Page 49 of A Week Away
“Says you. My mom was married with a baby when she was seventeen. There’s nothing wrong with growing up.”
“You know your mom is quite the character.”
“I love my mom. And she loves me.”
“Yeah, you’re a match made in heaven.”
We rode along quietly for a minute or two.
“Did your mother say anything of value after I left?”
He looked out his window, watching the lovely suburban neighborhood go by. Then he shrugged, “She yelled at me for using one of her credit cards.”
“Did she figure out you gave one to me?”
“No. It’s safe to use it.”
“I’m not— You do know that stealing is wrong, don’t you?”
“Stealing from credit card companies isn’t wrong. I mean, they’re trying to steal from us. It’s just fighting back.”
I decided to leave that one alone. A moment later he asked, “So, like, what are you going to do today?”
“You said you have an aunt who works at a bakery. I thought I’d go talk to her.”
“You should talk to Luca. He’s probably the one who told my mom that someone accidentally killed my dad.”
“It sounds like he’s dangerous whether he did it or not,” I pointed out.
“You told me you killed three men. I think you’ll be all right.”
I should never brag. There was a time when I wouldn’t have hesitated to go talk to someone connected to organized crime. I’d done it quite a lot in Chicago. I’d known it was dangerous when I did it and I hadn’t cared. Now I had a lot more to lose, and not just my own life. The lives of those around me.
For instance, this kid. I could get him killed if I wasn’t careful. He was stubborn, difficult and obnoxious. Which didn’t mean I wanted to see him dead.
“You want me to kill him for you? Is that what you’re angling for?”
“No. I want to kill him.”
I wondered if he’d be able to. Under the right circumstances anyone can be a killer. Or at least that’s what they say. So I guess the question was, were these the right circumstances for Cass?
The high school was a two-story, blond brick building sitting in the middle of a massive parking lot. There was a line of cars waiting to drop kids off.
“What is this?” I asked. “Doesn’t anyone take a bus anymore?”
“Poor kids take the bus.”
I decided not to break it to him that if his mother tried to live on what she earned he’d be one of the poor kids.
Before he got out of the car, he said, “School’s out at three. Pick me up.”
I drove around for quite some time trying to find a cup of coffee. I was navigating via 10 Mile Road which seemed to be the big conduit in this area. I drove by a lot of green, empty fields and backyards until I finally found an intersection with a Walgreens and a bank branch on two of the four corners. One of the other corners had a gas station with a minimart attached. I walked in and found that I was lucky. Sort of.
I poured a large cup of coffee, picked out a tin of twelve Tylenol, and was about to risk a mass-produced cinnamon roll when I remember something. I put the roll down and went up to the counter with my coffee. As the clerk was checking me out, I asked, “I’m looking for an Italian bakery on McNichols.”
“Four eighty-three,” he said.
I gave him a five. He handed me seventeen cents, then said, “Keep on 10 Mile until you get to Telegraph then go south to McNichols, just after the cemetery.”
