Bad Intent

Chapter 7

Let me just clear up one misconception here, I’m not a priest or an ordained minister of any kind. I never said I was. Sure, I wear a clerical collar. That collar opens a lot of doors for me that wouldn’t normally open for a private detective.

I’m not a flimflam man. Leroy Burgess is not getting rich off the misfortunes of others. My organization, Pastoral Crusade, is completely nonprofit.

The show was taped, but my rage was live. Leroy Burgess, the man in the backward collar I had seen at the demonstration. A beefy, balding, dock-worker type, he had created the issue that was eating a hole through my midsection, had put in motion forces that were beginning to make me think I was a jerk for persuading myself I could find domestic bliss with a maverick like Mike Flint. I had never met Leroy Burgess, but I was nursing an unhealthy hatred for the man.

Leroy Burgess sat in the middle of a too-blue Satellite Network News set surrounded by district attorney Baron Marovich, my old pal Ralph Faust, and a gorgeous, pin-stripe suited young woman I had never seen before. I thought it looked like an unholy sort of alliance, and leaned forward from my seat in the middle of the bed to hear every word without turning up the volume.

I wanted to be able to hear what was happening in the rest of the house. Someone was washing dishes in the kitchen, MTV was on the living room TV. I was being left alone to cool off, but it wasn’t working. Because of Leroy Burgess.

Burgess dominated the slot:

Every year Pastoral Crusade gets hundreds of requests for help from men in prison who say they are innocent. Most of their cases have no merit. Now and then we find one that does, like Charles Conklin. We won’t even look into a case unless every avenue of appeal has been exhausted and there is no one else who can help.

Take Charles Conklin. Here’s a poor, barely literate individual, with no resources, no connections whatsoever. How is he going to get the ear of the courts? When Charles wrote to me, I did some checking. From the beginning I saw that the conviction was seriously flawed.

I gave in and turned up the volume. I needed to know about the beginning.

We dug into the case record. We found conflicting testimony, a tainted confession, the word of a jailhouse snitch who got conjugal visitation rights in payment. We went back into the neighborhood and found the witnesses who had testified against Mr. Conklin at his original trial. Every one of them told us that they were pressured, threatened, and even bribed by the detectives assigned to the case, Detectives Mike Flint and Jerry Kelsey.

That’s when we took the files over to D.A. Marovich. I fully expected to be thrown out of his office. But I should have had more faith that our Lord, who loves justice, would be in our corner. Mr. Marovich listened to us, understood the implications of our findings right away. He has such confidence that the original investigation was tainted that he persuaded one of the city’s big-dollar law firms to represent Charles Conklin on a pro bono basis. Without charging a retainer, Jennifer Miller will lead the appeal team. Here Burgess leered at the young woman sitting erect beside him.

I picked up the telephone and dialed Ralph’s direct number at SNN.

“Faust,” he said.

“I’m going to sue your ass, Ralph,” I said, seething.

“Maggie!” He seemed pleased. “You’re watching the broadcast. I’m flattered.”

“You’re fucked. I’m going to drag up every despicable shard I have on you and sell it to Hard Copy and the Enquirer. `Scumbag reporter sodomizes chickens in the jungles of El Salvador while colleague lies wounded at his feet.’ I have film, Ralph. You know I do.”

“Calm down, Maggie.” Ralph seemed to find my anger funny. “Jesus Christ.”

“I sold you single broadcast rights to that piece of tape and you sold it all over town.”

“So? What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is, you lied to me about why you wanted Etta Harkness.”

“What, you never lied to a colleague?” Ralph laughed, a smug bark. “You’re an old industry pro, Maggie. You know I would never give away a breaking story.”

“Who tipped you about Etta’s relationship to Charles Conklin?”

“I have sources, just like you have sources. I don’t give them away, either. You’re acting like a baby, Maggie. What’s the big deal?”

“I expected a higher professional standard from you.”

“Professional standard? Look who’s talking. For you this whole thing is personal. Personal in the person of Detective Mike Flint. I’ve heard about what the affidavits in the D.A.‘s office say about your boy’s interrogation techniques, kiddo. Makes me think you have unplumbed potential. I just wish you’d told me a long time ago that you like it rough. We missed out on a whole lot of fun, you and me.”

I had to take a couple of deep breaths before I could say anything. In that small space of time, my mind cleared considerably.

