Which was how I met Pablo Santiago.
According to the paper, he’d been missing since Saturday night.
I opened my mouth to say something to Ginny, but she was already in the middle of another phone call. I don’t know what hit me hardest, the fact that a kid I knew was missing—another kid! Or that a Chicano kid who’d been gone for less than forty-eight hours was suddenly considered news—which wasn’t exactly normal behavior for the
Herald.
Or the sheer coincidence of it.
The combination felt like a gutful of rubbing alcohol. The last time I saw Pablo, he was running numbers. He was one of the errand boys who collected people’s bets and distributed winnings.
I didn’t bother telling myself that it wasn’t any of my business. I have a thing about kids in trouble. And I didn’t have to guess very hard to figure out why somebody as insignificant—or at least Chicano—as Pablo made the news. Because the cops were looking for him and wanted help. Because of Roscoe Chavez. On top of that, the Santiagos were good people. They deserved better than they were going to get.
I dropped the papers back on the sofa, hauled myself to my feet, and started for the door.
Before I got there, Ginny hung up the phone and demanded, “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Grocery shopping,” I muttered. Reflexive counter-punch. I didn’t like her tone. When I looked at her, I saw that her resentment had moved right up to the front of her face. Not very nicely, I added, “I’m getting tired of sitting on my hands.”
A masterstroke of tact. She loved it when I reminded her about her hand. But this time something more complicated was going on. She resented me for the same reason that she didn’t snap back. Almost politely, she said, “That can wait. This is more important.”
Always fast on my feet. I stared at her and wondered how she knew about Pablo.
But she didn’t know about Pablo. “There’s a man up in the Heights,” she said. “A Mr. Haskell. I just talked to him. He wants to hire us. We need to go see him.”
If she hadn’t been Ginny Fistoulari—and if I hadn’t understood
why she resented me—I would’ve said,
Tell him to stuff it.
But she was, and I did, so I didn’t. Instead I stood there and waited for her to finish.
Her eyes wandered away while she tried to get a handle on something that looked suspiciously like panic. “He says he needs protection. He says somebody’s trying to kill him.”
Well, at least we were talking to each other.