High Heat (8 page)

"I'm not lying."

"Yeah, you are. But don't sweat it. It's like with girls. Everybody has a first time, and then they can't wait for a second and third."

Lonnie finished his beer and started on his second. Only my second stood untouched. "If you're not going to drink that Mickey, I'll take it," Justin said.

The M&M's and beer were getting scrambled in my stomach, and I felt as if I'd swallowed some cigarette smoke too. But I wasn't going to drink any less than they did. "I want it," I said.

I didn't exactly get drunk, but I did lose track of time. It was eleven-forty-five before I looked at my watch. Occasionally Mom got home just after midnight. "I've got to go," I said.

"See you tomorrow," Lonnie mumbled.

***

I made it back to the apartment at 12:05.1 checked on Marian ... sound asleep. I thought I'd have to pretend to be asleep when Mom came in, but as soon as I lay down, I was out. If my alarm hadn't gone off, I'd have slept until noon.

After that, I started sneaking out nearly every night. Whenever the Vietnamese woman worked the market, which was most of the time, we stole beer. We shared the risk by taking turns, but the whole thing was like stealing candy from a baby.

One day when we were drinking, I told them about my dad killing himself. I don't know why, it just came out. "Wow," Lonnie said, "that's really tough. Do you know why he did it?"

"He was involved with some drug dealers from Mexico. He did the money-laundering part. You know." They nodded as if they did. "He was headed to prison."

Justin's eyes widened. "Your dad was a big-time drug dealer?"

I felt strangely proud of him. "We used to have packages of cash coming to our front door, the size of shoeboxes, two or three times a month. We lived in a big house in Sound Ridge, and we had two Lexuses and all sorts of computers and a huge entertainment center. Anything I wanted my dad got for me."

"You're full of it," Justin said.

"It's true," I insisted. "You could look it up in the newspaper. It all happened just six months ago. Last year I went to Shorelake."

"Really?"

"Really."

For a while no one said anything. Lonnie finished one Mickey, then opened another. "My dad might as well be dead; I never see him."

Justin grinned. "Maybe that's because he's not really your dad. Maybe your mom was fooling around on the side, and he knows it. Your mom's kind of hot looking still, with those tight sweaters she always wears. She must have been something when she was younger."

"Shut up."

It was the night before Halloween. Mom was working, Marian was asleep, and I was sprawled out in the alley drinking my third bottle of Mickey Stout with Lonnie and Justin. Justin had started telling a joke about this good-looking girl and a mirror. "Mirror, mirror, on the wall," he was saying, but before he could finish, two cop cars pulled into the alley, one from each direction, their spotlights on us.

In a flash Justin was gone, bounding over the cyclone fence and racing through somebody's backyard. But Lonnie and I didn't move quickly enough, and before I knew what was happening, the big hands of a policeman had pulled me to my feet and spun me around so that my face was against the fence. The cop patted me down, and then I felt handcuffs go on.

"Wait," I said, "you don't understand."

"Get in the back seat, kid," the cop said. "I understand perfectly. And you will too, real soon."

I thought the cop would call my mom at work and then take me home. Instead, he got on the freeway and drove toward downtown Seattle. Lonnie looked out the window as if we were just going for a pleasant drive; I felt sick to my stomach.

"Where are you taking us?" I asked.

"Youth Detention Center," the cop answered.

"Can't you just take me home?" I said. "I won't ever do it again. I promise."

He didn't answer.

The Youth Detention Center turned out to be a newer building in the Central District. Once we went through the big double doors, Lonnie was taken into one room and I was led to another. A woman—I don't know if she was a cop or not—asked me a bunch of questions. Name, address, phone number. That sort of thing. Next, a younger guy with blue eyes and an earring called me into his office. "Tell me about it," he said.

"That was the first time I've ever done anything like that. I swear it was."

He smiled. "There's a surveillance camera in that minimart, kid. The owner's been on to you for a while now. So try again."

