The Tin Collector

Chapter 31

HE WAS SITTING on a low wall that framed the perimeter of the Texaco station one block west of the 405. He seemed small sitting there, diminished by events, his head down, staring at the sidewalk as if the answer to his life might be hiding in the scrub weeds growing between the cracks.

Shane pulled the rented Taurus into the gas station and tapped the horn. Chooch got off the wall, moved to the car, and slid in, pulling the door shut. He sat there, silent, looking like he'd lost something he couldn't replace.

"Your mom's worried."

"Yeah. Okay, let's go," he said.

"You had lunch? There's a good place in Westwood, over by UCLA. Got subs and a great deli."

The boy shrugged, so Shane put the car in gear and headed that way.

The place was called the Little Bruin. Shane and Chooch got a booth in the back surrounded by chattering college students and lunch-break shopkeepers. Chooch ordered the special; Shane, pastrami on rye. They both had Cokes.

"I thought we had a deal. You were gonna stay put, and I was gonna try and get my stuff settled, get back to you by next weekend at the latest."

Chooch was looking out the window at the passing traffic so he could avoid Shane's eyes. "I been thinkin'," he said. "I know it's like a problem all the time havin' to have somebody look after me, but like you said, I'm a man. I make my own choices now, right?" "Right."

"So, if I moved in with you, you wouldn't have to baby-sit me anymore or have Longboard come over and sit. I don't need to be supervised. I'm sorta beyond that. Like you said, right?"

"Yeah, I guess," Shane said. "But I got guys shooting up my place. We'd have to get Kevlar jammies."

"You're not sleeping there, either. I'll go wherever you go."

" 'Cept I'm not your legal guardian. I can't make that choice for you. Sandy has to."

"Yeah, well, the thing is, Sandy and me, we're not gonna happen."

"You sure of that?"

"Yeah. I'm sure. It didn't work."

"You gave it a whole nine hours."

"You know what she does for a living?"

Shane didn't know how to answer that. "Do you?" he finally said.

"Yeah. She's a hooker. I found her trick book. She has over fifty guys in there. It lists what they like, what kinda sex." He was having trouble talking about this, watching the traffic out the window, studying the street with manufactured interest.

"She's paying for my school and shit by fucking guys. She's a whore." He turned back, and Shane could see the anger in the boy's black eyes.

"Chooch, your mom "

"Yeah?"

"When I first met her, she was young, alone in L. A. She made a bad choice, but she doesn't do that anymore. She's an informant for the police department. Federal, as well as LAPD."

"How does that pay for anything?" he challenged. "The private school and that penthouse."

"She dates guys that law enforcement wants to bust, works 'em for information, then sells it to the cops. She does real well. She's trying to save up enough to retire, live with you in Phoenix, be a regular mom."

"Some real mom."

The waitress, a college girl in shorts and a UCLA T-shirt, delivered their lunches, set down silverware wrapped in paper napkins, and left. Shane unwrapped his knife and fork and put the napkin on his lap while Chooch continued to look out the window, brooding.

"Whatta you want, man?" Shane finally said. "It is what it is. I can't change it; neither can you. You've gotta move past it."

"Easy for you. I got nobody now. Least you've got somebody you can talk to."

"Yeah? Who's that?"

"I found all the letters you write to your dad. They were in the desk drawer in the living room. I was looking for paper for my homework."

Shane put down his half-eaten sandwich. Chooch watched him closely, focused on him hard.

"You shouldn't read other people's mail," Shane said softly.

"You write them but you never send 'em."

"He's sick. They were downers. I didn't want to distress him. I don't want to talk about this with you. It's not right you reading my private mail."

They sat in silence for a moment, then Shane's cell phone rang, interrupting an awkward moment. It was the guy at Parker Center checking the Cal-VIP Homes with the Corporations Commission.

"Go," Shane said, grabbing a pencil.

"Spivack Development Corporation, Long Beach, California, owns Cal-VIP and paid the real estate taxes on the Arrowhead address you gave me."

"Anthony Spivack? That Spivack Development? The big corporate developer?"

"It just said Spivack Development, 2000 Lincoln Ave., Long Beach, California."

"Thanks," Shane said, and folded the phone.

"I can't go back to Sandy's place. I won't do it," Chooch protested.

"Okay, okay, I'll work out something. But I've gotta call and tell her you're okay."

"Fine. I don't care. I just don't wanna go back."

"Okay. We can try, but I can't promise that's gonna stick."

They sat quietly in the booth and ate their sandwiches. Chooch, still deep in thought, only picked at his.

"Shane," he said, and Scully looked up at him. "Did she ever tell you who my father was?" The question had been waiting there building up pressure, needing to be asked.

"Yeah," Shane said, "but she didn't want you to find out who he was."

"Because he was one of those guys, one of the crooks she plays to the cops?"

"Chooch, come on…"

"I wanna know. Was my old man a criminal?"

"She'll have to tell you. She made me promise, but it's not really gonna change anything, because he's not coming back for a long time."

"He's a crook… I know it. Some legacy, huh? No wonder I get into so much trouble."

"Hey, Chooch, criminal behavior isn't genetic. You don't pass it on, father to son, like blue eyes and freckles. You can make whatever you want of your life. It's up to you. Your father's mistakes are his. Everybody gets to make their own."

"That's what you keep telling me," the boy said. Then he gave Shane a rueful smile. "And you don't ever lie, right?"

"Right," Shane said. Then without really knowing why, but realizing it was the right thing to do, Shane finally unburdened himself of something he had kept hidden for years. "You wanna know why I never mailed the letters?"

Chooch nodded.

" 'Cause I don't know where to send them."

"It says Florida."

"I don't know where he is, or even who he is. I was left at a hospital. 'Infant 205,' in 1963. I got named by City Services. It's silly. I write the letters when I need to get my thoughts down. And my father…" He stopped, unable to finish for a second. "My father is an idea I can talk to."

"Somebody you wish you had, who can be whatever you want him to be," Chooch said, knowing exactly what Shane meant, feeling all the same things… the loneliness, the disenfranchisement, the emptiness coming from the same hole in their personal histories.

"Yeah." Shane's voice was husky.

"I wondered why you agreed to take me. That's why."

"I don't know why, Chooch. I don't know what I was looking for."

The waitress came to the table and asked them if they wanted anything.

"Yeah," Chooch said. "But I don't think you've got it in the kitchen."

Shane smiled. "Let's get going. I've got an errand to run. You want, you can come with me."

He paid and they left the Little Bruin and headed to the brown Taurus parked at a curbside meter, dazed by what had just happened.

"Thanks for telling me about your dad," Chooch finally said.

"I won't tell about your dad if you won't tell about mine," Shane said.

"Deal," Chooch said, and smiled. They got in the car and left Westwood, both wondering what this strange new connection held for them.