The Best American Mystery Stories 2017

Karen McGee Dot Rat

From Mystery Weekly Magazine

When Helen was young and couldn’t sleep she’d conjure a comforting circle of people she loved, but now most of them were gone and instead she spent her white nights watching an endless loop of losses and regrets jumping a fence like cartoon sheep. At three-thirty, she gave up and rose from bed.

The house was cold, and she turned up the thermostat and then stood in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil and staring out the window into the backyard. A streetlight threw her garden in shadows. Against the white fence was an unfamiliar silhouette. Like furniture that assumes the shapes of monsters in the dark, she was sure the shadow would resolve itself if she looked at it long enough. Had she left the wheelbarrow outside? But she knew she hadn’t. And then, just as the kettle let out a sharp whistle, the dark shape against her fence moved.

“Cass?” she called, turning the burner off. Her voice sounded weak in the quiet. She listened for the taps of her Staffordshire terrier’s nails on the floor. Maybe it was Cass out by the fence. She’d left the doggie door open. But the shape looked too big, and besides, would Cass stay out there in the cold alone?

“Cass?” she called again, but still nothing. Which wasn’t right. Even from a deep sleep, Cass came running at the sound of her name.

Helen grabbed a heavy metal flashlight and moved to the back door. She hesitated for a moment. The neighborhood had seen its share of problems, but none lately. And whatever lurked back there had breached her fence and come into her yard. She couldn’t allow that.

She opened the door and walked past overgrown tomato plants and a row of cabbages toward the fence. When she was a few yards away, she turned on the flashlight and pointed. Two sets of eyes shone in the beam. A boy, leaning against the fence, arms around Cass.

Helen bent over and whispered, “Who are you?”

“I’m not doing nothing. Just resting.”

Cass whined and the boy released her. She moved to Helen, tail wagging, and then back to the boy, as if to ease an introduction. Helen started to tell him the fence was there for a reason, but the boy stood and Helen got a shock. His head barely came to her waist.

“Too cold out here to rest. Come inside.” Helen patted her thigh twice for Cass to follow and turned to the house. She listened for sounds behind her, half expecting to hear light, rapid footsteps in retreat. That would be best. He should be home, with his own people. But when she climbed the porch stairs to the back door and turned, the boy was a few steps behind, next to Cass. She opened the door and waited while dog and then boy entered.

Inside he stood next to the door, visibly shivering and taking in his surroundings as if trying to decide whether to stay or flee.

“I was just making tea,” she said. “Would you like something hot?”

“You got coffee?”

“Regular?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She moved to the kitchen and reached for the bag of decaf. She wasn’t going to give a child real coffee. After she made it, she added plenty of cream and sugar and carried it to the low table in the parlor along with her cup of tea.

“Here you go,” she said, gesturing to the sofa. “Have a seat.”

The boy hadn’t moved from his place by the door, but now he stepped toward her. Cass looped from her to the boy, leading him into the parlor.

Helen drank her tea in silence, watching him out of the corner of her eye. He held the mug with two hands, drank his coffee eagerly, and looked at the bookshelves. His hair was light brown and clung to his head like a cap, his eyes hazel.

“You got a lot of books,” he said as he put the empty mug down.

“You like books?”

He answered with a shrug that could have meant yes, no, or undecided.

“Who’s that?” He pointed to a framed photograph on the table next to him.

The couple seemed like strangers, her face unlined, her hair dark against the white veil, Sean’s wide, pale Irish face so earnest. “That’s my wedding photo,” she said.

The boy studied it, his face serious. “Is he sleeping?”

“You could say that. Sean died fifteen years ago.” She didn’t like to think about Sean’s death. “Would you like more coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

She took his mug to the kitchen and refilled it. When she returned, his head was thrown back, his eyes shut and mouth open. Cass lay on the sofa next to him, her head in his lap.

