Fresh Kills by Bill Loehfelm Page A

She always had them up on her walls by the next time her parents were out and I came over.

    It meant something to me seeing those posters on the wall, even if they were pictures of men I knew I would never be. And it wasn’t just that Molly was sitting under them, flush in the face and half undressed, though I’m sure that didn’t hurt. I liked havingcash in my pocket and liked having earned it. I loved being with someone who made me want to be generous. And, of course, I loved Molly like crazy, like only a teenage boy can love.

    On the rare weekend days I wasn’t with Molly, I made Mall excursions with Jimmy McGrath, stealing all the same things I bought when I was with Molly. I stole things for her, though I never told her the gifts were stolen. I replaced every bandanna I bloodied three times over. I enjoyed taking on her behalf almost as much as I liked giving to her. Taking risks for her felt romantic and rebellious. Knowing I could give to her, whatever I had to do, made me feel like a man.

    I was a good thief. Fearless. Jimmy tried to keep up, but he lacked, at least in those days, my nerve and my skill. Of course, I had certain advantages over him, experience being the main one. I’d started stealing back in junior high, as soon as my sister fell in love with drawing. Paper, markers, colored pencils, charcoal—I thieved whatever I could get from the art classroom. I had other experience to build on, too.

    Compared to my father, what were underpaid clerks and overweight rent-a-cops gonna do to me? Living with my father, I’d learned when I was being watched, and when I wasn’t. And what was one more beating if I got caught? There was always one coming down the pipe at me anyway, I figured. But I never did get caught.

    When we weren’t stealing, Jimmy and I leaned against the wall in the black light glow of the arcade, waiting for a machine to open up or just modeling our weekend uniforms, our dress code as strict as the one we despised at school. Tight jeans. Black T-shirts advertising bands that had broken up before we were old enough to buy their albums. Denim jackets emblazoned with the logos of our more contemporary heroes: Van Halen and Iron Maiden, Def Leppard and Rush. We taunted the preppies and the guidos, deriding their uniforms, their turned-up collars, or their gold chains. We were rookie tough guys in training, a pair of sheltered puppies pretending to be strays, itching for a fight we were grateful never materialized. We laughed, a lot.

    Walking around the same but different Mall fifteen years later, I realized I probably wasn’t the thief I thought I was back then. I couldn’t remember taking anything that made me worth chasing. I did wonder if I could still get away with it. Not that it mattered. I didn’t see anything worth buying, never mind stealing. I wondered whatever happened to the bakery chain with the fake French name, if it had gone out of business. A Starbucks probably replaced it. I decided I’d look for it when I went up to the second floor. I needed another cup of coffee, even if it had to be Starbucks.

    When I smelled the Bath & Body Works, I realized I’d made a complete circuit of the first floor. I slipped on my sunglasses and wandered outside for another cigarette before tackling the second floor. As I lit up, a kid, about fifteen, sixteen, big diamonds in his ears, his shorts and his T-shirt both four sizes too big, stepped up to me. He asked for, no, demanded, a cigarette. I tucked the lighter into the pack and the pack into my jacket, next to my wallet.

    “Fuck off,” I said.

    He took half a step closer to me. I closed the distance by half again, stepping into a fog of cologne. I took an exaggerated drag on my smoke, realizing I’d love nothing more than to put it out in this kid’s eye. I looked over his shoulder at his friends. Four of them plus the tough guy made five. I wished there were more of them. I got a sour taste in my mouth. My palms itched. I