Ralph kept talking. “You should know better than to sleep with your story, Maggie. It’s your objectivity that gets fucked.”

“Keep in mind, Ralph,” I said with new calm, “you breached my copyright when you resold the tape. Now, your ass, your firstborn, the deed to the miserable hovel you call home are mine to broker. My attorneys will call you.”

I slammed down the receiver and turned off the television. I hadn’t seen Mike standing at the far side of the bed.

“Feel better?” he asked. Without the television, the room was dark. All I could see of him was his starchy white shirt and the dark line of his tie.

“I’m all right,” I said. Actually, I did feel better. So much better to scream at Ralph than at Mike. “Where’s your father?”

“Michael drove him home. Dad likes you.”

“I don’t know why. Sorry I abandoned you with the dishes. I didn’t want everyone to hear what I had to say to Ralph and I couldn’t wait any longer.” I sat up, decided I might as well go on living. Mike started to turn away. I reached for him, hooked my fingers inside his belt to hold him.

“Talk to me,” I said.

“I didn’t lie to you. I told you in the beginning that I put Tyrone’s papa in the slam.”

“When were you going to tell me Tyrone’s papa was Charles Conklin?”

He smiled, the beginnings of a teasing smile. “I have to let you find out some things all by yourself. Besides, when I introduced you to Etta, Charles Conklin was still nothing but LAPD prisoner number 1475533-C. Who knew Star Search would come looking for him?”

“Tell me how you came to set me up with Etta.”

“Etta,” he repeated. “You were asking me about the projects, about the kids who grow up there, right? I thought of Etta right off because she had just called me. The D.A.‘s investigator and this Burgess guy came around her place asking questions about Conklin, what she remembered about the old case. She thought it had to do with Conklin’s parole hearing, but all they wanted her to talk about was me. She called me, thought I should know about it. I told you, me and Etta go way back. I used to help her out now and then.”

“Tell me exactly how you helped her out.” Etta and Mike were about the same age. She was not unattractive and I was sure that in ordinary circumstances she was a lot of fun.

“I told you Etta’s daughter was a junkie,” he said. “When I was still working Southeast, my partner and I were all the time picking up the girl for dealing and solicitation. Every time she was arrested one of us would always go to her house, fetch Tyrone, and take him over to Etta’s, make sure she had enough for extra groceries until her daughter made bail. No big deal. A couple of times, when the little snot got bigger, Etta asked us to come straighten him out. You know, put a little healthy fear into him. That’s all.”

“Etta told me, and I quote, ‘for damn sure I got no help from the lyin’ mothuhfuckin’ poh-lice.’ If you helped her, why would she say that?”

“Because she was upset and she didn’t have anyone else to blame. We take shit like that all the time. She didn’t mean me.”

“That’s what she said. Was your partner Jerry Kelsey?”

He frowned, shook his head. “I only worked that one case with Kelsey. By choice.”

“Why?”

“Because he was a boozer.”

If I were a suspect and Mike was grilling me, I would cave, confess anything to him. He always seemed to know everything. I sighed, relaxed a little. “I’m sorry,” I said.

“Sorry for what?”

“For helping them. Now you’ve been identified by name it can get very uncomfortable. All I can do is say I’m sorry I played into their hands in any way. But it’s your own damn fault for trying to end-run me.”

“Did it ever occur to you that there are just some things you don’t need to know?”

“Never.”

Mike took the telephone off the bed and set it on the night stand, fussed with the cord, straightened the lamp shade. Changed the subject. “Do you really have film?”

“Of Ralph and the chickens? Sure. He was just fooling around, but the pictures look bad.”

“Hang on to them.” He bent down to kiss my cheek, a goodbye sort of kiss. “We might need them.”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“The lieutenant wants to go over some things with me. The department is putting out its own reinvestigation of the case, looking to see if we did anything wrong the first time.” His voice was even, but his hands were clenched into tight fists. I knew he was angry. Offended. “Police commission’s all hot, calling for my midnight-blue blood. I tell you this, if I get offered up for the sacrifice, I’m taking out more than a few with me. I’ve been with the city long enough to know how this game is played.”

“Ralph called me a baby,” I said, still hanging on to his belt. “Ralph was right. I should have cooled off before I phoned him.”

Mike pried my hand away. “I have to go.”

“Count to ten, Mike.” I turned on the bedside light and got up to my knees on the bed to be more on a level with him. “Stay here a little while longer. Count to ten a few more times.”