Helen set the coffee down and looked him over. Even if he was small for his age, he couldn’t be more than ten. What was he doing out at night? He looked too thin, there was dirt under his nails and grime on his neck, and he smelled like Cass when she needed a bath. Was he homeless? Or just a fellow insomniac from the neighborhood? Helen didn’t recognize him, but then, she didn’t pay much attention to kids on the street. She should call the police, but Cass seemed to know this boy. And what he needed most at the moment was rest. Besides, Helen didn’t trust police. She was used to handling her own problems.

She took a heavy blue blanket from the closet — one that held up in the washing machine — and dropped it over the boy. She was tempted to remove his shoes, but decided it would only wake him. Plus she didn’t relish getting close to his filthy socks. Just as well the sofa was already the color of dirt. She took The Brothers Karamazov from the shelves and retreated to her bedroom to read, but instead she slept.

When she woke at eight, the blanket was folded on the sofa, the coffee mug empty, and the boy gone. Cass slinked off the sofa sheepishly, sniffed at the blanket, and followed Helen into the kitchen. Helen laundered the blanket in hot water with extra bleach, thinking about lice. That night she drifted to the back door several times, checking for the boy, but Cass stayed inside and there were no mysterious shadows along the fence. After two more nights, Helen decided to forget about him.

There was a string of warm days, too warm for October in Massachusetts, and between her shifts at the library Helen worked furiously to harvest the last of her tomatoes, beans, and cabbages and put the beds to sleep for the winter. Pulling up roots and spreading layers of compost was a big job, and she slept well.

Two weeks after the first time she saw the boy, Helen rose at seven to a cold morning, made herself coffee, and discovered him asleep on the sofa, Cass stretched next to him. He wore a different T-shirt, and he seemed about as dirty, not worse, so maybe he wasn’t homeless. She checked the back door; still locked. He must have crawled through Cass’s doggie door. She checked her purse. Cash and credit cards were where they belonged. But then, if he were breaking in to steal, presumably he wouldn’t stick around for a nap.

She returned to the kitchen. She didn’t care for breakfast herself. Just a cup of coffee or two was enough in the morning. She knew nothing about children. Would the boy eat eggs, and how would he want them? And how many? He was small, but he was growing. She decided on three, scrambled with cheese — the way Sean had liked them — and two pieces of toast.

He stirred on the sofa as she set the plate on the table, and then stood so quickly he startled Cass, who scrambled off the sofa and let out a muffled bark of protest.

“Come have breakfast,” she said, going back to the kitchen for the coffee.

He stepped toward the table. “What time is it?”

“Seven-twenty.”

“I have to go to school.”

“No time for breakfast?”

He glanced at the plate and then at the back door.

She pointed. “The bathroom’s that way, first door, if you want to wash your hands.”

He looked toward the hall, forehead creased. She sat and sipped her coffee, waiting for him to decide, but then lost patience. “Go on. The eggs are getting cold.”

When he returned from the bathroom, he took a seat and ate as if he’d entered a race, head down, scooping his food. Nobody had bothered to teach him table manners.

“I’m Helen, by the way. What’s your name?”

He answered without pausing to swallow.

“Andy?” It was hard to hear around the eggs and toast, but he nodded in response.

“You must live quite close, Andy.”

He nodded again, drank the rest of his coffee, and set the mug down with finality. Then he stood. “Thank you. I have to go to school.”

“Right. See you some other time, Andy.”

He stopped at the back door, a hand on the knob, and without turning said, “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“No,” she said, “I don’t seem to.”

And then he was gone. After she cleared up the dishes, she went to the kitchen desk and looked at the calendar. It was marked with her work hours at the library, where she volunteered twice a week, a dentist appointment, nothing else. Both times Andy had come in from the cold on Wednesday nights. Maybe there was something that happened at his house on Wednesdays. Maybe not. Twice wasn’t a pattern. At least she’d learned a few things this time: he lived in the neighborhood, he went to school, and his name was Andy. Also, he was hungry.

She decided if Andy came back she’d have to call the police. She ran through a list of the old contacts in the Boston Police Department and wondered how many were still around. The kid was in some kind of trouble, and she’d learned a long time ago not to go borrowing trouble. Life brought enough. And she didn’t know anything about kids. “It’s none of my affair,” she muttered. That decided, she locked her purse in her bedroom dresser at night, and she left the blue blanket and an old pillow on the sofa. No reason for him to be cold all night, even if she’d be turning him over to the police in the morning.