"All right. I've done it before. But I won't ever do it again. I promise."

He nodded. "Well, that's a start. Now how about telling me about the young man who jumped the fence."

"I don't know anything about him," I muttered.

"You know his name, don't you?" His voice was sharper.

"It began with a
D
or a
B,
I think. Ask Lonnie. He knew him a lot better."

His face went rigid. "There are two ways this can come out, Shane. I can ignore all the evidence on those videotapes and pretend this is your first offense. If I do that, the judge will probably put you on probation and have you do community service. The second way is much worse. Because I could go through all those videotapes, count the times you stole beer, tell the judge that you won't cooperate, and recommend that you do a month or two in here, locked up. There are some pretty tough kids here, and you don't look that tough. So I'll ask you again. What was the other boy's name?"

My throat was so dry I could hardly speak. "Justin."

"Justin what?"

"I don't know. And that's the truth."

"I suppose you don't know where he lives either."

"I don't. I told you—he was Lonnie's friend."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

He folded his hands on his desk and stared at me. "All right. But if it turns out that you're lying to me, you will regret it."

"I'm not lying. I swear to you. I'm not. I only just met him a few weeks ago."

He went to the door, opened it, and a second later my mother came in. Her eyes were moist, but she wasn't crying. Marian was hanging on to her coat, half asleep.

"You can take him now," he said. "I'll be in touch about the court date."

"Thank you," my mother said. "Thank you very much."

In the car she didn't say a word, maybe because Marian was in the back seat, sleeping. She just drove. Once we got home, she half carried, half guided Marian to her room. "You can't do this to me, Shane," she said when she came downstairs. "You just can't."

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry isn't good enough. I have to be able to trust you. You left Marian alone. Not just once, but over and over. What if there was a fire, or a break-in? We don't know anything about our neighbors. What if one of them is a sex offender?"

"Oh, Mom, don't get carried away."

She slammed her fist on the table. "I'm not getting carried away. We're not in Sound Ridge anymore. Understand? Do you want to go down to the police station tomorrow and read about all the sex offenders who live in this neighborhood? Do you? Because I did, and it's not pretty reading." The room went silent. After a long time, Mom looked up at me. "And what about you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what are your plans for yourself?"

I shrugged. "I don't know."

"Are you going to be a criminal?"

"No," I said angrily. "I'm not going to be a criminal."

"Well, that's good news. So what are your grades like so far at school?"

"They're okay."

"Really. So you can go out and get drunk every night and still get okay grades in school."

"I didn't get drunk every night, Mom."

"That's not what the police say."

"Well, the police are wrong."

"So what are your grades? A's?"

"No, they're not A's."

"Are they B's?"

"No."

"C's? D's? F's?"

"I don't know what they are."

"I can guess."

I stood. "All right. You've made your point. I'll stay here with Marian. I promise. Okay? And I'll hit the books more. What more do you want from me?"

Her eyes flashed. "Don't use that tone with me, young man. And to answer your question: I don't want anything
from
you. It's what I want
for
you. And that's everything. Do you understand? I want everything for you, just like I want everything for Marian. And I will not stand by and let you throw your life away. Not without a fight. Now go to your room."

I had to return to the Youth Detention Center a week later. Standing in the front of the room in a sports coat I'd outgrown, I waited while a gray-haired judge paged through a stack of papers. He had glasses on the end of his nose, and every so often he'd look at me over their top. Finally he closed my tile, took off his glasses, and leaned forward. "I guess you've had a tough go of it recently," he said.

"I guess so," I answered, my voice quiet in that silent room.

"Life can sometimes deal out some bad hands."

I nodded.

His eyes narrowed. "But other people have tough times too. Your mother, for example. I don't suppose you'd say that these last months have been easy for her, would you?"

"No, I wouldn't."

