McCone and Friends (5 page)

Boydston’s car was a white Lincoln continental—beautiful machine, except for the bull’s horns mounted on the front grille. I stared at then in horror.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” he said, opening the passenger’s door.

“I’ll follow you in my car,” I told him.

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

As I got into the Ramblin’Wreck—my ancient, exhaust-belching Rambler American—I looked back and saw Boydston staring at
it
in horror.

Boydston’s place was a storefront on Mission a few blocks down from my Safeway—an area that could do with some urban renewal and just might get it, if the upwardly mobile ethnic groups that’re moving in to the neighborhood get their way. It shared the building with a Thai restaurant and a Filipino travel agency. In its front window red neon tubing spelled out THE CASH COW, but on the bucking outline letters was a bull. I imagined Boydston trying to reach a decision: call it the Cash Cow and have a good name but a dumb graphic; call it the Cash Bull and have a dumb name and good graphic; or just say the hell with it and mix genders.

But what kind of establishment was this?

My client took the first available parking space, leaving me to fend for myself. When I finally found another and walked back two blocks he’d already gone inside.

Chivalry is dead. Sometimes I think common courtesy’s obit is about to be published too.

When I went into the store, the first thing I noticed was a huge potted barrel cactus, and the second was dozens of guitars hanging from the ceiling. A rack of worn cowboy boots completed the picture.

Texas again. The state that spawned the likes of Uncle Roy was going to keep getting in my face all day long.

The room was full of glass showcases that displayed an amazing assortment of stuff: rings, watches, guns, cameras, fishing reels, kitchen gadgets, small tools, knickknacks, silverware, even a metronome. There was a whole section of electronic equipment like TV’s and VCRs, a jumble of probably obsolete computer gear, a fleet of vacuum cleaners poised to roar to life and tidy the world, enough exercise equipment to trim down half the population, and a jukebox that just then was playing a country song by Shar’s brother-in-law Ricky Savage. Delicacy prevents me from describing what his voice does to my libido.

Darrin Boydston stood behind a high counter, tapping on a keyboard, on the wall behind him a sign warned CUSTOMERS MUST PRESENT TICKET TO CLAIM MERCHANDISE. I’m not too quick most mornings, but I did manage to figure out that the Cash Cow was a pawnshop.

“Y’all took long enough,” my client said. “You gonna charge me for the time you spent parking?”

I sighed. “Your billable hours start now.” Them I looked at my watch and made a mental note of the time.

He turned the computer off, motioned for me to come around the counter, and led me through a door into a warehouse area. Its shelves were crammed with more of the kind of stuff he had out front. Halfway down the center aisle he made a right turn and took me past small appliances: blenders, food processors, toasters, electric woks, pasta makers, even an ancient pressure cooker. It reminded me of the one the grandmother who raised me used to have, and I wrinkled my nose at it, thinking of those sweltering late-summer days when she’d make me help her with the yearly canning. No wonder I resist the womanly household arts!

Boydston said, “They buy these gizmos ‘cause they think they need ‘em. Then they find out they don’t need and can’t afford ‘em. And then it all ends up in my lap.” He sounded exceptionally cheerful about this particular brand of human folly, and I supposed he had good reason.

He led me at a fast clip toward the back of the warehouse—so fast that I had to trot to keep up with him. One of the other problems with being short is that you’re forever running along behind taller people. Since I’d already decided to hate Darrin Boydston, I also decided he was walking fast to spite me.

At the end of the next-to-last aisle we came upon a thin man in a white T-shirt and black work pants who was moving boxes from the shelves to a dolly. Although Boydston and I were making plenty of noise, he didn’t hear us come up. My client put his hand on the man’s shoulder, and he stiffened, when he turned I saw he was only a boy, no more than twelve or thirteen, with the fine features and thick black hair of a Eurasian. The look in his eyes reminded me of an abused kitten my boyfriend Willie had taken in: afraid and resigned to further terrible experiences. He glanced from me to Boydston, and when my client nodded reassuringly, the fear faded to remoteness.

Boydston said to me, “Meet Daniel.”

“Hello, Daniel.” I held out my hand he looked at it, then at Boydston. He nodded again, and Daniel touched my fingers, moving back quickly as if they were hot.

“Daniel,” Boydston said, “doesn’t speak or hear. Speech therapist I know met him, says he’s prob’ly been deaf and mute since he was born.”

The boy was watching his face intently. I said, “He reads lips or understands signing, though.”

“Does some lip reading, yeah. But no signing. For that you gotta have schooling. Far as I can tell. Daniel hasn’t. But him and me, we worked out a personal kind of language to get by.