The next time she saw Andy was at sunset on Sunday. He sat leaning against the fence, petting Cass. There was something awkward in his movements, and when she crossed the yard she could see he had a bloody lip and a welt under one eye. He nodded at her and kept stroking Cass.

“You want to come in and feed her?” she asked.

He got up slowly. “Sure.”

She gave him Cass’s bowl and showed him the kibble and measuring cup. “Just one. She eats twice a day, and we don’t want her getting fat.”

“Okay. And she needs water.”

“Right.”

He filled the bowls and stood watching Cass eat. “She’s a pit bull, isn’t she?” he said.

“Staffordshire terrier.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Attitude.”

He nodded like it was the answer he expected.

“You been in an accident?” she said.

“Nah, just Uncle Jake. Best to stay out of his way when he has an appointment with Mr. Jameson.”

He used the phrase like he’d heard it a hundred times, I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Jameson.

“Is that who you live with? Your uncle?”

He nodded. “Uncle Jake’s all I got.”

That sounded memorized as well. I’m all you’ve got, kid. You better get lost now. I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Jameson. She was beginning to dislike Uncle Jake, a man who routinely drank so much Irish whiskey he would beat a small child. Not that it was any of her business.

“You have time for a bath before we eat dinner.”

“A bath?” He looked at her like she’d offered to saw off a limb.

“You know how to draw a bath, don’t you?”

“I’m almost ten!”

“How long until you are ten?”

He slid a gaze to her and away and shrugged his shoulders with the eloquence of an old man.

“Best to stay clean when you’ve got cuts and scrapes, unless you want to be dealing with a nasty infection and pus and unsightly scars.” She paused to see if he was going to challenge this, but he seemed suitably impressed. “Use plenty of soap and shampoo. And toss your clothes in the hall. They look like they could stand running through the laundry.”

He shook his head. “I can’t eat dinner bare naked.”

“You can borrow one of Sean’s old shirts.”

He stood frowning at her, probably trying to think of another objection.

“Go on, now. I’ve got to get dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He turned and trudged toward the bathroom, Cass at his heels.

When he came out Sean’s red flannel shirt hung to his pale calves and she got her first look at the boy under the dirt. He had a bruise on his temple and there were probably others beneath the shirt. His hair had a wave and was going to be blond when it dried. Without being asked he came to the table and took the same seat he’d used for breakfast. Helen had made spaghetti and meatballs as well as steaming beans and cabbage from her garden. She set a full plate in front of him, along with a glass of milk. He ate with the same concentration as before, but at a more leisurely pace.

“Those came from the yard,” she said as he ate a forkful of beans.

He froze, staring at his plate, then looked up at her with a smile of disbelief. “No suh!”

“What do you think the back garden’s for?”

He shook his head and resumed eating. After dinner, she had him dry while she washed. They returned to the parlor, where he looked around thoroughly and finally asked, “You don’t have a TV.”

Helen had a television in her bedroom, along with a shelf of DVDs, most of them movies made long before Andy was born. But she didn’t want him in her bedroom.

“I usually read at night,” she said.

Andy looked at her for a moment and then gazed at Cass, no doubt pitying any dog that had to live without a television.

“Do you read, Andy?”

He nodded. “Course. I’m almost ten.”

“Right. Well... you can read...” Her shelves were full of hardback copies of classics bought at used bookstores over a lifetime, all in good condition. The Limited Editions Club and Heritage Club books were her favorites. She liked the slipcases and the illustrations. She didn’t have children’s books. What would a boy Andy’s age want to read? Maybe he’d like The Three Musketeers? Huckleberry Finn? Did kids like Twain? Would he know how to treat a good hardback? She looked at her shelves and then remembered a boxed set she bought years ago. It was on the bottom shelf under a thick layer of dust. She pulled out the first of four books and handed it to him. “You can try this one.”

He looked at it. “The Hobbit?”

“You read it already?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You don’t need glasses, do you?”

