The Bad Kitty Lounge by Michael Wiley Page A

shouldn’t get away with it.”
    I took another bite, chewed, and thought. If my head hurt when I chewed, it hurt worse when I thought. “You pick the fight with him?”
    The little shrug. “Kind of.”
    â€œCould you have stopped him without fighting?”
    The question surprised him. “I don’t know.”
    â€œYou should have thought about it,” I said.
    He looked distressed but only a little and only for a moment. Then he ducked his head under the table.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I asked him.
    His head reappeared. “Seeing if you had on sandals.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œI thought you might have turned into Gandhi.”
    I shook my fork at him. “I’ll Gandhi
you
.”
    He laughed.
    I laughed, too, then said, “This really isn’t funny. You’ll hurt someone or you’ll get hurt yourself. You’ll get kicked out of school.”
    He looked like he was considering that. “Okay,” he said.
    â€œYou’re too smart for that. No more fighting.”
    â€œNo more fighting,” he agreed.
    Lucinda leaned back and gazed at me wide-eyed. “How’s it different from you coming in with a bump on your head?”
    I glared at her. “It’s different.” As if saying it could make it true.
    Jason leaned back, too. “How?”
    â€œYou’re eleven. I’m forty-three.”
    Jason looked bewildered. I couldn’t blame him.
    â€œIt’s no different,” Lucinda said.
    Jason nodded.
    I asked, “What do we have for dessert?”
    Lucinda smiled. “You’re not going to eat the rest of your dinner?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “What do we have for dessert?”
    â€œIt’s your house. You tell us.”
    I brought in a container of orange sherbet and three bowls, and I let them laugh at me while I finished my red curry with the sherbet. When Jason got up to clear his dishes, I saw a singe mark on the back pocket of his jeans.
    Lucinda motioned at the wound on my head. “Let me guess,” she said. “William DuBuclet?”
    I blinked once at her. “How’d you know?”
    â€œI spent the afternoon reading about him. He has a messy background. In the sixties, he led a radical leftist group. When the Black Panthers were still serving hot lunches to hungry kids and setting up inner-city community centers, DuBuclet’s group pushed for immediate change, no matter the cost. That included armed violence.
    â€œOne of DuBuclet’s sons died in a police raid, a kid named Anthony. He was a young guy, but he’d already taken a leading role in his dad’s organization and in a more violent splinter group. The official story is that Anthony’s death was too much for DuBuclet and he got religion. He went back to school and got a job teaching at Chicago State, and by that time he was all about peaceful action. That’s the man you’re going to see on the statues if they ever make them.
    â€œBut last December, the
Sun-Times
ran an article that said the old William DuBuclet was rumbling again. He’d made a couple of wild speeches and thrown around some violent language. Mostly the article took the angle that he’s a soft-headedold man who isn’t a danger to anyone but himself. But it also said his group is suspected in vandalism against businesses on the South Side and a couple attacks on the owners.”
    â€œDuBuclet isn’t soft-headed.”
    She gestured toward the gash on my skull. “So what was this about?”
    â€œThey paid me five thousand dollars to lay off the Judy Terrano investigation, but they found out I was still involved.” I ran my fingers over my matted hair. “This was their second request for me to get out.”
    â€œAnd you told them . . . ?”
    I smiled. “I said, ‘Okay.’ ”
    She smiled, too, and gave that some thought. “You know that’s also what Jason