His uncle gave him that smart-ass know-it-all cop look of his. “And that didn’t tell you anything?” he said. “When was this party? After work?”
“I called in sick.”
His uncle digested this. “So when you called me from the store…?”
“I was at the party.”
“You lied to me. Good one, Ryan.”
Dooley felt ashamed.
“There was this girl,” he said. “She’s not an excuse. She’s just the reason.” After more than a year with Dr. Calvin, he knew the difference between the two. “It didn’t go the way I wanted. I got mad. I took a drink.” It wasn’t good enough. Even he knew it. “I took a couple of drinks.”
“A couple?” his uncle said. “You were out cold when they picked you up.”
“Two glasses of champagne. A Coke with something in it.” He hadn’t asked for it, but he hadn’t refused it, either. “That’s it. I swear.”
His uncle shook his head. “You ask me what happened like you don’t have a clue and all of a sudden you’re one hundred percent positive all you had was three drinks? Or maybe you’re bullshitting me, because something sure doesn’t add up. The least you could do is be straight with me.”
“I am being straight,” Dooley said. “Three drinks, which, yeah, I know I shouldn’t have had.”
“You could go back for that.”
As if Dooley didn’t know.
“I don’t remember what happened after that,” he said. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”
His uncle peered hard at him. He turned to the cop and said, “You want to wait outside?” The cop didn’t budge. “He’s not under arrest,” Dooley’s uncle said.
“He’s a suspect,” the cop said.
Suspect? Jesus, in what?
“He’s also seventeen years old. He has rights. He has a right to consult with a parent or guardian—that’s me—in private. You want me to call your sergeant and ask him to ask remind you of that?” Dooley’s uncle said. The cop got up.
“I’ll be right outside,” he said.
Dooley’s uncle watched the cop go. Then he turned back to Dooley. “There was a smash-and-grab at an electronics store a couple of blocks from the house,” he said. “They think you had something to do with it.”
“What? No way. I was at a party. I wasn’t anywhere near any electronics store. Why do they think I had something to do with it?”
“Well, for one thing,” his uncle said, “they found your wallet at the scene.”
“What?” Dooley reached automatically for his pants pocket and realized that he wasn’t wearing pants. His head was pounding. He closed his eyes against the light. “My wallet,” he said slowly. He didn’t want to ask the next question—he was embarrassed and ashamed that he had to—but he needed to know. “What about me? Where was I?”
“You they found passed out in the backyard.”
“Backyard? You mean, at home?”
“At my place, yeah.”
My place. Not home. That didn’t sound good.
“They also found a length of pipe they think was used to smash the store window. They’re going to see if there are any prints on it. The good news, so far, is that they didn’t find any of the stolen property on you. They want to search the house and I’m going to let them. They won’t find anything, right, Ryan?”
Jesus, Dooley sure hoped not.
“The theory they’re working on is that you’re a real bonehead. They think you took the stuff to sell so you could buy drugs, but that you were so blasted when you did it, you dropped your wallet with your address in it and then passed out before you even got in the house.”
He could imagine the cops all having a good laugh at that.
“I don’t think I’d do anything like that,” he said.
“I didn’t think you’d lie to me,” his uncle said. “Goes to show, huh?” Dooley wondered if he was ever going to get over being pissed off.
“I don’t remember doing it,” Dooley said.
His uncle was looking at him hard. Finally he said, “This party you went to—whose was it?”
“A guy from school.”
“You know him well?”
Dooley shook his head and then wished he hadn’t. Just that little movement made his head pound even harder.
“He’s just a guy.”
“What, is he The Man With No Name?” For some reason that Dooley couldn’t fathom, his uncle was very big on old Clint Eastwood westerns, what he called spaghetti westerns.
Dooley told him Rhodes’s name.
“So this kid Rhodes who you don’t really know, did he invite you to the party, or did you just decide to show up?”
Dooley’s first thought: geeze, on top of everything else, now he thinks I’m a party crasher? His second thought: he probably deserved whatever his uncle thought.