“No.”

“Well then.” Helen read The Red and the Black in her easy chair while Andy read on the sofa next to Cass. She wasn’t sure if he liked the book, but he turned the pages at regular if somewhat lengthy intervals, so she assumed he was getting through it.

She left once to put his clothes in the dryer and again to take them out and fold them. Andy kept reading. At nine o’clock she noticed his head starting to bob over the pages.

“I’m ready to sleep now,” she said, standing up. “Good night, Andy.”

“Good night,” he said, his voice sleepy. “Thanks for the spaghetti.”

She nodded and went into her bedroom, frowning because she didn’t have a toothbrush for him and then thinking about the phone call she’d have to make in the morning. He obviously needed a new home, someone to feed him and take care of him, but it wasn’t going to be her. He needed a mother, not a grandmother. She dozed off thinking about how she’d explain Andy to the cops, and how she’d explain the cops to Andy.

Perhaps it was the prospect of police in the morning that disrupted her sleep. She woke at one and read for a few hours before going back to sleep, and when she woke again, it was after eight. She had lost the habit of using an alarm clock, and as she rose she realized she’d probably lost her chance to deal with Andy. Sure enough, he was already gone, The Hobbit returned to its place on the bottom shelf, the blanket, pillow, and shirt forming a neat stack at one end of the sofa. She looked down at the blanket, glad she wouldn’t have to wash it this time. Was Andy’s neatness normal? Weren’t young boys usually messy? She went to the back door to lock it after him, but it was already locked. He must have left through the doggie door. She felt a surge of emotion, something like regret or pity, and turned swiftly to go to the kitchen. “It’s not your problem. He’s not even family,” she muttered as she made coffee. But she knew this time she couldn’t just forget him. She’d fed him, and like any stray, he would return for more.

After her shift at the library she stopped at the bakery and then walked down the block and around the corner to visit Sylvia, one of the few remaining neighbors who’d been around as long as Helen. Sylvia lived on the top floor of a three-decker, and when she opened the apartment door at the top of the stairs, Helen thought she saw a flash of alarm. Then Sylvia’s gaze landed on the box of cookies in Helen’s hands. “Come on in. How are you, Helen?”

Sylvia was about Helen’s age, early seventies, but unlike Helen she’d grown very fat and moved slowly. The house was still as clean as ever, though, the windows sparkling, the tables and shelves dust-free. In the front parlor a faded brown recliner faced the window overlooking the street, venetian blinds drawn up to let in the daylight.

“I’ll just make some coffee to go with these,” Sylvia said, retreating to the kitchen with the pink box.

Helen listened to her move around as she watched the street in front of the house.

“Oh, you brought the macaroons!”

“Those still your favorite?”

“Oh yes, but I don’t get down there very often anymore. Lovely.” Sylvia moved into the parlor, all smiles now, carrying a tray with a plate of macaroons and two coffee cups. Helen stood. “You need some help?”

“No. I’m a little slow these days, but I’m not feeble.” Sylvia set the tray down on the coffee table, turned the brown chair around to face her, and sat in it. Then she leaned forward and took a cookie.

Helen picked up the coffee and sipped. “You still make the best coffee.”

Sylvia nodded. “I grind the beans every morning. Marie says it’s a waste of time, but you can taste the difference, can’t you?”

Marie was Sylvia’s oldest, a sensible girl. Helen agreed with her about grinding beans. The last thing she wanted first thing in the morning was noise and mess. “Listen, Sylvia, I met a boy the other day, someone from the neighborhood. Name is Andy. About ten or so? Thought you might know him.”

“White boy? Fair hair?”

“Sounds like him.”

Sylvia nodded. “Sure, I know him.” She set her foot down and pushed on the floor to turn her chair toward the window. “See that building across the street? Not the Miller house, the yellow one next to it. That’s where Andy lives, in the first-floor apartment. But he’s eight, not ten.”

Like much of Dorchester, the neighborhood was crowded with flat-roofed, narrow, three-story houses, a separate apartment on each floor. Built in the late 1800s to house immigrants, recently many three-deckers in the area had been stripped of ugly aluminum siding and painted in contrasting colors. The yellow building Andy lived in still wore old, scaly-looking siding.