“I can’t. It won’t hurt to have an edge when I talk to certain people. I’ll call you.”

I listened to him walk away, his footsteps muffled by the dull gray carpet. He wasn’t going to tell me anything he didn’t have to. That’s the way he is. I hate being kept in the dark. That’s the way I am, and the reason I’ve done okay in my work. There was no way I wasn’t going to go snoop around, not when I had resources, Etta prime among them. When I heard the back door close, I got up, found my shoes, and went down the hall.

Casey and Michael were in the living room with MTV blaring. They were an attractive pair, Casey on the floor with her long auburn hair swaying as she did her stretches, Michael on the couch with a biology book open in front of him. It occurred to me that if Mike had gone out the front way he would have had to stop and speak with them. Maybe seeing them would have put things back into perspective a bit, settled him down in the way they always ground me.

Michael is a more handsome version of Mike, just as Mike is better looking than Oscar. A refinement by generations. Michael’s Italian mother gave him thick, dark hair that he wore shoulder length, to the chagrin of his traditional father. When Michael pierced his left earlobe, Mike stopped mentioning the length of his hair.

My bag was on the end table where I had dropped it. I picked it up and fished for my keys. “I have to go out for a few hours. Will you two lock up? Casey, you need to be up by seven for school orientation tomorrow. What time are you going to bed?”

“Ten, I guess.” She stretched backward so far that she was looking at me upside down. “Who’s driving me?”

“I am,” I said. “I’m staying for the parents’ meeting. Maybe we can find someone you’ll be able to carpool with. I’m really leery about sending you so far on the bus.”

“I’ll be okay.” Like a swan, she rolled her torso up straight again. “Jeez, Mom, I’ve been taking buses since I was a kid. You let me take the BART to Berkeley all by myself before I was ten.”

“Sure,” I said. “I put you on the train at one end and your grandfather was waiting for you at the other end with a stop watch in one hand and a telephone in the other. This is different. For one thing, this is Los Angeles, not San Francisco. For another, a city bus ride is hardly the same as a BART trip or a Saturday movie outing with a bunch friends. You’ll be going all the way to Pasadena and back every day. You may have to transfer. The afternoons you have body conditioning, it will be dark before you get home. I don’t like the bus, Casey.”

She gave me a very wise, teenagery eye roll. “Like, you’re going to drive back and forth to Pasadena twice a day? I’m sure.”

“I miss Lyle,” I said, feeling overwhelmed.

“Me, too. But where would we put him?”

“Good question.” I did miss Lyle. He had been our neighbor until the big earthquake a few years back leveled his house. We had taken him in because it seemed the sensible thing to do until he could rebuild. But Lyle had stuck. I don’t know exactly how it had happened; it just seemed so natural. He became indispensable, the housewife who took care of the domestic details like meals and carpools in exchange for a room and our utter devotion. Lyle was still in our house, watching over the tenants. I wondered whether he might reconsider moving to Southern California.

I went over and kissed the top of Casey’s head. Without much confidence, I said, “We’ll work it out. Don’t stay up too late.”

On my way past Michael I gave his shoulder a pat that felt awkward to me.

“Maggie?” Michael caught my hand. When he closed his book and set it aside, I sat down on the arm of the sofa next to him. “I can help out. Casey’s school is just down the freeway from mine. Most of my classes are in the morning, but I’ll be spending a lot of time in the library. I won’t mind staying around late to pick her up.”

“Thank you,” I said. “In other circumstances I would give you the speech about how this is the best time of your life and you should take advantage of your new freedom, be your own gatekeeper. As it is, I appreciate the offer. Sometime this week we’ll sit down and try to work out a schedule we can all live with.”

“No problem.” He smiled his father’s wry smile. “I’m looking forward to it. I’ve never had a sister to torture before.” Casey turned to him. “Sister? Since when?”

“You may be as close as I ever get. Have to make the most of it.”

I could see she was flattered by the attention, though she tried to cover her pleasure with an air of disdain.

“I already have a brother,” she said. “A half-brother. He isn’t potty trained, either.”

I left them happily swapping insults.

When Mike and I decided to move in together, I ran through dozens of possible scenarios for the way Casey and Michael would get along. The range began with Bambi meets Thumper and ended with Godzilla meets King Kong, the colorized version. We were less than a week into this experiment and everyone was still on company behavior. Once the rigors of our daily routines had worn the veneer away, I knew things would change. Could be for better, or for worse. In the meantime there was peace, for which I was grateful.

