“Dev and his brothers are having a poker party at our place tonight and I couldn’t take all the scratching and spitting.”
“Ew. Literally?”
“No, but trust me, it’s almost as icky in the figurative sense. None of them is a smoker, yet they all insist on lighting up these nasty, skinny little cigars. And I swear every other word out of their mouths is fuck. They don’t talk like that when they’re smashing their thumbs with a hammer.”
Poppy gave her a skeptical look and Jane smiled wryly. “Okay, we’ve all heard them when that happens. But their general speech isn’t fifty-percent obscenities. Put a deck of cards in front of them, though, and…” She shrugged. “So I got out before I landed on Mama K.’s bad side by knocking together her baby boys’ heads and went over to Ava’s. We called you to join us, but you weren’t home.”
“No, I haven’t been there since late this afternoon. It’s been a busy day. Hell, it’s been a busy week.” She considered telling Jane about Darnell going missing yesterday and all that had happened during the attempt to find him. But Jason was too intertwined in the story and she was simply too exhausted to pick through the land mine it’d become if she attempted relating it without including him. “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.” Hopefully she’d have figured out what to incorporate by then.
And what to leave out. She wondered what it would be like to have what Jane had—a sheer happiness that radiated from her even when she was bitching about the man responsible for it.
“So you went to Ava’s. That still doesn’t address what you’re doing here.”
“When I left her place I knew it was still too early for the Kavanagh boys to have wrapped up their game. So I thought I’d take the opportunity to finish cataloging one of the collections I didn’t have time to complete the other day. So here I am. And speaking of Av, she’s got a sudden wild hair to go dancing. You up for it one of these nights if we can find a time that works with all our schedules?”
“Right now it sounds too tiring to even think about. But I imagine I’ll feel differently after I’ve had a good night’s sleep. So, sure. Count me in.”
“Meanwhile,” Jane said, stripping off her little black cashmere sweater, “you have an extra paint smock? Find me one and I’ll give you a hand.”
“Aw, man.” Poppy slung an arm around her friend’s shoulders and gave her a hug. “I love you to pieces for offering. But the extra lab coats I’ve been supplying the kids are out in my car and you’ve got your own job to do. So go ahead and get to it. I think I’ll finish this one wall, then call it a night and head for home.” Turning her head, she pressed a kiss to Jane’s temple. “But thank you. I’m still worn to the bone, but you’ve made me feel much, much better. And I love ya for it.”
Jane hugged her back. “Then I guess my work here is done.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
He didn’t show up today. I wonder if he’s through. With me. The kids. The whole damn project.
USUALLY IT WAS a treat for Cory to have her mother come home during the day. Today, not so much.
Not when Mom had caught her making arrangements to babysit for Nina tomorrow night and had promptly dragged her into their apartment as if she were a six-year-old she’d discovered decorating the walls with crayons.
Sandy Capelli slammed the door behind them and tossed her Kmart purse on the secondhand couch. “You are not babysitting for that woman.”
“I know,” Cory said, deliberately misunderstanding. “Nina doesn’t work tonight.”
“I’m not talking about just tonight, Cory Kay, and you damn well know it. You are never to sit for her again. Nina Petrocova is not the kind of person I want influencing you.”
Cory was used to bowing to her mother’s wishes, but for once she didn’t fret about adding to Sandy’s burden. Because Mom was just plain wrong about this. “You don’t know the first thing about Nina except that she dances at a strip club.”
“And that’s all I need to know!”
“No, it’s not! You can’t just blow off the fact she’s going to school so she can make a better life for herself and Kai. Or that she’s a really good mother.”
“I’ve said my piece and the subject is closed. Tell Ms. I-take-my-clothes-off-for-a-living she’ll need to find someone else.”
“No!”
Her mother froze. Then, crossing her arms over her chest, she fixed an eagle eye on Cory, the exhaustion generally cloaking her like a worn coat nowhere in evidence. “Excuse me, young lady?”
Cory’s heart pounded, but she said in a hard, flat voice, “I’m babysitting for Nina. I can use the money and it’s nice having someone to actually talk to at night.”
“No, you aren’t. I forbid it.”
“Screw that! How are you gonna stop me, Mom? It’s not like you’re ever home.” Grabbing Daddy’s jacket from one of the hooks by the entrance, she whipped it on and slammed out the front door, ignoring her mother’s strident command to come back here this instant.
Her stomach churned as she raced down the stairs and pushed through the heavy metal door that led out onto the street. It wasn’t fair, she fumed as she stomped down the sidewalk to the bus stop. Mom wasn’t hardly ever around and Cory was tired of always being in the apartment alone. It was creepy at night, with its random creaks and groans and all the people who came and went. Mom would be smarter to worry about the guy in 308 who was dealing drugs instead of focusing on Nina, who was just trying to get along!
