Furious (17 page)

T
HIRTY
-O
NE

Beast, his dad, and Rage all lived together in a tiny dilapidated house in old Roseville close to the train tracks. Rage parked the car, and Faith followed her across the street. They climbed three rickety wooden stairs and then hopped over a gaping hole in the middle of a weathered porch.

The door wasn’t locked. Rage headed inside, said hello to a giant of a man standing in the kitchen, explained what they were doing, and then disappeared in a back room.

Faith shut the door.

“Come on in,” the man said, waving a dented metal spatula at her. “You must be Furious.”

Being called Furious by someone other than Beast, Rage, or one of the people in anger management took her by surprise, but she recovered quickly and said succinctly, “Yes, I am.”

The man standing before her could be none other than Beast’s dad. He was almost as large and just as intimidating, that is, if he wasn’t so quick to smile. She shook his hand, felt the power of his grip. “Little Vinnie,” he said, “father of the beast.” He laughed, a deep baritone sound.

She smiled back at him.

“I’m cooking up some Hamburger Helper. I’ll fix you a plate, too.”

“No, thank you,” she said. “I just ate.” Little Vinnie was anything but little. If he jumped, the top of his head would go right through the popcorn ceiling. Like his son, he had a roundish head, a neck the size of a tree trunk, thick with tendons, and shoulders as wide as a large refrigerator.

Little Vinnie’s demeanor suddenly changed, and he kept his eyes on dinner and said, “I’m sorry about what happened to you. Life is strange like that. It gives us more than we ever thought possible, and in the blink of an eye it reaches out and takes it away.” He looked at her, his eyes moist. “I’ve never understood it, and I’ve given up trying.”

Beast came through a back door, said hello, then headed straight for the living room couch. He opened the laptop sitting on the table and typed in his password. As he waited for the machine to fire up, he said, “You got a picture of the guy who was following you?”

Faith pulled up the pictures on her phone and handed it to him along with the partial license plate number. “6MBS2,” Faith said. “We didn’t catch the last two digits on the plate and the pictures of the men in the car are blurry.”

“It was a green Chevy Impala,” Rage said to Beast as she joined Little Vinnie in the kitchen. Little Vinnie said something to Rage that made her laugh.

Faith looked around at the bookshelves filled with mementos and pictures. Someone had picked a bushel of wild flowers and stuck them in a jar of water sitting on a side table beneath an old lamp. The room was filled with love.

“I meant to ask you earlier,” Rage said. “How’s the gun practice going?”

“Not too bad. Dad and I practice most mornings and I’m getting better, but I still have a lot to learn about firearms. Hitting a target isn’t as easy as it looks.” The truth was, she liked everything about holding a gun in her hands. Mostly, she liked feeling strong and in control. She never wanted to feel as vulnerable as she had during the home invasion.

“You should go to the shooting range with us. Don’t you think, Beast?” Rage looked over at Beast. He grunted. Rage smiled and added, “We go most weekends.”

“I’d like that,” Faith said.

“OK,” Little Vinnie said as he passed out bowls of beef and noodles. “Dinner is served.” It looked like Faith would be eating after all.

By the time Rage drove Faith home, Beast had yet to learn who the Chevy Impala belonged to, but he had it narrowed down and seemed certain he would have a name in the next few days.

The next night, anger management class ended early. While Beast talked to the instructor, Faith waited by the door.

“Where’s Rage?” she asked Beast when he approached.

“She’s not feeling well.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” She pursed her lips. “I guess I’ll have to go it alone then.”

“Go what alone?”

“We were going to hang out with the ladies on Watt Avenue, see if we can learn anything, find out if there’s anyone in the ‘business’ who might know something . . . a name . . . anything.”

“You’re not going to let up, are you?”

She looked long and hard at Beast. “No, not even for a minute.”

“Come on, then. I’ll take you.”

“You don’t need to do this, Beast. You’ve done enough.”

“I agreed to help you. Let’s do this.”

“OK,” she said, thankful to have him on her side.

As they walked toward the car, he said, “You’ll never find your kids if you get yourself killed.” He tapped a finger against the side of his head. “Be smart.”

“OK. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Are you carrying?”

“What do you mean—a gun?”

“Yeah, a gun.” He gave her a sideways glance. “This isn’t a game. You need to be able to protect yourself.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

“I’ll give you one of mine to carry.”

She nodded.

“I’ll be watching you closely,” he told her, “but don’t push these people too far. Most of the girls on the street have problems of their own and aren’t going to give a rat’s ass about your problems. When you’re finished asking questions, I’ll drive you back here to your car.”

“I appreciate it. Um, Rage wouldn’t let me pay her, but maybe you’ll let me help,” she said as they reached his truck.

Once they climbed in and buckled up, he said, “Listen. I don’t mean to offend you, but we don’t want your money.”

“Why not? Why are you helping me then?”

“I’m doing it for Rage.” He shook his head. “That didn’t come out right. I also want to help you find your kids. It’s the right thing to do.” He rubbed his sausagelike fingers over his jaw. “She doesn’t like to talk about it, but I think you should know that when I say she’s not feeling well, that’s an understatement.”

Faith recalled the deep-set eyes framed by dark circles. Rage always wore hats and bandannas, but it was her badass attitude that had thrown Faith off track. She’d been too preoccupied with her own problems to realize something was seriously wrong. Her heart dropped to her stomach. “How sick is she?”

