No Such Thing as a Free Ride (5 page)

I decided to cruise around the 7-Eleven where I’d last seen the girl from Uncle Frankie’s gym. The gym, 7-Eleven and a homeless youth center were all located within a two mile radius of each other. I figured these kids probably wouldn’t have their own transportation, so unless they hopped a bus they’d likely stick within walking distance of their haunts.

After about an hour, I lucked out and found Leather Boy standing on a corner smoking a cigarette next to a dingy, brown, brick building. The sign on the door said, “Tarentino’s Bar & Grill.” By the looks of things it’d been quite some time since Tarentino had done any entertaining. To the right of the door was a large plate glass window boarded over by mismatched pieces of decaying plywood, sadly, a common sight in this part of town.

I pulled over to the curb and rolled down the window and yelled across the narrow street to him. “Excuse me.”

The kid looked up, bored. If he recognized me from the other day he didn’t show it.

“Yeah?”

“I’m looking for someone.”

His interest piqued, he approached the car, a slow, boozy smile playing about his lips. “Will I do?”

There was a provocativeness to his question that was well beyond his years—or mine for that matter.

“Um, I don’t think we’re on the same page here. See, I’m trying to locate this girl. She—” My phone rang, interrupting me. “Oh, uh, could you hang on for just a second?”

I looked down to grab my phone out of my bag, and when I looked back up he was nowhere in sight. Note to self: Street kids have short attention spans. Next time, talk faster.

Okay, that didn’t go as well as I’d hoped, but if the boy in the leather pants was hanging around here, maybe the blond girl was close by. I traveled east a few more blocks, slowing down to watch a family of rats scurry into a hole in the wall on the side of a condemned building.

The street I’d turned onto was narrow, dirty and smelled like a urinal. I started to roll up the window and blast the air conditioning when I saw her. She was with a guy who looked to be in his late forties. He was white, clean shaven, dressed in nice Khakis and a polo shirt. He could’ve been a dentist, an accountant, or any number of respectable, white collar professions. Sunglasses shielded his eyes from the afternoon sun.

The girl looked so tiny standing next to him. He angled in close as he spoke, trying to crowd her but she stood her ground, chin stuck out with youthful defiance. From her stance, her body turned slightly, feet poised for action, I could tell she was debating whether to run but trying not to show it.

The guy moved closer still and draped his arm around her shoulder. Pulling her toward him in a rough embrace, he kissed her full on the mouth. The girl wriggled out of his grasp, balled up two small fists and punched him in the gut, knocking his sunglasses off in the process.

A couple of skeevy looking guys stood about fifty yards from them, drinking from a shared flask. They glanced up in mild interest as, suddenly, Mr. White Collar Professional caught her by her ponytail and slapped her hard across the face.

I slammed on the brakes, grabbed my pepper spray and jumped out of the car. By now he was punching her repeatedly over her head and neck. The girl fought back, screaming obscenities and kicking out with her feet, her arms flailing around in his general direction.

He was so busy punching the life out of this kid he never even saw me coming. I jumped onto his back and grabbed him by his hundred dollar haircut. “Let her go, you son of a bitch!” He spun his head to look at me and I caught him full in the face with the pepper spray.

It must’ve stung like crazy. Screaming, he clutched frantically at his eyes and began running haphazardly down the block. I fell off his back and rolled about three feet, landing on my ankle. Crap! If it wasn’t broken it would be a pleasant surprise. As I struggled to stand, I watched the guy stagger blindly around the corner and out of sight.

The girl sat in a heap, holding her head in her hands. Her nose was bleeding and her face was starting to swell. I stood on shaky legs and limped over to her. Quickly she swiped her nose with the back of her hand, leaving streaks of blood across her cheek.

“It’s going to be okay,” I said, gently. “The cops will catch the bastard. I’m just going to give them a call now.”

She gazed up at me, her pale blue eyes wet with unshed tears. “Fuck you bitch! Who the fuck told you to get up in my fuckin’ business!”

“Um… you’re… welcome?”

She shot me the same look I gave a cockroach I once found in my breakfast cereal. “You call the cops and I’ll find you and fuckin’mess you up.”

