The Killing Game by J. A. Kerley Page B

it? But not now. Today had started busy and he still had much to do.
    Reluctantly, he set the bag back atop the bureau.

19
    Harry and I hit the streets and banged on our snitches as if they were bells, hearing nothing in tune with the case. At seven p.m. we heard Tommy Brink was drifting in and out of consciousness, his condition precarious. We found a small face with closed eyes. Chrome stands hovered by the bed like alien sentinels, on their arms the bags of pharmaceuticals filling Tommy’s body. Arletta Brink sprawled in the bedside chair, Tommy’s mother, late twenties, silver shorts as tight as paint, her green halter top displaying cleavage and tattoos. Her pink high heels were as bright as they were cheap. We entered with badges displayed, me in the lead.
    “What you po-lice want?” she snapped.
    “We need to talk to Tommy when he comes around.”
    “He don’t wanna talk. Leave me be.”
    “Can we speak out in the hall, Miz Brink?”
    An elaborate eye-roll. “What’s wrong with here?”
    “I don’t want to disturb your son.”
    She sighed and followed us into the hall, leaning against the wall with arms crossed and one toe tapping her anger. Arletta Brink was maybe twelve years old emotionally, a fact highlighted by her rap sheet: shoplifting, public intoxication, assault, drunk and disorderly, resisting arrest.
    “Where were you when this happened, ma’am?” I asked. “The attack.”
    The eyes went evasive. “I was visitin’ a friend down the street. Jus’ a few minutes. You can’t say I did nothin’ wrong.”
    “I wasn’t making any inference, ma’am, I’m trying to establish the events.”
    “Events is what I say they is.”
    “Do you have any idea who would want to hurt Tommy?”
    “How the hell I gonna know that?”
    “Has Tommy received any threats?” I said, keeping my voice even. “Gotten into any trouble at school?”
    “Trouble?” she cawed. “That boy spend his life in a wheelchair. I gotta stick the food in his mouth some of the time. And clean it away when it come out. How he gonna get in trouble?”
    I’d been watching Brink’s eyes, saw the pupil dilation. “Are you under the influence of anything, Miz Brink?”
    She wobbled on the heels and jabbed a scarlet fingernail my way. “Who the fuck are you to talk to me like that? How about you kiss my—”
    A shrill, piercing sound cut Brink short. I winced and turned to Harry, pinkies in the sides of his mouth. Harry could whistle the dead from their graves. Nurses were leaning out of rooms and looking our way. Harry walked to Brink, stopping one step away with his hands in his pockets.
    “You spent good money on that buzz, Miz Brink, right?” he asked, his voice as pleasant as springtime birdsong.
    “Hunh?”
    “Some wine. Something for the pipe. I figure you got twenty, maybe thirty bucks invested in that buzz.”
    The chin jutted. “I doan know what you talkin’ about.”
    “You spent good money on that high, Miz Brink. Be a shame to haul that buzz to a loud, smelly jail. Especially when you could make nice and let that sweet buzz bloom in this quiet hospital.”
    Harry was brilliant as usual, threatening not the woman, but the quality of her high. He looked past Brink and into the room. “Tommy’s awake again, Missus Brink,” he said. “May Detective Ryder and I please speak with him?”
    A pause. “G’wan inside,” Brink said.
    “You coming in, ma’am?” Harry asked. “To see how your son’s doing?”
    “Hunh-unh,” she said, digging in her purse for a crumpled pack of Kools. “I need a smoke.”
    We stepped into the room and I studied the monitors. I’d been in a lot of hospitals and knew when things seemed stable. The kid’s eyes followed us.
    “Where’s Mama?” asked a paper-thin voice.
    “She had to take care of something, Tommy,” I said. “She said to tell you she’d be right back.”
    Tommy seemed dubious. I introduced us and pulled a chair close. “Do you remember anything