The night air was soft and warm, scented with dry eucalyptus and freshly watered lawn. It was oddly quiet, only the mechanical hum of air conditioners, the pool filter, traffic on Ventura Boulevard in the distance for company. All the neighbors seemed to have shut themselves up inside, staying cool.

Below the moonless sky, the lighted pool looked like a beautiful shimmering blue window. There would be no one to see me, I thought, if I just dove through the glassy surface of the water and swam myself to utter exhaustion. I was sorely tempted.

Instead, I got back into my car and drove down to the big Ralph’s market on the boulevard. I bought a coconut cake and a six-pack of Dr. Pepper. I figured that a drop-in guest at Etta’s who came bearing dessert was more likely to be let inside than a mere intruder. If Etta Harkness had a telephone, this entire excursion would have been unnecessary.

I had to talk to Etta. In the first place, she needed to be warned that there could be a media melee coming to her doorstep. In the second, I had to know what she knew about Mike and Charles Conklin, because Mike wouldn’t tell me any more than he had to.

When a wife finds out about a mistress, she has an overwhelming need to go take a look at the bitch. That’s how I felt. Mike was keeping secrets, and I needed to go feel the bedsheets, check for wet spots.

I had the freeway system more or less figured out. To get to Southeast L.A. from Encino, I took the Ventura to the Hollywood to the Harbor. Traffic was light, nothing to it. Until I exited at Century Boulevard and left the lights of the freeway behind. As I looked around at the crowded scene, Mike’s cautioning voice was in my ear-I had no business being there, alone.

I was in the riot zone. Pick your riot. Both 1965 and 1992 had left a legacy of boarded-up, burned-out shells of buildings. For Sale, For Rent, Available Now signs were overgrown with weeds and covered with graffiti. The battered survivors were liquor stores, check rashers, walk-up bar-b-ques. Barred doors. No such thing as a display window. Gang tags on everything that stood still for even a moment. Down side streets I saw whole blocks laid bare and abandoned.

I was fascinated to see it at night. And I was frightened about being there alone. I could not move anonymously through this scene, could not easily just slip away. When I glanced at my face in my rearview mirror, what I saw were my blue eyes, as obvious and bright against the dark as the blue swimming pool had been. I felt like the ten ring on a target.

Century Boulevard runs directly beneath the final approach for jets landing at the Los Angeles airport. The big planes, only a thousand feet overhead, couldn’t drown out the street mix of busted mufflers and motorcycles in first gear, boom boxes, people in a confrontational mode.

Making the jog from Century down Central to 103rd Street, I got caught at a long signal. As half a dozen kids surged into the street to panhandle among the cars, I pushed the automatic door locks, made sure all windows were up, knocked my bag off the seat into the dark space under the dashboard. A scrawny little guy, maybe all of twelve, with a massive overbite, started smearing my windshield with a grubby rag while he held out his other hand to me.

“Fifty cen’,” he demanded through the closed window. What he lacked in height he made up for in hostility.

Cars front and back wedged me in. I looked away from the kid, watched for the opposing traffic light to turn yellow because forward was my only way away from him.

“Fifty cen’, bitch.” He pounded my window with his fist. “I wash your window. Pay up.”

The light turned green and I started to move with the car in front, but the kid held on to the door, still demanding money from me. He scared me. Halfway through the intersection I found a slot to the right, changed lanes, and accelerated through. I dusted the kid. I dusted a share of beloved liberal sensibilities as well as I watched the boy dodge moving traffic. It hurt that I didn’t care whether he made it back to the sidewalk intact or not.

I turned down Lou Dillon Street into the Jordan Downs projects. Sinking feeling didn’t go far enough to describe how I felt. Profound doom came closer. I had been to Etta’s apartment twice before, both times during the day, both times with Guido. Even then it was scary. At night, alone, with half the street lights out, it was insanity.

The air was maybe fifteen degrees hotter in the projects than it had been in the landscaped grounds of the Valley condo. Young people here were hanging outside looking for air, looking for diversion. A lot of yelling, chasing around, empties on the curb.

All the buildings looked alike, popped from the same crude mold: stark two-story cinder-block rectangles laid in ranks, with saggy clotheslines crisscrossing the patchy lawns between them. It looked institutional, like a prison without gates or bars.