I totally believed her.

She stood up and shoved past me and I watched her stomp off down the street. Then I got out my cell phone to call the police. “She’s just a kid,” I reasoned. “I can’t allow that creep to roam the streets… maybe come after her again or some other unsuspecting girl.” And then I remembered Bobby’s words. To a street kid cops are the enemy, so, against my better judgment, I put my phone back in my pocket. I knew I’d catch hell from DiCarlo, but this kid was beaten up once already today. She didn’t need me to screw her over too.

My ankle was throbbing and starting to be too tight for my tennis shoe. Not a good sign. I wanted to take my shoe off, but I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get it back on again. I climbed back into my car, rolled up the window and locked it. Now that the adrenalin rush had passed, I was shaking so hard I thought I’d throw up. I waited a minute for the feeling to pass and then I started the engine. I had to go find that kid.

She hadn’t gotten far. I found her rooting through a trash bin outside a coffee shop. I parked a few doors down and watched her as she entered the restaurant. I figured she might need a few minutes to cool off, which seemed especially prudent given our recent conversation, so I sat in the car and called John. When he answered I asked him if his refrigerator was running, and then I told him to go catch it and he hung up on me. Then I called to see if he had Prince Albert in a can.

“How did you get to be this old and still manage to retain such an infantile sense of humor?” he asked.

“I’m bored,” I whined into the phone.

“Poor baby,” he said and hung up again.

I got out of the car and peered through the coffee shop window. The girl was sitting in a booth in the corner, holding a glass of ice water up to her cheek. I entered the building just as the server approached with a cup of coffee, set it on the table in front of her and waited.

The girl glanced up at her. “What the fuck are
you
lookin’ at?”

The server was old school and must’ve been through this scenario a dozen times. She didn’t even blink. “Will there be anything else?”

The girl shook her head so the waitress laid a check on the table and walked away.

I blew out a big chicken breath and limped over to the kid making a conscious effort not to stare at her mottled face. “Okay, before you say anything,” I jumped in, “I didn’t call the cops, I’m sorry I got all up in your business and could I please buy you a sandwich, it’s the least I can do for interfering. Clearly, you can take care of yourself.”

She didn’t say a word, just stared at me for a tense moment and then she shrugged, too tired to speak.

I took that as a yes.

I sat down opposite her and gave her a quick once-over. Up close she appeared younger than I’d originally thought, maybe fourteen or so, with delicate features and small hands, her nails bitten down to the quick. Her eyes were ringed with sleeplessness and she had the gaunt look of someone who was used to going without.

I signaled the waitress and ordered a tuna melt. “Get anything you’d like,” I said to the girl.

“Hamburger and a coke,” she murmured, not looking up.

“Is that all? Really, order as much as you want.”

“I’m not a fucking charity case,” she exploded. “You think buying me a hamburger is going to make everything better?”

Wow. It would’ve been hard to keep up with her mood swings, except that she was in permanent bitch mode. Totally understandable but a little tough to deal with.

“Listen, I’m not all that good in tense social situations, so if you could cut me some slack here, I’d really appreciate it.”

She actually cracked a smile at that.

“My name’s Brandy Alexander,” I said, settling into the booth.

“Yeah, right. You and half my friends.”

“No, really. That’s my name.”

“Oh.” She waited a beat before adding, “Your parents must have some weird sense of humor.”

My mother is a lovely person, but she’s never been accused of having a sense of humor, weird or otherwise.

I picked up my fork and wiped the water spots off with my napkin. “So, do you have a name?” I asked.

“Crystal.”

I would’ve bet money it wasn’t her real name, but at least it was a start.

“So, Crystal, where are you from?”

“Around.”

Judging by the girl’s accent, which was nondescript and the envy of broadcast radio and television students everywhere, I guessed she was from Iowa.

Our sandwiches arrived and she hunched over hers and began eating. It was more inhalation than actual mastication, and I hoped nothing got caught in her throat, because I hadn’t paid attention in class when the Red Cross came to work last month and taught us all the Heimlich Maneuver.

It took less than three minutes for Crystal to clean her plate. Sensing she was more receptive now that her stomach was full, I broached the subject of what brought me to her.