“Andy’s in third grade,” Sylvia said. “Miss Evanston’s class. My grandson William’s in the same class.”

Sylvia had about a dozen grandchildren, and Helen would hear all about their clever remarks and accomplishments before she left. She didn’t mind. She wasn’t in a great rush to get home, though Cass would be eager to get her afternoon walk. Sometimes Helen lay in bed at night and tried to recall the moment when her days had changed from too full to too empty. After Sean’s death she’d been busier than ever, what with taking over the business. It was when she’d passed the business to Micky that life had slowed down, but that had been gradual. Her sister filled her time with church, but Helen had lost her faith while still young and wasn’t enough of a hypocrite to get religion now that she needed something to do. No, organic gardening was her only religion, reading her vocation, and on many days Cass her only contact.

“He lives with his uncle,” Sylvia said, still looking out the window. “No parents in the picture. The uncle is hardly much of a family for the boy. Well, you can see how it is.”

If a yard was a measure of a first-floor tenant, Jake was a miserable failure. The flowerbeds were empty, the privet hedge overgrown, and the rosebush next to the front steps dead.

“Is he gone a lot?” Helen asked.

Sylvia snorted. “No, he’s always home. The Sczeiwskys still live on the second floor, and there’s a Vietnamese family on the third. Say what you will, those people work. They’re always gone. But Jake rarely stirs before noon. No real job, except... once a week, like clockwork, he gets a visit.”

“A visit?”

Sylvia nodded slowly, her eyes on the offending building. “A black Mercedes pulls up, the passenger gets out, takes a big suitcase out of the trunk, and carries it in the house. About a half hour later, he comes out, puts the suitcase back in the trunk, and off they go. Every week, Wednesday at nine, like clockwork.”

“Nine at night?”

“That’s right. I doubt Jake’s up before noon.”

“What do the men look like?”

“I don’t get much of a look at the driver. The one who gets out wears a leather jacket, fur collar. Had to guess, I’d say Russian. Something about his clothes and the way he moves... I’d be surprised if he was raised here.”

“What about Jake?”

“Oh, he’s not foreign. In the summer I hear him yelling at Andy; his voice comes right through my window. He’s always sending the boy out on errands, all kinds of hours. You can bet he’s cooking up some kind of drug in there. Well, what else would he be doing? I expect the building to blow up one of these days. Just hope he doesn’t take the whole block with him.”

Sylvia swiveled her chair to face Helen, her back to the window, and for a moment seemed nervous, as though she’d just remembered it was Helen she was addressing. Then she reached for another macaroon. “My Marie brought William by the other day. I do believe he’s the smartest of the grandkids.”

Helen changed her walking route to pass Andy’s house. Sylvia was almost always sitting at the front window, and she’d wave as they walked by. During one of her walks, just as she came up to Andy’s house, a beat-up Chevy Impala pulled to the curb, and out came Andy and a heavy, dark-haired man of about forty. The man had thick brows, hairy forearms, and he needed a shave. So this was Jake. Helen had imagined a thin fair man, someone like Andy. Jake carried a cardboard box full of liquor bottles and moved like he’d helped himself to one of the bottles in the car. Andy glanced in her direction, froze for a moment, and then took a step toward Cass, who was straining at her leash and whining.

Jake kicked Andy in the seat, and he staggered forward to stay afoot. “Where you think you’re going, stupid? Don’t you know what that is? That’s a fuckin’ pit bull. Bitch will tear your arm right off. Get in the fucking house.” He said “focking” and ran his words together, typical Dorchester accent, but if he’d been a Dot rat, Helen didn’t recognize him. Maybe he was from Southie.

Andy turned to the house, walking stiffly, his eyes on the ground in front of him. Jake growled “Get the fucking door!” when they reached the porch.

