Make them Cry by Keven O’Brien Page A

there. In less than a minute, she scurried back down the stairs, carrying a black leather jacket and her purse.
    “Jesus, I thought we were through,” Jonie grumbled. She closed the door this time and locked it. “Listen, I’ve already told you everything I know.”
    Jack followed her to her car, parked on the street in front of the duplex. “Jonie, you know what really happened to Johnny, don’t you? Did somebody kill him?”
    Jonie fumbled with her keys, then unlocked the car door. “I gotta go,” she muttered. She ducked into her car, then started up the engine.
    Jack stepped aside as she pulled away from the curb. Its tires screeching, the car picked up speed.
    Frowning, he watched the blue Volkswagen bug peel down the road.
     
    Peter sat at one of the white plastic café tables by the side entrance to the Stop ’n’ Fuel-Up Mart. It was a combination gas station, convenience store, and snack bar on the edge of town. The hot food they served was limited to items from the microwave or burgers and hot dogs that had been under heater-lights for about six hours. Peter bought a Super-Sip twenty-four-ounce Coke, which tasted a little funny, like they’d used too much soap to clean the machine, but he sipped it anyway.
    Though the sun had come out, Peter still felt cold, so he kept his jacket on. He watched cars pull up to the self-serve pumps, but none of the customers looked like anyone from the college. Nobody recognized him, and nobody was following him.
    “Hey, partner.”
    Peter turned and smiled at him. He never seemed to see Anton coming. This time, Anton had appeared from around the back of the squat building. He wore a thin sweatshirt and track shorts. A V-shaped stain of perspiration seeped through the front of his pullover, and he was a little out of breath. He flopped down in the other plastic chair. “I jogged over,” he announced. “How are you doin’? That bump on your forehead doesn’t look so bad. Can I have a gulp?”
    Peter started to nod when Anton grabbed the twenty-four-ounce container and drew from the straw. “Tastes soapy,” Anton commented. “So, hey, did you tell anybody about meeting me here today?”
    Peter shook his head. “You told me not to.”
    “Cool,” he said, glancing around. “Did anything happen since yesterday? Anything I should know about?”
    Peter shrugged. “Nothing. Zip.”
    “Well, I’ve been busier than a mosquito in a nudist colony,” Anton said. “I checked five rooms in my wing last night and two more this morning. No sign of that lumber jacket. Maybe it’s stashed someplace else. As for the car, a junior over in St. Matthew Hall owns a silver-gray VW bug. His name’s Larry Blades, and I’ve seen him hanging around with some of the guys from my floor. He’s one of the few guys who has a car—”
    “No,” Peter cut in, shaking his head. “The car I saw was light blue.”
    “You sure? Light blue and gray are pretty close—”
    “No. This was light blue. I’m positive.”
    Anton sighed, then took another swig of Coke. “Well, I’ll keep looking,” he said. “Maybe one of the locals has a light blue Volkswagen.” He pulled up his sweatshirt to reveal a money belt. He unzipped the side pouch and fished out a fistful of quarters. “Ready to make a few long-distance calls?” he asked, spilling the coins across the tabletop. He reached back into his pouch and drew out a piece of paper with a phone number written on it. “Do you remember what you’re supposed to tell him?”
    Grimacing, Peter nodded. “I’m a little nervous.”
    “Then c’mon,” Anton replied, getting to his feet. “Let’s get it over with. Sooner the better. Grab that change, will ya?”
    Anton picked up the Super-Sip, and they walked around the corner to the pay phone. The call had to be made from a pay phone so it couldn’t be traced to them. “You know, I’d make the call myself,” Anton said. “But he might recognize my voice. Just hang up if he’s not