"I wouldn't either," he said. "I wouldn't either." I expected him to go into a long lecture, but all he did was lean back in his big chair and stare at me. Finally he spoke. "Shane, I'm putting you on probation for a year. That means a probation officer will be watching you closely. He'll make house calls, check with your teachers and principal, that sort of thing. You'll also have to make restitution to the minimart, of course." He looked to my mom. "Does your son have his own savings account?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Mom answered. "He has a couple of hundred dollars of his own."

The judge looked back to me. "You now have a hundred dollars less."

I nodded, then turned to leave.

"I'm not done with you quite yet, young man." The judge's voice wasn't loud, but somehow it filled the room. I turned back. "I'll tell you when I'm finished."

I stood motionless as he read through a paper, the glasses back on the end of his nose. "I see you're a baseball player."

"I used to be," I said.

"Good enough. Besides the probation and the restitution to the minimart, you'll perform twenty hours of community service. There's a Boys' and Girls' Club down in Ballard, which isn't too far from Whitman High. Mr. Cornelius Grandison runs the program there, and he needs somebody to get the baseball diamond in shape for the upcoming season. That
somebody will be you. Every day you will report to him after school until your twenty hours are complete. I, on the other hand, will never see you again. Is that correct?"

For a moment I didn't understand. Then I got it. "Yes, sir," I said.

"Good." He took off his glasses. "Now you can leave."

After school the next Monday, I caught a city bus to the Boys' and Girls' Club to start my community service. A girl about my age was at the front counter. She was nice looking, with brown eyes and long brown hair. Before everything had happened, I'd have been interested, but I just didn't care enough anymore. "I'm supposed to meet Cornelius Grandison," I muttered.

She looked down at a clipboard. "Are you Shane?"

"Yeah," I said, embarrassed that she knew why I was there.

"Mr. Grandison is working on the baseball diamond." She motioned toward a door leading out.

"What's he look like?" I asked.

She smiled. "Don't worry. You won't miss him."

I pushed the door open and stepped outside, wondering what she meant. I looked around the baseball diamond, then did a double take. Standing on the pitcher's mound was a huge black man. He had to be at least six feet five and close to three hundred pounds.

He spotted me. "You the kid from Shorelake?" he called out.

"I don't go there anymore," I said, annoyed that he knew things about me when I didn't know anything about him.

"What's your name again?"

"Shane."

"Well, get over here, Shane."

I walked toward him. Not fast, but if a guy is six five, you don't crawl. When I reached him, he held out his hand. I thought he'd squeeze my hand hard, showing me how tough he was, but it was a normal handshake.

"How many hours you going to work each day, Shane?"

"Two," I said.

He nodded. "You owe twenty hours of time, so I've got you Monday to Friday for two weeks. Right?"

"Looks that way."

He stared at me. "It
is
that way." He paused. "I read your file. You're a ballplayer."

"Used to be."

"What do you mean
used to be
? Aren't you playing anymore?"

"I don't have a team."

"What about your new school? You go to Whitman, don't you?"

I nodded. "Yeah, but there's no way I'm playing for them."

"Why not? You too good for them or something?"

"Look, I have to work for you, and I know it. But I don't have to answer a bunch of questions."

He snorted. "A tough guy. I should have known—stealing beer from a little Asian lady. That's real tough. I'm just surprised that a tough guy like you would be a quitter."

The word
quitter
made my spine stiffen. My dad had always said that that was the worst thing anyone could call you. But I knew Grandison's game. He was baiting me. Then, once I got talking, he'd prove to me how stupid I was and tell me everything I should do with my life. Instead of answering, I looked off to the side. For a while neither of us said anything.

Finally he picked up a shovel and thrust it into my hand. "See that pile of dirt by third base? This infield has about a thousand holes in it. You use that dirt to fill them. Then tamp it down, and fill it again. When you've done that, come inside and get me. Okay?"

It was November, not exactly the warmest month of the year. As I worked, a light rain started to fall, and the wind picked up. I'd fill a wheelbarrow with dirt, then work my way around the infield filling in holes. The biggest hole was right at home plate, but there were smaller ones everywhere.