Neither of them acknowledged Helen with so much as a nod. As she finished the walk, she replayed the scene. Had Andy been ashamed of her? Maybe he’d been ashamed of his uncle. Or maybe he’d been afraid. Jake hadn’t even seen her. There were a few advantages to being old, and one of them was invisibility. She could probably walk past Uncle Jake a dozen times and he still wouldn’t recognize her, would never register more than generic “old woman.” He might recognize Cass, though.

After the walk she fed Cass and then instead of fixing her own dinner, she sat at the kitchen desk and stared out the window as the day faded. Finally she sighed, reached for the phone, and dialed a number she knew by heart.

“Dot Vending,” a deep voice rumbled.

They were supposed to say “Dorchester Vending Machines and Trucking.” So much for best business practices. “Is Micky around?” she asked.

“Who wants to know?”

“Helen McKinnon.”

“Oh, er, yes, ma’am,” the man said, his voice moving up an octave. “Hold on, please.”

Helen smiled at the change of tone and waited.

“Aunt Helen?” Micky sounded equal parts surprised and wary, like he was afraid she was going to scold him.

“Micky. You doing any business in my neighborhood?”

There was a pause, Micky pondering territory before answering. “Nah. I mean, we got some action on Dot Ave and further west, but nothing in your parish. Why? What have you seen?”

This time it was Helen who took a moment. Information was currency in their line of work; once you let it out, you couldn’t put it back. Not that she was in that line anymore. Still, the instinct for discretion hadn’t faded.

“Aunt Helen? You got some kind of trouble?”

“No trouble. Just curious.” Helen hung up to the sound of Micky asking another question. She needed time to think.

Helen decided to sleep on it for a few days, but Wednesday evening she couldn’t focus on her book. At 8:50 she picked up Cass’s leash and took her out. The block was quiet, Sylvia’s window dim and the blind down to close out prying eyes, but Helen thought she was probably watching through the slats. A black Mercedes stood at the curb outside Andy’s building, and Helen approached from Sylvia’s side of the street, moving slowly so she could get a look at the driver. The car was parked under a streetlight. As she drew close she wasn’t surprised to see the driver watching her and Cass. He was probably bored. What did surprise her was that his glance didn’t move past them after a few seconds. It stayed with her, the angle of his big, square head changing to follow them as they moved. Even from forty feet away, she could feel a challenge in that stare. He thought this was his street, his block, and Helen, who had lived here all her life, was the trespasser. She wasn’t invisible, his gaze said, and she wasn’t safe looking in his direction.

Helen picked up her pace and turned the corner, relief mixing with outrage as she moved out of sight. She walked through the dark streets for a long time, automatically sticking to a safe route, the good blocks of Dorchester, while thinking about the man in the Mercedes and Jake. When she returned to the house, she discovered Andy on the sofa, under the blue blanket, already asleep. The Hobbit rested open on his chest. He’d removed his shoes and set them on the floor near the end of the sofa, where he could jump into them in the morning.

Helen put the book on the coffee table and went to bed, setting her alarm for 6:30. She read for several hours, occasionally letting thoughts of the man in the Mercedes intrude.

The next morning she asked Andy a few questions as he shoveled in his eggs. Yes, he ran errands for Uncle Jake, “carrying things,” and the territory of his travels encompassed much of Dorchester, including parts Helen wouldn’t send Cass into. All she got out of him about the Wednesday visitors was, “Jake don’t like ’em to see me, says they steal boys.” When asked about Jake’s activities in their home, Andy became evasive and ate faster, so she dropped it. It wasn’t like she needed confirmation.

That week Helen found herself noticing children more than usual. On her walks, in the library, at the Stop and Shop, she noticed how loud and demanding they were, how often they laughed and cried and yelled, how mobile their faces were. She noticed their backpacks and wondered why Andy didn’t have one. She observed their puffy coats and gaudy shoes and crisp haircuts. She picked up an extra toothbrush and left it in its cellophane wrapper next to the sink.