“He invited me. And I went—”
“Because of this girl?”
“Yeah.”
“And what? She blew you off and you got mad and took a drink? Three drinks?”
“Something like that. Look, I know it was dumb.”
“Damn straight it was dumb. Then what?”
“Then I don’t know. Everything just went weird.”
“What do you mean weird? You mean you were drunk?”
“Not like that,” Dooley said. “Not after three drinks.” It would take a lot more than three drinks to get Dooley drunk.
“You remember leaving the party?”
“No.”
“What about the other guy?”
“What other guy?”
“The responding officer says he has someone who saw two people in front of that store maybe fifteen minutes before the alarm went off. Who were you with?”
All Dooley could do was shake his head. He still wasn’t sure that he’d been there.
His uncle was staring at him, like if he looked hard enough, he could see the truth.
Then the cop came back with a second cop, and they quizzed Dooley about what had happened. They pressed him on what exactly he had done and who he had been with. Dooley had to tell them, “I don’t know.” They didn’t like that. He was pretty sure they didn’t believe him.
After the cops left, Dooley’s uncle glanced at his watch and said, “You get some rest. I’m going back to the hotel to apologize to Jeannie on your behalf. Then I’m going home. I’ll be back with some clean clothes after they’ve searched the place.”
“I’m sorry,” Dooley said.
“Save it,” his uncle said.
A doctor showed up later in the morning and asked Dooley what he had taken. Dooley told him about the three drinks. The doctor asked him, was he allergic to alcohol? Dooley said, not that he knew. The doctor asked if maybe he’d taken some drugs. Dooley said, not that he knew of. After a while, a nurse came in with an orderly and told Dooley they needed a urine sample, his uncle had requested it. She asked him if he could get to the bathroom. Dooley said he thought he could, but as soon as he tried to stand, his knees buckled. The orderly grabbed him and steadied him. Then he walked Dooley to the bathroom. Dooley started to close the door. The orderly said, “Sorry, kid.” Dooley wanted to argue—there was no one else in there, what did they think he was going to do?—but didn’t think it would help. At least the orderly didn’t stare at him while he filled the specimen bottle. After that, Dooley went back to sleep. He woke up when his uncle shook him.
“Did they search the house?” Dooley said.
“House and property.”
“Did they find anything?”
His uncle shook his head. Dooley couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed.
“Get dressed,” his uncle said. He had brought the new clothes he’d bought Dooley for Mark Everley’s funeral. “It might help if you don’t look like a fuck-up,” he said.
It turned out they were going to see Al Szabo, Dooley’s youth worker. Dooley’s uncle sat grim-faced beside Dooley while Dooley explained that he
had called in sick to work when he hadn’t been sick, that he had gone to a party even though he had told his uncle he was going to work, that he had taken a couple of drinks even though he knew that under his supervision order he wasn’t supposed to touch alcohol, and that he was suspected of involvement in a smash-and-grab at an electronics store, but that he was pretty sure he hadn’t done it, even though he had no memory of what had happened. He had been hoping that Al Szabo would be at least a little surprised. After all, for the past couple of months, right up until last night, Dooley had been a model citizen—he’d gone to school regularly, he’d held down a job, he was seeing a therapist, he hadn’t touched drugs or alcohol, he hadn’t been in any trouble.
The whole time Dooley was talking, Al Szabo sat behind his desk looking as stern-faced as Dooley’s uncle. The only difference was that every now and then he jotted something down on a pad of paper. After Dooley finished talking, Al Szabo made a few more notes and leaned back in his chair so he could get a good look at Dooley. He said, “Well, Ryan, what do you think we should do about that?”
It was a question Dooley had hoped he would never hear again. He’d always hated the question because always what the person who was asking it was really saying was, “Pick your poison. You want the gas chamber, or do you prefer lethal injection?” But, what the hell, since he was asking…
“I think we should give me another chance.”