“You have a tattoo under your ear,” I said.

“So?”

“So I found a girl about your age the other night with a similar tattoo. She was really sick and I took her to Jefferson. I thought you might know her.”

“Lots of kids have tattoos like mine,” she said, leaning forward almost imperceptibly. “What did she look like?”

“About 5’4” with long brown hair.”

“What was wrong with her?”

“She was hemorrhaging. The doctor thinks she may have miscarried. Listen, Crystal, she’s all alone and she’s not in great shape. If you know anything about this girl—”

“I don’t.”

“But—”

“I said I don’t know her. Thanks for the burger.” She stood, abruptly cutting short the conversation.

I picked up the check and stood too. “Listen,” I said, handing her my business card, “if you need anything—”

Crystal read the card. “You’re a reporter,” she said in the same tone of voice one might say, ‘You’re a Nazi war criminal.’ “Well, that fucking figures.”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, but she was already turning toward the door. “Hang on a minute,” I told her.

I threw a tip on the table and walked over to the counter to pay the bill. When I got back, the tip was gone and so was the kid.

*****

By the time I got home my ankle was three shades of purple and had swelled to the size of a tennis ball, but at least it wasn’t broken. I hobbled into the kitchen and filled a pot with ice water, stopping to throw some fat free popcorn into the microwave. “Needs something,” I decided, testing out a piece. I melted a hunk of butter and poured it over the top.

I took the popcorn and the pot of water into the living room and plunked myself down on the couch. Adrian leaped onto the cushion next to me and waited. I tossed him a bit of popcorn and turned on the tv.

Easing off my shoe, I stuck my foot into the ice cold water. At that precise moment my cell phone rang.
Damnit.
I’d left it in the kitchen. I pulled my foot out of the pot and limped, dripping wet, into the other room.

I picked up the phone and checked caller I.D. The number was unfamiliar and it peaked my curiosity. Usually it’s Janine asking me if she should go back with Tony Tan, her on-again, mostly off-again no good boyfriend, or John, wanting to know the name of some obscure actress from a short-lived ’80’s sitcom. My life is
that
exciting.

“Hello?” I said into the phone.

“Is this Brandy Alexander?” asked a female voice.

“Yes?”

“This is Linda Morrison. I’m a nurse at Jefferson Hospital—”

“Oh my God, who’s hurt? It isn’t my brother, is it? Please tell me it isn’t Paul.” Okay, so I guess I still have a few minor issues to work out in the “quick to panic” department.

“No, no. I’m sorry to scare you. It’s just that we have a small situation here.” She dropped her voice and I had to strain to hear it. “A young girl tried to sneak into I.C.U. She became very belligerent when we asked her what she was doing there. Then she pulled out a card with your name on it and tried to pass herself off as you.”

“Is she still there?” I asked, instinctively dropping my voice to match her whisper.

“Yes, and she’s very agitated. I was going to call security, but she’s so young, I thought I’d try you first.”

“Do me a favor,” I said, scrambling to shove my foot back into my shoe. “Stall as long as you can. I’ll be right there.”

*****

I arrived in time to see a burly man in uniform with a shaved head escort Crystal down a long hallway. He held her wrist in one of his massive hands, dodging her attempts to projectile spit at him. He was surprisingly agile for a big guy.

“Let me go, you fucking asshole.” She swung her other arm and he caught it in his free hand, deftly pulling it up behind her back.

A nurse trailed after them, admonishing the guard to be careful, although I wasn’t sure who her concern was directed toward. In this round, my money was on Crystal. She was seriously pissed off.

“Linda?” I read off the nurse’s name tag.

She cast me a wilted smile. “Sorry, I had to call security. She was becoming abusive to the staff.”

I eyed the guard. “Could I talk to her a minute?”

Crystal glared at me, sullen and unrepentant. “I don’t need your fucking help,” she sneered, the way only an adolescent girl can.

“Um, actually, you sort’ve do.”

The wind went out of her sails and she stopped struggling against the guard’s restraints.

“It’s okay, Brian, let her go,” the nurse said, turning to leave.