Wednesday morning she woke with a sense of decision. She opened the bottom drawer of her dresser and removed her heavy black handbag with the long shoulder strap. Then she pulled the false back out of the drawer and reached through to remove two neat packs of $100 bills. She stuck them in the bag. At noon she went for a walk without Cass, and instead of passing Sylvia’s house, she cut through the yard to the back of Andy’s building. She rang the buzzer to the first-floor apartment several times before a disgruntled Jake appeared.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked, blinking out at her as if the daylight hurt his eyes.

“I’m here to discuss Andy.”

“You from the social services? You people are supposed to call first. I warned you last time.” He shook his head and glared at her, but when she opened the screen and moved into the building, he backed up, then moved quickly into the apartment to close the door to the kitchen. He waved her into the parlor, where the scent of beer and garbage lingered. The small room held no books, no pictures or decorative items of any kind, but was crowded by a too-large sofa, a black leather recliner, and a large flat-screen TV. A stack of pizza boxes stood on the floor next to the recliner, the top one full of cigarette butts, and an olive-colored shag carpet that belonged in the seventies was littered with crumpled fast-food bags and empty Budweiser cans. A half-empty bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey lay on the sofa.

“What’s it this time?” he asked, sounding impatient. “His teacher complain about bruises again? The kid’s clumsy, what can I do?”

“I’m not from social services. I’m a friend of Andy’s. I live in the neighborhood.”

He stared at her for a moment, his face showing confusion and then disbelief. “Look, lady, you’re not the social services, you can move your ass out of here!”

“I think you should let me have him. You’re not doing a good job of caring for the boy. I can meet him outside his school today and let him know he’s going to stay with me from now on.”

“Let you have him? Let you have him?” He put a hand on her shoulder and she got a blast of rotting teeth, tobacco, and stale whiskey. She stepped away to escape the stench and realized it was a mistake. He’d assume he could bully her.

“Jesus Christ, who the fuck you think you are, coming in here and telling me to give up my own kid?”

“My name is Helen McKinnon.” She said her name slowly, watching for recognition. She believed in giving a man a fair chance, even contemptible scum like Jake. The McKinnon crew wasn’t exactly the Winter Hill Gang, but it still ran Dorchester. If the boy was local, he should know the name. “And I don’t think Andy is your kid. Is he?”

He flinched and then his face blanched. “Look, his cunt of a mother was a junkie. I may not be blood, but I’m all he’s got. She’s probably dead by now anyway.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re the best man to raise the boy.”

“We’re doing fine. And who the hell do you think you are, coming in here like you own the world?”

“I’m prepared to make you a deal.”

That stopped him. Helen released the snap on her handbag and reached inside. Jake leered at the bag. Whatever he was doing for the Russians couldn’t require much intelligence, she decided. He hadn’t the slightest chance in a game of poker.

“What kind of deal?”

“I’m willing to pay,” she said, pulling out a form she’d found at the library. “You sign this guardianship form, I’ll give you ten thousand dollars.”

“You brought the money with ya?” he asked, his tone casual as he shifted closer.

“You’ll have to sign the agreement.” She handed him the paper.

He glared at it and shook his head. “Maybe I’ll just take the money and throw your scrawny, wrinkled ass out of here. Give up Andy, just when he’s starting to be useful? You know what raising a kid costs?”

He shoved her against the wall, gripped her throat, and leaned in, staring into her eyes as if hoping to see panic. He didn’t notice her hand dip into her bag as she struggled for breath. Her fingers found the familiar cold shape, fitted around it, adjusted the angle, and squeezed. The gun made a loud bang and the pressure on her neck ceased. Jake looked confused as his gaze fell to her bag and then to the red spot spreading on his stomach. Then he dropped.

Helen stood and listened to his moans for a moment, then went and peered through the kitchen door. On the counter were rows of small, neat packages containing white powder. She’d have to call Micky as soon as she got home, so he’d have time to clean things up. By the time the Russians arrived, Jake and the drugs would be gone, along with some of Jake’s things. They wouldn’t find any witnesses in this neighborhood, and they sure as hell wouldn’t call the cops.

Helen moved back to Jake and looked down at him. He made a weak coughing sound and stared up at her, moving his mouth like he was trying to deliver an important message.

“Don’t worry about Andy,” she said. “I’ll meet him at the school.”