“Brain tumor.”

“Benign?”

He shook his head.

“What stage?”

“Stage four astrocytoma. Inoperable.”

Her gut twisted. “I should have known something was wrong.”

“You’ve had a lot on your mind. Besides, she prefers people not to notice. She doesn’t like to talk about it.”

“Oh, no. How long does she have?”

“Six months . . . a year at the most.”

Faith turned away, unable to fully process the idea that Rage could truly be dying.

How could that be? It didn’t make sense.

Life was unfair. She got that. But Rage never had a chance to be embraced by a loving family. She was much too young. “That’s not enough time,” she said, her eyes welling with tears.

“It’s not, but it is what it is. Rage doesn’t want anyone crying over her. She prefers people get past thinking about her dying because other than that, nothing has changed.”

“But why would she want to help me?”

“She gave her baby up for adoption. Christopher would be two now. Since she won’t ever see her son again, it’s important to her that she helps you find yours.”

He started the engine. They were quiet for the rest of the ride.

Faith climbed into the backseat of Beast’s truck and slipped on a denim skirt that she’d cut at least an inch too short. Blue eye shadow, her sister’s stilettos, and red lipstick completed the look.

They had been driving around for more than an hour. So far not one person would talk to her, let alone give her a name or tell her if they recognized either man when she showed them a copy of the picture she’d painted.

Once they arrived at their final destination for the night, she slid out of the truck, then waited at the crosswalk for the light to change colors.

Walking the streets was much more terrifying than she’d imagined. Her heart beat triple time as she headed across the street, trying to look braver than she felt. It was cold out and the pavement was slick from a light rain. A couple of hoots and hollers from passing cars didn’t do much to calm her nerves. She glanced over her shoulder, relieved to see Beast standing in the shadows.

“This is my street corner,” a woman told Faith the moment she stepped onto the curb. Black boots rode up high around her thigh. She was tall and thin with silver eye shadow that glittered under the moonlight. “You need to go find your own corner.”

“What about those girls over there?” Faith used her chin to gesture at the group huddled close to the graffiti-covered wall.

“They know to stay out of my way.”

Faith rubbed her arms and tried to keep her teeth from chattering. “Do you work for yourself?” Faith asked, undeterred.

The woman snorted. “Not a good idea. Not unless you’re suicidal.”

Faith slipped a hundred-dollar bill in her hand. “Just answer a few questions, and I’ll leave you alone.”

About to stuff the money into her bra, the woman paused. “Are you with the police?”

“No.”

She didn’t look convinced, but that didn’t stop her from taking the money.

“What’s your name?” Faith asked.

“You can call me Tina.”

“How old are you?”

“Old enough.”

Faith pulled a folded flyer from the tiny purse strapped around her shoulder and showed it to the woman.

“Those your kids?”

Faith nodded. “Can you help me?”

Tina looked around nervously. “You shouldn’t be out here. Those kids are young. If you’re saying that someone around these parts might have them, it’s not gonna be one of the two-bit pimps hangin’ around here.”

“What do you mean?”

“They keep a close eye on the young ones—that’s all I’m sayin’.”

“Who are
they
?”

Tina’s gaze shifted from left to right. “The boss—the big boss—one of the mucky-mucks tucked away in some fancy estate with ten bathrooms.” She flicked a finger toward the flyer Faith had put away. “They probably live right around the corner from you.”

“What about these men?” Faith asked as she pulled out another sheet of paper. “Ever seen either of these guys before?”

It happened fast, but Faith saw it—the flash of recognition before she blinked.

“They look familiar,” Tina said, “but do you know how many men I see a week?” Her laugh was a cross between a bark and a snort. “Too many to count.”

A car pulled up to the curb.

As Tina strutted that way, the windows came down and a bunch of teenage boys crowded in the backseat threw insults along with trash and empty beer cans at her. Tina cursed at them as they drove off, tires screeching. The other girls joined in, whooping and hollering and thumping their fists in the air.

Faith was shocked by what happened. “You’re bleeding.”

Tina pulled a Kleenex from her waistband and wiped the blood above her eye. “Stupid kids.”

“Who were those boys?”

“Them? That was nothing. Happens all the time. They either throw eggs and cans or shoot at us with their BB guns. But that’s life. Either come here and make some money, or go home and get whopped.”

“Where’s your pimp right now?”

Tina peered out into the night. A car honked as it drove by. She held up her middle finger. “I’m sure he’s around here somewhere. Never around when I need him, though.”

“Do you get to keep most of the money?”

“You don’t know much about this business, do you?” Tina didn’t wait for an answer before she added, “He takes it all and then buys me a ten-dollar outfit and pays for me to keep my nails done up nice, but that’s about it.” There was a short pause before she said, “Most pimps make a lot of promises, but they’re really just selling dreams to girls like me. ‘Gonna get you a nice house and a nice car,’ but in the end, they just want your money. All the rest . . . it’s just a big ol’ lie.”

Another car pulled up—a sleek black Mercedes. The window rolled slowly down, revealing a white man with a fine straight nose and a strong jaw. “Which one of you ladies is going to take care of me tonight?”

Tina looked at Faith as if to say goodbye.

“Please,” Faith said, desperation in her voice as she shoved another forty dollars in the palm of her hand. “You recognized those men in the picture. I saw it in your eyes. I need a name.”