His uncle must have thought Dooley was being sarcastic, because he gave him a sharp look. Then he surprised Dooley by saying, “It’s the first trouble he’s been in since he came to live with me. He’s come a long way, considering.” Considering the shit pile I pulled him out of, he meant. “He messes up again and he knows you’re the least of his problems.” He was all gruff, maybe trying to scare Dooley, possibly trying to impress Al Szabo. Dooley thought it was most likely the former.
Al Szabo fiddled with his pen and stared across his chipped metal desk at Dooley.
“How are your grades?” he said.
“Okay, I guess,” Dooley said. He always did his homework. Always. Even when he suspected that the teacher didn’t like him or didn’t expect much from him. “We have midterms in a couple of weeks.”
“Attendance?”
“He hasn’t missed a day,” Dooley’s uncle said.
Al Szabo’s eyes flicked from Dooley to Dooley’s uncle and back to Dooley again.
“I haven’t missed a day,” Dooley said. “Haven’t skipped, either. You can call the school and ask them.”
“How’s the job?”
“It’s boring and it pays minimum wage,” Dooley said. There was no point in trying to bullshit Al Szabo. “But I get free rentals.”
‘The manager there seems to like you,” Al Szabo said.
“Kevin?” That didn’t sound right.
Al Szabo glanced down at the file that was open on his desk. “Guy Fielding,” he said.
Mr. Fielding. The store manager. He managed three stores in the chain. He was the one who had hired Dooley. For some reason Dooley didn’t understand, he and Mr. Fielding had hit it off during the interview. Dooley had been up-front with him. He’d told him the trouble he’d been in. Mr. Fielding had said, “So, I’m guessing you’re not a big fan of cop movies. I’m guessing you’re more of a Tarantino guy.” Dooley had said, well, he thought Tarantino was one smart guy, but, to tell the truth, he was too blood-happy. Dooley said he liked some of the British stuff better. “You mean, Guy Ritchie and what’s-his-name, the guy who did The Limey?” Mr. Fielding had said. No, Dooley said. Some of the quieter stuff, the stuff they showed on TV there but that you could rent here. He said he liked Robbie Coltrane, the character he played, he drank too much, he ate too much, but he always figured out the case without breaking a sweat, and you know what? The guy didn’t even own a gun. Yeah, Dooley liked him a lot. That’s when Mr. Fielding had said, “Welcome aboard, Dooley,” making him the first adult ever who had gone along just like that with calling Dooley by the name he preferred.
Al Szabo looked across the desk at Dooley for a moment before he said, “Why don’t we see what happens on these smash-and-grab allegations? They nail you for that, Ryan, and it’s out of my hands. You understand that, right?”
Dooley said he did.
After Dooley and his uncle left the office, Dooley’s uncle said, “You realize I just stuck my neck out for you.”
Dooley said he did. He said, “Thanks.” When he finally got home with his uncle, he took off his tie and said, “Now what?”
“You tell me,” his uncle said.
“You going to ground me or something?”
“You’re being investigated for a crime that, if it turns out you did it, they’re going to lock you up again, and you want to know if I’m going to ground you?” His uncle shook his head.
Dooley went up to his room, crawled into bed, and slept until his uncle woke him up at four-thirty.
“You’re working tonight, right?” his uncle said.
Dooley had a monster headache. He felt queasy, like he was going to throw up, only he didn’t see how he could because there was nothing in his stomach. He wished he could call in sick, but he knew that wouldn’t fly, not today.
“Get dressed,” his uncle said. “Come downstairs. I made you breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You have to eat something. Come on.”
When he got downstairs, his uncle put a plate in front of him—scrambled eggs and dry toast. Also, a mug of coffee.
“I know you don’t believe it, but it’ll make you feel better,” his uncle said.
Dooley almost gagged on his first mouthful, but he choked it all down, mainly so his uncle wouldn’t have an excuse to get pissed off again. His uncle sat opposite him at the table.
“You know what Rohypnol is, Ryan?”
“Roofies? Sure,” Dooley said, and then wished he hadn’t answered so fast. Boy, the things he knew and the things he didn’t. “Why?”