Daniel tugged at Boydston’s sleeve and motioned at the shelves, eyebrows raised. Boydston nodded, then pointed to his watch, held up five fingers, and pointed to the front of the building. Daniel nodded and turned back to his work. Boydston said, “You see?”

“Uh-huh. You two communicate pretty well. How’d he come to work for you?”

My client began leading me back to the store—walking slower now. “The way it went, I found him all huddled up in the back doorway one morning ‘bout six weeks ago when I opened up. He was damn near froze but dressed in clean clothes and a new jacket. Was in good shape, ‘cept for some healed-over cuts on his face. And he had this laminated card—wait, I’ll show you.” He held the door for me, then rummaged through a drawer below the counter.

The card was a blue three-by-five—encased in clear plastic; on it somebody had typed I WILL WORK FOR FOOD AND A PLACE TO SLEEP. I DO NOT SPEAK OR HEAR, BUT I AM A GOOD WORKER. PLEASE HELP ME.

“So you gave him a job?”

Boydston sat down on a stool. “Yeah. He sleeps in a little room off the warehouse and cooks on a hotplate. Mostly stuff outta cans. Every week I give him cash; he brings back the change—won’t take any more than his food costs, and that’s not much.”

I turned the card over. Turned over my opinion of Darrin Boydston, too. “How d’you know his name’s Daniel?”

“I don’t. That’s just what I call him.”

“Why Daniel?”

He looked embarrassed and brushed at a speck of lint on the leg of his pants. “Had a best buddy in high school down in Amarillo. Daniel Atkins. Got killed in ‘Nam.” He paused. “Funny, me giving his name to a slope kid when they were the ones that killed him.” Another pause. “Of course, this Daniel wasn’t even born then, none of that business was his fault. And there’s something about him…I don’t know, he must reminds me of my buddy. Don’t suppose old Danny would mind none.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t.” Damn, it was getting harder and harder to hate Boydston! I decided to let go of it. “Okay,” I said, “my casefile calls for a background check. I take it you want me to find out who Daniel is.”

“Yeah. Right now he doesn’t exist—officially, I mean. He hasn’t got a birth certificate, can’t get a social security number. That means I can’t put him on the payroll, and he can’t get government help. No classes where he can learn the stuff I can’t teach him. No SSI payments or Medicare, either. My therapist friend says he’s one of the people that slip through the cracks in the system.”

The cracks are more like yawning holes, if you ask me. I said, “I’ve got to warn you, Mr. Boydston: Daniel may be in the country illegally.”

“You think I haven’t thought of that? Hell, I’m one of the people that voted for Prop One-eighty-seven. Keep those foreigners from coming here and taking jobs from decent citizens. Don’t give ‘em nothin’ and maybe they’ll go home and quit using up my tax dollar. That was before I met Daniel.” He scowled. “
Damn
, I hate moral dilemmas! I’ll tell you one thing, though: this is a good kid, he deserves a chance. If he’s here illegally…well, I’ll deal with it somehow.”

I liked his approach to his moral dilemma; I’d used it myself a time or ten. “Okay,” I said, “tell me everything you know about him.”

“Well, there’re the clothes he had on when I found him. They’re in this sack; take a look.” He hauled a grocery bag from under the counter and handed it to me.

I pulled the clothing out: rugby shirt in white, green, and navy; navy cords’ navy-and-tan down jacket. They were practically new, but the labels had been cut out.

“Lands’ End?” I said. “Eddie Bauer?”

“One of those, but who can tell which?”

I couldn’t, but I had a friend who could, “Can I take these?”

“Sure, but don’t let Daniel see you got them. He’s real attached to ‘em, cried when I took them away to be cleaned the first time.”

“Somebody cared about him, to dress him well and have this card made up. Laminating like that is a simple process, though; you can get it done in print shops.”

“Hell, you could get it done
here
. I got one of those laminating gizmos a week ago; belongs to a printer who’s having a hard time of it, checks his shop equipment in and out like this was a lending library.”

“What else can you tell me about Daniel? What’s he like?”

Boydston considered. “Well, he’s proud—the way he brings back the change from the money I give him tells me that. He’s smart; he picked up on the warehouse routine easy, and he already knew how to cook whoever his people are, they don’t have much; he knew what a hotplate was, but when I showed him a microwave it scared him. And he’s got a tic about labels—cuts ‘em out of the clothes I give him. There’s more, too.” He looked toward the door; Daniel was peeking hesitantly around its jamb. Boydston waved for him to come in and added, “I’ll let Daniel do the telling.”

The boy came into the room, eyes lowered shyly—or fearfully. Boydston looked at him till he looked back. Speaking very slowly and mouthing the words carefully, he asked, “Where are you from?”