Marked

limerick that begins, ‘There was a young space-girl from Venus,’ but he decides it’s best not to share it.

He says, ‘Tell me something about stromony.’

‘Well. .’ says Amy. ‘You know all the stars?’

‘You mean the movie stars?’

‘No, silly. The stars in the sky. The twinkly ones.’

‘Oh, those stars. What about them?’

‘Well, they’re really suns.’

Doyle allows his jaw to go slack. ‘No. Suns? Tiny little suns?’

‘No, they’re not tiny. They’re big, like our sun. But they’re really far away.’

‘How far? You mean, like, from here to Ellie’s apartment?’

‘More than that.’

‘How about here to New Jersey?’

‘More.’

‘To the North Pole?’

Amy has to think about this one. ‘Can we see the North Pole from here?’

‘No.’

‘Then maybe not that far.’

‘But still a long way,’ Doyle says.

‘Yes.’

‘Wow!’

‘Yes, it’s amazable, isn’t it?’

‘It certainly is amazable. Are you doing this stuff at school too?’

He thinks, Subtle switch, you sly dog.

‘Sometimes. Not all the time.’

‘No. You have to do lots of other work too, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Hundreds.’

‘Sure. And I bet you get through lots of pencils and erasers and things, don’t you?’

Amy goes quiet then, and drops her gaze. Even at seven she can see Doyle’s ploy for what it is. She knows exactly where this is headed.

‘Honey, you listening to me?’

She nods. Says nothing for a while. Then: ‘Are you mad at me?’

‘No. Why would I be mad at you?’

‘I don’t know. Mommy’s mad at me.’

‘No she isn’t. She just wants to understand.’

Amy picks at a stray thread on the edge of her towel.

‘Pumpkin?’ says Doyle. ‘Is there something going on at school? Something you don’t want to talk about?’

Amy shakes her head.

‘You sure?’

‘Yes. I told Mommy. I don’t know how those things got in my backpack.’

‘You didn’t put them there?’

‘No.’

‘You weren’t looking after them for a friend?’

‘No.’

Her head is bowed really low now. So low that Doyle cannot see her expression. But it seems to him that she is on the edge of tears. He feels his own heart cracking.

And then a sequence of images starts to play in his head. He is back in Proust’s tattoo parlor. Ripping the guy’s shirt off. Threatening him. Letting him know that there is no doubt in Doyle’s mind about his guilt.

So why the difference?

Why the heavy-handed approach with Proust and the soft touch with Amy? Why believe one and not the other?

And what if he’s wrong? What if Proust is actually innocent and his own daughter has become a thief? Is that possible? Could Doyle’s own judgment be so impaired?

No, he tells himself. I’m right, on both counts. Even if nobody else trusts me on this, I’m right.

‘All right, Amy,’ he says. And when she doesn’t reply, he touches a curled finger to her chin and raises her face to look at him. ‘I believe you. No big deal, okay?’

He spends a few more minutes with her, changing the subject and doing his best to blot the earlier conversation out of her mind. But when he leaves her bedroom he cannot shake off the profoundly sad feeling that a little something has died between the two of them tonight, and with it, a little of his belief in himself.

Lorenze Wheaton ain’t afraid of no man. Not tonight. Not any night.

That’s what he tells himself. That’s what he believes. He doesn’t see what’s underneath. He’s blind to the young man in constant fear for his life. That version of Wheaton is a pussy. This here is the real Wheaton, walking tall and slow, not afraid of meeting the gaze of any motherfucker who might feel the need to stare him out.

His bravery is supported by the six-pack of beer he just shared at Tito’s place. The blunts they fired up there didn’t hurt neither. That was some seriously good shit Tito had there.

And then of course there’s the nine. The biggest confidence booster of them all.

He reaches behind, taps himself on the back, just over the right kidney. Feels through his jacket the reassuring hardness of the Beretta 92 tucked into his waistband.

Go ahead, Mojo, he thinks. Make your play. This nigger’s strapped, motherfucker, and don’t that change everything?

He’s strolling back from the projects on the other side of Avenue D, heading along East Seventh Street. It’s after midnight and it’s raining hard and the slick street is quiet. He doesn’t mind the rain. In fact he likes it. It calms him. He thinks he could just stop and stand here for hours, his face upturned to the sky, feeling the heavy raindrops beating softly on his face.

But he doesn’t stop walking. Something is dragging him home. Not fear. He ain’t afraid.

He knows Mojo wants to down him. Mojo has been putting the word out on this for weeks, and for no good reason. Not unless getting it on with Mojo’s huge-titted girlfriend counts as a reason.

Wheaton chuckles to himself. She was a fine piece of ass, all right. He’d loved to have seen Mojo’s face when he found out.

He hears the deep-throated roar of a car as it accelerates behind him. He turns, and is dazzled by the headlights. He halts and puts his hand behind him. The car goes straight past, the passenger, a blond white woman, giving him a cursory glance.

Wheaton blows air. Ain’t nothin’. Not Mojo’s boys and not Five-O. Besides, he can handle either one of them. If it’s Mojo’s crew, he pulls his nine and starts downing those bitches. If it’s the police, he books. He’s got it all figured out. Soon as a cop shows interest, he takes off like Road Runner, meep-meep. Maybe they catch him, maybe they don’t. What matters is that it gives him time to toss the strap. And if they find it, he can deny all knowledge. He always wears gloves when he takes the Beretta out with him. He’s not taking chances. If he’s caught carrying a concealed weapon it would mean serious jail time.

It’s but a short walk to his mom’s place. She won’t be there. She’s hardly ever there. She’ll be out with that new boyfriend of hers. She’ll turn up some time tomorrow. Lunchtime probably. Looking like shit. Then she’ll go straight to bed.

Wheaton doesn’t care. He likes having the crib to himself. When he gets in he’ll be able to play his music as loud as he wants while he has another beer and smokes some more weed.

Another car approaches. Wheaton tells himself to ignore it. He’s already at his apartment building. Seconds from safety. Not that he’s scared or nothing.

He doesn’t even bother to look as the car flashes past and he hears the spray of rainwater churned up from the wheels. No gunfire, no yelling at him to freeze. Nothing to get worked up about. He smiles as he permits himself a moment of feeling bulletproof before he abandons the street.

He looks up at his building. One light shines out from the top floor. The rest is in blackness. On the other