seen him in the last few days?”
“No,” she says. “Something happen to Pete?”
“I don’t know yet.”
The girl thinks about it for a moment and relaxes. “I wouldn’t mind if somebody finally killed that fucker. He steals everything.”
“Will you show me his door? I won’t tell him that you did.”
The girl shrugs again. “If he ain’t dead, I wouldn’t want to be the one to wake him up. He got a fuckin’ temper, him.”
“Oh, I’ll be gentle,” Caroline says. She follows the girl back up the stairs, into the fourth-floor landing. The girl points at a door and nods solemnly. Caroline nods back and hands the girl her tea, then waits for her to make her way quietly down the stairs.
When she hears the girl’s door ease closed two floors below, Caroline smells around the door. It stinks, but she isn’t sure if it’s that stink. Caroline puts her ear to the door. Nothing. She knocks on the door to Pete Decker’s apartment. She rests one hand on the nine-millimeter in her shoulder harness, and with the other reaches for the doorknob. She is surprised when the knob turns and the door opens, and she finds herself staring at an even younger girl, about sixteen, wearing nothing but a flannel shirt.
“Hi,” the girl says cheerily.
“Don’t answer the fuckin’ door,” says someone, presumably Pete, who is also presumably alive, in a tangle of blankets on a mattress on the floor. Caroline steps in, past the girl. The apartment consists of this one room, about twelve feet by twelve feet, nothing inside but the mattress and a new thirty-two-inch color television across from it. The walls are chipped and covered with shit and there are bags of chips and cookies all over. There are six people along the walls of the room, boys and girls, teenagers, and they all have the blank eyes and cat-box smell of heavy meth users.
She recognizes Pete from his mug shot. Alone on the mattress, he sits up, pissed off and bare chested. “What the fuck time is it?” Pete stands and he is naked, as skinny as the teenagers in the room—a bantam rooster, hard and small. Quarter-size bruises cover his body. “Don’t answer the fuckin’ door unless I tell you to!” Pete yells again, and he shoves the sixteen-year-old girl, who looks like an empty flannel shirt as she flies across the room.
Caroline steps toward him, inside the range of his fists. She grabs him by the throat just as he swings at her. She deflects most of the punch, and catches the rest in the neck; she is taller than he expected, and not as easy to move. This is a guy used to hitting down at his women. Caroline gathers herself, tightens her grip on his neck and swings her knee up into his balls. He grunts and slumps, and she pushes him back down on the mattress. He rolls over onto his side, moaning.
“You must be Pete,” Caroline says, and shows her badge. She picks up Pete’s jeans, feels in them for a weapon, and comes away with a long pocketknife that she slides into her own pocket.
“Anybody in here eighteen?” she asks the owl-eyed teenagers. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. You’ve all got twenty seconds to get your clothes and get out of here. And if I ever see any of you in here again, you’re going to jail.”
As Caroline continues to look for weapons, the teenagers scramble into their shirts and shoes, grab their bags of Doritos, and hurry out the door. Only the flannel girl is left. She pulls on a pair of pants and wipes her bloody lip with a white T-shirt. “Where do I go?”
“You his girlfriend?”
“Yeah.”
“How old?”
The girl considers lying. “I’m sixteen,” she says finally.
Caroline gives her two dollars. “Go to the coffee shop across the street and get yourself a cup of hot chocolate. I’ll be over in a minute.” The girl leaves and Caroline turns back to Pete, who makes no move to cover himself or his sore testicles.
“Bitch.”
I could shoot him, Caroline thinks, and she immediately thinks about
“No,” she says. “Something happen to Pete?”
“I don’t know yet.”
The girl thinks about it for a moment and relaxes. “I wouldn’t mind if somebody finally killed that fucker. He steals everything.”
“Will you show me his door? I won’t tell him that you did.”
The girl shrugs again. “If he ain’t dead, I wouldn’t want to be the one to wake him up. He got a fuckin’ temper, him.”
“Oh, I’ll be gentle,” Caroline says. She follows the girl back up the stairs, into the fourth-floor landing. The girl points at a door and nods solemnly. Caroline nods back and hands the girl her tea, then waits for her to make her way quietly down the stairs.
When she hears the girl’s door ease closed two floors below, Caroline smells around the door. It stinks, but she isn’t sure if it’s that stink. Caroline puts her ear to the door. Nothing. She knocks on the door to Pete Decker’s apartment. She rests one hand on the nine-millimeter in her shoulder harness, and with the other reaches for the doorknob. She is surprised when the knob turns and the door opens, and she finds herself staring at an even younger girl, about sixteen, wearing nothing but a flannel shirt.
“Hi,” the girl says cheerily.
“Don’t answer the fuckin’ door,” says someone, presumably Pete, who is also presumably alive, in a tangle of blankets on a mattress on the floor. Caroline steps in, past the girl. The apartment consists of this one room, about twelve feet by twelve feet, nothing inside but the mattress and a new thirty-two-inch color television across from it. The walls are chipped and covered with shit and there are bags of chips and cookies all over. There are six people along the walls of the room, boys and girls, teenagers, and they all have the blank eyes and cat-box smell of heavy meth users.
She recognizes Pete from his mug shot. Alone on the mattress, he sits up, pissed off and bare chested. “What the fuck time is it?” Pete stands and he is naked, as skinny as the teenagers in the room—a bantam rooster, hard and small. Quarter-size bruises cover his body. “Don’t answer the fuckin’ door unless I tell you to!” Pete yells again, and he shoves the sixteen-year-old girl, who looks like an empty flannel shirt as she flies across the room.
Caroline steps toward him, inside the range of his fists. She grabs him by the throat just as he swings at her. She deflects most of the punch, and catches the rest in the neck; she is taller than he expected, and not as easy to move. This is a guy used to hitting down at his women. Caroline gathers herself, tightens her grip on his neck and swings her knee up into his balls. He grunts and slumps, and she pushes him back down on the mattress. He rolls over onto his side, moaning.
“You must be Pete,” Caroline says, and shows her badge. She picks up Pete’s jeans, feels in them for a weapon, and comes away with a long pocketknife that she slides into her own pocket.
“Anybody in here eighteen?” she asks the owl-eyed teenagers. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. You’ve all got twenty seconds to get your clothes and get out of here. And if I ever see any of you in here again, you’re going to jail.”
As Caroline continues to look for weapons, the teenagers scramble into their shirts and shoes, grab their bags of Doritos, and hurry out the door. Only the flannel girl is left. She pulls on a pair of pants and wipes her bloody lip with a white T-shirt. “Where do I go?”
“You his girlfriend?”
“Yeah.”
“How old?”
The girl considers lying. “I’m sixteen,” she says finally.
Caroline gives her two dollars. “Go to the coffee shop across the street and get yourself a cup of hot chocolate. I’ll be over in a minute.” The girl leaves and Caroline turns back to Pete, who makes no move to cover himself or his sore testicles.
“Bitch.”
I could shoot him, Caroline thinks, and she immediately thinks about
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