Asking for Trouble by Rosalind James Page A

steadily at him,
not giving up until Joe had told him the truth. Just like his dad. Exactly like
his dad.
    “Why didn’t you get in touch?” Conrad demanded. “Why didn’t
you let me know?”
    Joe shrugged. “I didn’t know how.”
    “Bullshit. You knew where I was. I told you to let me know
if you needed anything. You knew I’d be there for you.”
    “It was just that . . .” Joe looked down, not sure how to
explain. “People say that.” Nobody else had meant it. Not his mom. Not any of
the social workers. Not even his sister, though he didn’t blame her. She’d had
to survive herself. She didn’t have anything left for him.
    “Well, I’m here now,” Conrad said. “So let’s figure out what
you need. You’ve got a place to live. That working out?”
    Another shrug. “Yeah.”
    “Say again?”
    Joe heard the warning tone, straightened up fast. “Yes,
sir.” He’d forgotten, and the shame of it was almost the worst.
    “Look me in the eye and tell me,” Conrad said. “Tell me if
that’s working out. If it isn’t, I’ll fix it. I promise you that.”
    “Yes, sir,” Joe said. “It’s working out.”
    “OK, then.” The older man nodded his short-cropped head in
satisfaction. “Next things. Transportation, job. You don’t have either of
those, right?”
    “No, sir. I just turned sixteen, but it’s hard, without a way
to get anywhere. I tried with the bus, but it was late, and I was late to the
interview, and . . .” He trailed off again. Excuses. “No excuse,” he muttered,
because that was the answer.
    “What about your dad’s bike?” Conrad asked. “What happened
to that? He told me in Kuwait that when he got home, he was going to teach you
to ride it.”
    Joe swallowed. “My mom has a boyfriend.” He’d managed to
avoid mentioning Dean so far, because even saying his name was like drinking something
corrosive.
    Conrad’s face hardened. “He took your dad’s bike?”
    “He wrecked it.” Joe felt his fists clenching, forced the
emotion down. “He totaled it.” When it had happened, he’d wished so hard that
Dean had died. He’d been young enough then to think that life worked that way.
Now he knew better. Only good people died. Bad people lived, and the things
they did never seemed to catch up with them.
      Conrad nodded.
He didn’t get all sympathetic, but Joe knew he understood how it had felt to
see his dad’s Yamaha 800 that had been sitting in the garage, a memory and a
promise, under Dean’s skinny butt, then gone entirely, and the knot loosened a
little.
    “OK, then,” Conrad said. “First step is, teach you to ride
my bike, get you your license. Second step is find a bike for you. Third step
is get you a job. You got anything going on the next few weeks, evenings and
weekends?”
    “No, sir.” He could hardly believe it. The past couple
weeks, since summer vacation had started, all he’d had to do was help out Mr.
Wilson with the house and the yard, study for the PSAT, and play basketball at
the North Las Vegas Boys’ and Girls’ Club. It was all fine, but it wasn’t
getting him anywhere. And he needed to get somewhere. “But I don’t—” He
stopped.
    “Don’t what?” Conrad prompted.
    “I don’t have any money for a bike,” Joe admitted, feeling
the flush rise. “I don’t even have any money for gas.” He had his dad’s leather
jacket, because that had been in his closet, and Dean hadn’t been able to take
it. But that was about all he had. A jacket, a military ID, and some memories.
None of that would make the first payment on a bike.
    “It’s going to be a loan,” Conrad said. “Believe me, you’ll
be paying me back.” He smiled, the first time that evening. “I know where you
live.”
    And Conrad had come through. A month later, Joe had a bike,
a Honda 400cc bought cheap from an airman being posted overseas, fixed up in
the shop under Conrad’s guidance. And he had a job to ride to on it.
    “Get your hair cut,” Conrad