Kick by Walter Dean Myers Page A

used to say that if you ask a thousand questions, you always get the truth,” Kevin said. “You just have to figure out where it is.”
    â€œI like that,” I said.
    â€œAnd the next time we hear it, he’s going to make believe he said it first,” Paul said.
    We found the address. It was in a down-and-out neighborhood that had once been a housing project. The actual number was a church on a side street. On the entrance to the basement, there was a fancy sign that read GREENVILLE SERVICES .
    â€œCan I help you?” A middle-aged Hispanic man looked up from his newspaper.
    Paul flashed his badge and said that he would like to ask a few questions.
    â€œBy all means,” the man answered.
    â€œWhat’s the deal on this agency?” Paul asked, coming directly to the point.
    â€œHave a seat,” came the answer. “My name is Hernandes, and my aunt and I basically run the agency. There are a lot of people in this community from Mexico, Central America, and the Caribbean. You have to know this, of course. There was a police investigation a few years ago, if I remember correctly. Do you want coffee?”
    I said no the same time that Paul said yes. Then he said no the same time that I said yes.
    Mr. Hernandes pointed to a coffeepot and started making coffee as he spoke. His English was better than mine.
    â€œWe had the same concerns as the police,” he said. “Were the people being exploited? Were they being abused? So we started this agency.”
    â€œAnd named it Greenville,” Paul said.
    â€œNot really. There was a pawn shop down the street that closed and left the sign behind. It looked good, so . . . ”
    â€œWe’re really interested in one particular worker who came through this agency,” I said. “A woman named Dolores . . . Dolores . . .”
    I realized I didn’t have her last name and looked toward Kevin. The kid shrugged and I was feeling stupid.
    â€œWhere does she work?”
    â€œFor the McNamaras,” Kevin said.
    â€œOh, Dolores Ponce.” Mr. Hernandes shook his head affirmatively. “She’s been working with the agency for over four years. Maybe longer than that. You want to see her pay record?”
    â€œYes,” I said.
    A dark, middle-aged woman came in, and Mr. Hernandes said something to her in Spanish. She went to the coffeepot, looking over her shoulder at me and Paul as Hernandes went to a bookcase and took out a set of black-and-white composition books.
    Sitting at the desk, he looked through the books until he found an index tab that he wanted and then pushed the book across to me.
    â€œThis is her pay record,” he announced. “She makes three hundred sixty per week, and we make sure that she gets it.”
    â€œAnd what do you get paid for her services?” Paul asked.
    â€œThe agency gets four hundred dollars a week from Mr. McNamara,” Hernandes answered. “So you see we get just ten percent. This is a community service, not a rip-off.”
    â€œAnd if I speak to Dolores, she’ll verify this?” I asked.
    â€œAbsolutely.”
    â€œCan I take this book with me?” Paul asked.
    â€œIt’s our only copy,” Mr. Hernandes said. “And if another policeman comes, we need to have a record. But you can take it next door to the drugstore. For ten cents a page, they’ll make copies.”
    Officially, we weren’t investigating Greenville and we didn’t have a search warrant. Hernandes seemed on the up and-up, but I wasn’t sure. The record keeping wasn’t first-rate, but it didn’t jump out at me as being criminal, either. Some entries were in pen and some in pencil. Not very professional.
    â€œAre you giving us your word that these records are accurate?” I asked Hernandes as Paul pored over the entries in the book.
    He ducked his head slightly and shrugged. “I think they are,” he said. “We’re not here