The address Mike had given me for Hanna Rhodes’s grandmother was on Grape Street, in the same block as Etta’s apartment. On Grape Street some of the units had been painted purple, the color of the Grape Street Crips set. The color helped me get my bearings. I passed the grandmother’s apartment first, and thought about stopping by, but there were no lights showing. I drove on.

I found Etta’s ancient Bonneville parked in front of her place. Parked on the lawn next to it were a dozen or more teenagers in black Raider shirts and wrap-around sunglasses. They watched me without much interest. I scoped them, measured the ten or fifteen feet between my car and Etta’s front door, and decided it was a possible mission.

I didn’t have the sort of car anyone would want to steal-there were better ones parked all around. But it was my only means of exit so I did not want anyone to mess with it. If I kept my talk with Etta real short, I thought I would be okay.

I wanted to have my hands free, in case, so I left the cake and the Dr. Pepper in the car. I shouldered my bag, locked up, and set off on a rapid jog toward Etta’s with my keys in my hand.

I drew kids like a magnet; I don’t know where they all came from. They started in on me right away:

“You from the County?”

“Hey, give me some money.”

A little pudge came up close behind me, breathing booze in my face. I glanced at him as I switched my bag to the other shoulder, out of his reach.

“Don’t I hear your mother calling?” I said.

“Don’t get smart with me, bitch. What the fuck you doin’ here?”

A bigger boy ran up beside him. “Grab the bitch, take her purse.”

I was maybe two yards from Etta’s when her screen door popped open and a mass of man stepped out.

“Get your ugly nigger asses the hell away,” he boomed. Amid a chorus of obscene back talk, the kids slithered off.

“Thanks,” I said, slipping into Etta’s living room past the man. It was hot inside and sweat poured off his round black face. The name embroidered on his soiled oil company overalls was Baby Boy. He was at least six and a half feet tall, maybe three quarters that big around the middle. He reeked of beer and sex.

Etta lounged on the sofa nursing a forty-ounce bottle of malt liquor. While Baby Boy looked as if he had come directly from work, Etta had dressed for an occasion: silver satin stretch pants, a silky blouse tied in a knot above her midriff roll. Whatever the occasion she had dressed for, I clearly had not been considered in her plans.

“What you doin’ here?” she asked, the way you address a cockroach in your sugar bowl. Her eyes had a glaze.

I stayed by the door, keeping an eye on the car. “I got permission to take a videocamera into Juvenile Hall Wednesday morning when I talk to Tyrone. Thought you might want to ride along. I can pick you up around eight.”

“Wednesday?” She looked over Baby Boy as if measuring him, deciding how much of him would be left by Wednesday morning. Her gaze turned back to me. “What else you want, honey?”

“Did you watch the news tonight?” I asked.

“The news?” Etta’s head bobbled. “I didn’ watch no news. We was busy, wasn’ we Baby Boy?”

“Yes we was.” Baby Boy laughed, a deep rumble like rolling boulders.

“I’m sorry you missed it,” I said. “A few seconds of the interview you did for me got picked up and attached to a piece on Charles Conklin. You were on the six o’clock news, Etta, calling the police motherfuckers.”

“Hey, baby,” Baby Boy grinned. “You was on the TV.”

Etta raised a hand for him to slap. She was bombed but not too anesthetized to drag up a reaction.

“Thought I should warn you,” I said. “The district attorney has attached his star to Charles Conklin’s grievance. If reporters want more of your story, it won’t take them long to find you. They can swarm over you like angry bees. Trust me, it could get intense.”

“Like how?” she asked.

“Relentless questions, film crews dogging you, people looking in your windows, going through your trash, snooping into your personal business. You won’t have any secrets left to tell.”

“As long as Pinkie gets out the jail, I don’ care what they do.”

“Pinkie is Charles Conklin?” I asked.

She nodded. “What I say?”

“Do you believe he’s innocent?” I asked.

“Don’t care about that, neither.” She slurred her words less as her apparent interest level rose. “Where he is now, he don’t pay no child support. He don’t do nothin’ to help bring up the boy. I want his ass out here where he be some use to me.”

“Tell me about Mr. Conklin,” I said.

“Got nothin’ to say about him.” With the bottle, she was waving me away. But she kept talking. “He is scandalous. I told my girl to stay outta his way. He was dealin’, rennin’ my baby on the street, stealin’ cars. He was sent up for messin’ with his own little girl.”