“You ingested some.” The urine specimen. His uncle must have some connections to get the results do fast. “Either you knew what you were doing or you didn’t.”
Dooley stared at his uncle.
“Are you saying someone put something in my drink?”
“So you’re saying you didn’t know?”
“That’s the date rape drug. Why would I take that?”
His uncle rolled his eyes. “Give me a break. I’ve been around the block more than a few times, Ryan.”
Okay, so some guys slipped roofies into girls’ drinks so they could score on them. But there were other people who took them because they gave that extra kick to a drink, made you float, made you oblivious. And, okay, so there were plenty of times, including now, when Dooley wished he could be oblivious.
“If you say I ingested it, I ingested it,” Dooley said. “But I didn’t know.” Roofies—odorless, colorless, tasteless.
His uncle studied him for a few moments.
“I’m going to pass this information on,” he said. “I don’t know what kind of difference it’s going to make on the smash-and-grab, especially with your record. But we’ll see. And, Ryan? These new friends of yours? How about you stay away from them, okay?”
Sixteen
You look like shit,” Linelle said. “And here I thought you were malingering last night.”
Malingering? If Dooley’s head didn’t feel as if there was a road crew inside it, jack-hammering what was left of his brains, he might have asked her where she’d got that one. The bright lights in the store were like a thousand needles piercing and re-piercing his eyeballs. He wished he could wear sunglasses but knew Kevin would never go for it. Eggs and toast and coffee were churning like dirty laundry in his stomach (his uncle had been wrong about them making him feel better). He wished he wasn’t working straight through to midnight.
Rhodes came in around nine while Dooley was alone at cash. He was wearing a different leather jacket this time and jeans that looked worn
and crisp all at the same time.
“Dooley, geeze, are you okay?” he said, peering at Dooley, which told Dooley that Linelle was right, he looked like shit. “The cops came by my house this afternoon. They wanted to know if you were at my place last night. After they left, I realized I didn’t know how to get in touch with you. You aren’t in the book. I was hoping you’d be here. What happened?”
Dooley just shrugged. He didn’t want to get into it, not here.
But Rhodes did. At least he kept his voice low.
“The cops, they were really pressing me about the party,” he said. He looked worried. “My dad nearly lost it. You should have heard him. He gets pissy with cops. Doesn’t like them. He told them, yeah, there was a party. And, yeah, whenever there’s a big party like that, there’s always kids who bring stuff and do stuff.” His voice was pitched lower now, doing what Dooley guessed was an imitation of his father. “What can you do, right? But there was no damage done in the house. No damage done to the property or to any of the neighbors’. No neighbors complaining.”
Dooley spotted Kevin at the back of the store, watching him, trying to figure out if Rhodes was a customer, which would be good, or a friend on a social visit, which was against store policy.
“He said to the cop, this kid who robbed that store—he meant you, Dooley. Geeze, you robbed a store? What was that like?”
“I didn’t do it,” Dooley said.
Rhodes looked a little disappointed. He got that a lot—kids who had never been in trouble always wanting to know what it was really like and always disappointed when what he told them didn’t live up to what they had seen on TV or in some movie or, more often, when Dooley said nothing at all.
“Yeah, well, my dad said to the cop, this kid who robbed that store, nobody twisted his arm to take a drink,” Rhodes said. “He said, there were dozens of kids there who saw him knock them back, isn’t that right? Then he looked at me, and what could I do? I mean, it’s true, right?” He sounded sorry about it.
“Yeah, I guess,” Dooley said.
“Then my dad said, when it comes right down to it, who’s to say this kid didn’t do most of his drinking after he left the house?” Rhodes shook his head. “That’s my dad. He didn’t want to get involved. He never wants to get involved, not when there’s cops around. He doesn’t like me getting involved, either. That’s just the way he is. After the cops left, he told me if anything like that ever happens again, cops coming to the house, he meant, he’s cutting me out of his will.” He showed Dooley a crooked little smile, the expression suggesting to Dooley that this was probably something Rhodes’s father said all the time. “You’re sure you’re okay?” Rhodes said again.
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