point, and stare, and try to remember why each was familiar.
But he kept driving.
He was looking for a red-brick building. It would be northeast of the Alamodome, in sight of the spires. He’d seen it on television.
The Impala rumbled down a desolate stretch of crumbling asphalt called Rosa Parks Way. The name struck Sam as pathetic. He remembered Rosa Parks. All that civil rights work, and the City Fathers made sure Rosa’s memorial street was the geographic equivalent to the back of the bus.
A few blocks east of St. Paul Square, he pulled into a gravel lot.
Across the street, next to the Southern Pacific tracks, was a dismal four-story wedge of red brick. The faded black and white paint along the top proclaimed: CARRIZO ICE CO. 1907.
A loading dock wrapped around the building, an aluminum awning frayed and hanging down in pieces. The square freezer doors were thick wood, spray-painted with orange and blue gang monikers. Some of the windows had been bricked up. Others were boarded, or turned into doors for a fire escape that was no longer there. On the top floor, the windows were still intact-shiny glass, steel frames.
Sam thought he had the right place. He would have to watch it. He would wait for someone to arrive or leave.
He couldn’t afford to move from this spot. If he did, he might lose his sense of purpose. He’d be swept off into the East Side, hunting memories.
He needed to stay here, and stay focused.
He patted his coat pocket, found a cell phone.
In his vest, he found a crumpled note-the name Tres, and a number.
After a moment’s hesitation, watching a shadow move behind the fourth-floor windows, Sam decided it would be proper procedure to call for backup.
He looked at his watch: 1:34 P.M.
He dialed the number and got an answering machine. Sam left a message. He gave his position, reading the street sign N. CHERRY from half a block away. No problem with his vision, as long as he was at a distance.
Sam took out his gun and placed it next to him on the seat.
He had been on stakeouts before. He knew how to be patient.
He would wait for an opportunity.
He ignored his thirst, his irritated bowels, his dress shirt collar cutting into his throat. He ignored all discomfort, though he looked down from time to time, and wondered about the blood drying against his knuckles.
18
Maia leaned in the doorway of her condo, casually holding the Smith amp; Wesson eight-shot miniaturized cannon that passed for her sidearm.
She said, “You brought batteries, I hope.”
Her ensemble du jour was topped off by a white linen jacket-the summer-weight fashion statement she’d had tailor-made to accommodate the Magnum’s shoulder holster. Breezy, yet lethal.
“Batteries…” I looked in my bag of Whole Foods Market picnic supplies, which had seemed perfectly adequate a moment before. “What happened, the laser scope on your grenade launcher go out again?”
“Ha, ha. You have no idea how many double-As a Game Boy can go through in twenty-four hours. Come in.”
A meteor had impacted on the smooth surface of Planet Maia. In the middle of the living room’s milk-white carpet, Jem sat cross-legged, playing his Game Boy. He was surrounded by a debris ring of Nintendo cartridges and comic books and LEGO robots.
“Hey, champ,” I said.
He didn’t respond.
I exchanged looks with Maia. She pursed her lips.
“I brought lunch.” I sat next to Jem and unloaded my goodies with a series of ta-da flourishes. Checkered cloth. French bread, cheese, wine for the adults. A juice box, pizza Lunchables, and a cup of Dippin’ Dots futuristic ice cream for Jem.
He glanced at each item I produced, then went back to his game.
“Zapping good monsters?” I asked.
He lifted one shoulder. “My Gyarados is level thirty-five.”
I would’ve understood the statement just as well in Japanese, but I tried to exude enthusiasm.
Maia sat with us. We munched on bread and cheese. I opened the wine. Jem let his bowl of ice cream dots melt.
“This isn’t like you, Tres,” Maia said. “A picnic? Almost romantic.”
“Yuck,” Jem muttered.
“Really,” Maia agreed.
I thought that might coax a smile from him, but his expression stayed serious, his attention funneled toward the Game Boy like he wanted to pour himself into the tiny screen.
“Well…” Maia said. “I guess I’ll put these ice cream pellet things in the freezer, Jem, if you don’t want them right now.”
“I don’t.”
Maia arched her eyebrow at me, giving me a silent command. She took the melting snack-of-the-future into the kitchen.
Jem kept playing his game.
I waited for the best moment to say something. The best moment proved elusive.
“Jem,” I said at last. “You remember the man we saw at the soccer field?”
He pushed a few more buttons.
“That man’s angry at your mother,” I said. “She didn’t do anything wrong, but he thinks she stole some of his money. Your mother is worried. When people are mad, they can do stupid things. Sometimes they might hurt people without thinking. She didn’t want you to get hurt.”
“I know,” Jem said. “She told me.”
“Your mother is with that man right now.”
Black bangs fell in his eyes. “She’s at his house?”
“I’m not sure, champ. He’s keeping her somewhere, like a hostage. He wants me to bring him money, to make up for what he lost. Once I do that, he’ll let your mom go.”
“We don’t have any money.”
“I’m working on that.” My throat felt dry. “I’m going to see the man tonight. I’ll make sure your mother is okay. I’ll convince him she didn’t do anything bad. I just wanted you to know-your mother loves you. That’s why you’re staying with Maia. More than anything, your mother wants to know you’re safe.”
Jem pulled his legs in tighter. He cradled the Game Boy.
“Light’s red,” he murmured. “I wish I had more batteries.”
I tried to finish my wine, but it tasted like vinegar. “I’ll clean up this stuff,” I said. “Be right back, champ.”
I found Maia at her kitchen window, staring out at the wooded canyon of Barton Creek. On her breakfast table was a spread of paperwork-her court cases, I assumed. Then I looked closer and saw they were news printouts about Will Stirman and the Floresville Five.
She turned toward me, held out her arms.
The wine tasted a whole lot better on her lips.
I said, “Missed you.”
“Stay the night.”
“I can’t.”