“Roll that by me again,” I said. “The little girl part.”

“He went to jail for messin’ with this little girl,” she said, her pitch rising at the end. “Left my girl with a baby when he got arrested. She was only fourteen herself.”

“Besides Tyrone, he has a daughter?”

“He has a lotsa kids. An’ he don’t take care of none of them.”

“Nice guy. this Charles Conklin.” I began to relax for Mike a little. Even the most egregious sob sister or opportunist, Roddy O’Leary included, couldn’t make a media hero and martyr out of a child-abusing pimp.

Etta refortified herself with a long pull from her bottle. When she put the bottle down again, she seemed surprised to see me still there. “Was there somethin’ else?”

“That’s about it,” I said. “Except, maybe you should get yourself a lawyer.”

“Me?”

“You may need to protect yourself, Etta, if the sleaze TV people come asking you to sign exclusive interview agreements with them. They can be tricky.”

“What did you call that?”

“An exclusive agreement.”

“Is that like the paper you had me sign?”

“No. You signed a release form giving me the right to commercial use of the interview we taped. It doesn’t keep you from giving interviews to other people.”

“If I sign a’ exclusion thing with you, will those reporters you told me about stay away from me?”

“Not necessarily. Anyway, I can’t pay you for an exclusive. The best I can offer is to put you up in a hotel for a while if things get hinky,” I said, hoping I had a credit card that wasn’t coaxed out if it came to that. “You could take a little vacation until the press loses interest and moves on.”

She smiled at the idea. “I ain’t had no vacation in a long time.”

Baby Boy had a gleam in his eye.

I was ready to go pack her a bag, even though hiding her away was a risky idea that could backfire on all of us if the story got hot. I kept talking. “Go to legal aid tomorrow and get a lawyer before you do anything.”

“Hold on one minute.” Baby Boy took a step toward me. “You say you don’t have money. But those TV people do. A lot of money.”

“How much?” Etta demanded.

“Depends on what you have to say and how badly they want it,” I said. “Anywhere from a few hundred dollars to tens of thousands.”

“They gonna ax me about Tyrone, the way you done?”

“Probably not,” I said. “They’ll want to talk about Charles Conklin and the police who sent him to prison. The district attorney is saying the police threatened the witnesses to make them identify Charles. Do you know who those officers were?”

“Yes I do. Officer Flint and Officer Kelsey. I know them for a long time.”

“They must have questioned you and your daughter, maybe some of your neighbors. Did you ever hear anyone say Officer Flint threatened them? Mistreated anyone? Forced them to change their testimony?”

“He’s the police,” she said, shrugging. “You know how they are.”

“No, I don’t know,” I said. “Suppose you tell me.”

“Uh huh.” Etta, who had been very serious and very blase through the entire conversation, finally gave me her beautiful, big, toothy smile. “Now let me ax you a question. Did Officer Flint ever mistreat you?”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“I’m beginnin’ to understand what you doin’ here. He told me you was his lady now. I think I better take your advice and get me a lawyer before I talk to anyone. Includin’ you.”

“You catch on fast,” I said. “Just one more question, and it has nothing to do with the other business. I’ve been looking for a woman named Hanna Rhodes. She grew up in the projects. She would be twenty-four or twenty-five years old now. Do you know her or her family? The last address for her grandmother is on Grape Street.”

“Hanna?” Etta looked up at Baby Boy before she answered. “Go look in Sybil Brand or Frontera. She in the joint more than she out.”

“Thanks,” I said. “What about Wednesday morning? Do you want to come to Juvenile Hall with me?”

“We’ll see,” she said, flirting at Baby Boy. “We’ll see.”

Smooth dismissal gambit: Baby Boy opened the screen door and held it for me. “Thanks for comin’ by.”

“Bye, Etta,” I said, walking out past Baby Boy. “I’ll be in touch.”

No one bothered me on the walk back to my car, not with Baby Boy standing in the doorway watching. I was grateful to him, and grateful that the car was intact. I wasted not a step, not a movement getting to the car and inside with the doors locked behind me. The engine started, the lights came on, reverse worked, so did drive. I sighed; none of my doomsday scenarios had happened.

I had a moment’s pause, however, when I noticed that the boys who had harassed me going in were sitting on the grass eating coconut cake and drinking Dr. Pepper.