillow, happier than I had been for days.
The next day I took the bus to St. John’s.
I didn’t know why, but crossing the railroad track always put me in a better mood. There was something good about this rotten side of town. Something invisible to the eye, but obvious to the soul.
I stepped off the bus, and waited as it drove past before crossing the street. It was raining lightly, a misty sort of rain, and I kept close to the buildings, using their awnings to try to stay dry. The air stank of diesel, dead fish, and the salt-and-hickory smell of bacon and onions being fried.
A shadow moved in the doorway to my left, and I glanced over expecting . . . someone. There was no one there. Except for an abandoned shopping cart, the doorway was empty.
Great. This was not the place to be if I was suddenly going to get all jumpy and start second-guessing myself.
I tucked my hands in my coat pocket and walked up the two wooden steps to Mama’s door.
The clatter of dishes being washed rang out from the kitchen and the moist heat of the restaurant wrapped around me. At the tables to my right and left were an even split of men and women, maybe ten in total. No one I knew, or at least no one I remembered.
Ahead of me, with his hand still beneath the counter on his gun, was Boy.
Nola told me I’d been shot. Once by a man Zayvion said broke into his apartment. Once by an old Hound enemy of mine, Bonnie. She did not mention me ever being wounded by Boy, but Zayvion had given her only sketchy details about that night we’d all met in the kitchen.
It wasn’t like I could go through my life jumping at shadows. Or guns.
I could do this. I had to do this if I wanted my life to be mine again.
That bravado got me across the room and standing in front of Boy.
“So,” I said, pleased that it came out low and casual. “Is Mama here?”
“Allie girl?”
I looked to the right.
Mama stopped washing a table, wiped her hands on a towel, and strode over to me.
“Why you come here?”
“I need to ask you a few things.”
She glared at me, but I stood my ground.
“Fine.” She caught my elbow and walked me toward the door, as far away from Boy and her patrons as she could get.
“You don’t belong here, Allie girl. Not now. Not anymore.”
I wasn’t convinced I’d ever really belonged here. But I’d always felt welcome. And even though Nola told me Mama had finally gone to the police and told them about James’ killing my father and putting the hit on Boy, it was apparent my welcome was worn through.
“Maybe not,” I said. “But I never thought you would just stand by and let James hurt Boy like that. How could you look away while he suffered? He was just a little kid. He could have died.”
Mama pulled herself up, gaining maybe half an inch on her five foot two frame.
“You think I know what James does?” She was angry. It was the first time I had ever heard her call any of her sons by their name. “You think he tells me the things he does? Tells me the people he does it with? You don’t know. Don’t know what it is like for family to hurt family.”
“Try me,” I said. I was an old pro at family hurting family.
“When you say your father was the one, I believe you. But you were wrong.”
I so wasn’t going to let her blame me for this. I gave her a cool stare.
“James was wrong for what he did,” she said. “Too much pride, that Boy. Too much greed. My heart bleeds that he hurt my Boy. And kill your father.”
There it was. Admission. No apology, but at least she had the decency to acknowledge that she thought James had killed my dad. I just hoped she would speak her mind like this on the witness stand.
“But he is family, you know?” she said. “Family. Still, I do what is right. Tell police. Watch them arrest my Boy, take him away in chains. And my heart bleeds for him. For my poor, prideful Boy.”
“Is that the only reason you turned him in? Because it was the right thing to do?”
Then she did a strange thing. She looked away, looked at the floor, looked uncomfortable. “Yes.”
She was lying. I could smell the sourness of it on her. And when she looked back at me, her expression clearly stated that she would say no more.
I let it go. Maybe Nola could tell me more. Maybe Zayvion too, if I ever found him. Or maybe someday, when we both had time to recover our lives, I could convince her I was someone she could talk to.
“Is Boy home from the hospital yet?” I asked.
She laughed, a short, sharp bark. “Where have you been, Allie girl? Boy come home month ago. He is strong. Back in school.”
“Good,” I said, and I meant it.
The hard edge in Mama’s eyes eased. “Yes. Good. You go. This no place for you now. No place for your
She stepped up to me, touched my right hand. The magic beneath my skin settled at her touch, the constant, roaring pressure of it eased.
“You find your place,” she said. “Who you are. Who you should be. You find your people. Family.”
She turned. “Go,” she said over her shoulder. She strode off into the kitchen and started yelling at one of her Boys to clean the floors.
Boy with the gun still had his hand under the counter. I decided not to push my luck with him or his gun, and left. Mama was right about one thing. I had some searching to do. To figure out who I was. And who I intended to be.
I stepped outside and walked as quickly as I could through the rain to the curb. I wasn’t feeling very well, the mix of smells suddenly too strong for me to stomach. I was tired too, which wasn’t much of a surprise. My stamina still wasn’t all that great.
Rain poured harder.
I could walk a few more blocks to the bus stop. But a cab was pulling through traffic, and I waved and whistled and caught the driver’s attention. He did a passable, if illegal, U-turn, and pulled up beside me. By this point, rain was pounding down so hard, I couldn’t see the buildings on the other side of the street. I reached for the door handle.
A man’s hand reached down at the same time, and I was overwhelmed by the heavy stench of iron and old vitamins.
“Allow me, Ms. Beckstrom.”
I jerked away and stepped back. The man wore a hat and long coat, but was plain-looking, totally forgettable