Besides, when did she get credit for being good? Ever since Daddy was killed she’d been bending over backward to spare Mom from her problems. Cory hadn’t given her a single, solitary reason to doubt her judgment. Since moving here a few months ago she’d kept up at school, even though she was a big zit on the student body’s ass. It wasn’t only her who thought so, either—hardly anyone ever talked to her. Yet had she taken her worries to the streets to try to work them out with the one thing that usually made her feel better, her art? No, sir. Not since the night she’d had the run-in with the henchman whose name, she’d learned by asking a few cautious questions, was Bruno Arturo.
Bruno. She shivered. The name reminded her of that bully Bluto from the old Popeye cartoons, so it seemed fitting. He was definitely someone big and mean and—even without the gun—not a man she ever wanted to come across again.
All the same, being a goody two-shoes had, like, zero rewards. So maybe she oughtta chance going out to paint a wall with one of the graphic ’toons she’d been experimenting with in her sketch pad. If she was careful, kept her eyes peeled and just went the once, returning to the streets somewhere other than the U district might be okay. And it would probably be a good idea to hang around with someone instead of going it alone. Couldn’t hurt, anyhow.
She wondered what Danny G. was doing tonight.
And if she’d have the nerve to invite him to go along with her.
It turned out he was just crossing the Ace parking lot to Mr. Harvey’s shop next door when she arrived. In fact, everyone had beat her to the corner lot except Detective de Sanges.
“I thought we were all done with this crap,” Henry was grousing as she walked up, his attention glued on Ms. C. “We painted over everything I…er, that is, the stuff that was tagged, didn’t we? So how come we hadda come back here today?”
Cory would never admit this to a soul, but she was going to miss these sessions.
Kinda.
Sorta.
Well, it wasn’t like they were important to her or anything. She just enjoyed spending time with Danny G., who, aside from being studalicious cute, was something of a mystery—so therefore intriguing beyond belief. Ms. Calloway…well, Ms. C. was over-the-top dap, and Henry wasn’t nearly the pain in the butt she’d thought he was at first. Well, he could be, for sure. But she’d come to understand from little things he’d let drop that his father was a serious drunk. She’d lost Daddy way too soon, and she was still angry and mystified and in a world of hurt over it. But at least she�
��d been lucky enough to have the father she’d had for almost thirteen years.
Even Detective de Sanges wasn’t a complete jerkaholic.
“I said,” Henry said louder, “I thought we were—”
Rising to her feet from where she’d been stooped to pull stuff out of the big tote she never seemed to leave home without, Ms. C. turned and leveled a gaze on him. Henry shut up, as they’d all learned to do when she gave them that look.
“Were you speaking to me, Mr. Close?” she inquired mildly. “I assumed you were not when I failed to hear you address me by name.” She closed the distance to where the three of them stood clustered together. Stopping first in front of Danny, then Henry, then Cory, Ms. Calloway handed each of them an Aquabee Co-Mo sketch pad—the big size!—along with a tin of a dozen Faber-Castell color pencils.
Cory stared down at the latter in awe. She’d never owned actual artist’s pencils before. She’d always made do with the drugstore variety of colored pencils. And their leads were generally too soft for any kind of precision work.
“I was intending to wait for Detective de Sanges to arrive before we had our little ceremony, but he appears to be held up somewhere,” Ms. Calloway said and a flush of pink inexplicably washed across her cheeks. It apparently had nothing to do with the detective, however, because she promptly waved her statement aside with an airy sweep of her hand and added, “But you know what they say—you snooze, you lose. So his loss.”
Then she went all solemn, as if this were some big momentous moment. “I’m very proud of you three. You’ve been marvelous. You showed up where and when you were asked to show up and did an exemplary job of cleaning up the tagging.” A wry smile tugged up one corner of her mouth. “With darn near the bare minimum of complaints.”
She studied each of them individually, taking her time with Danny G. before she moved on to Cory, and with her before moving on to Henry. Cory didn’t know about the guys, but during the moment that Ms. C.’s warm, probing regard was directed solely at her, she felt it light up places inside of her she hadn’t even known were in shadow. In that instant, she felt cocooned—soothed and relieved in some unfathomable way of the ragged feeling that had been lodged in her stomach since her fight with her mother.
She felt…special.
Then Ms. C. grinned, and things went back to normal. “So phase one of your ordeal is over.”
“Say what?” Henry bristled with indignation. “Whatchu mean, phase one? We’re done here, right?”
“Not quite. You’ve completed the work part. Now it’s time to move on to the fun part.”
“Which is where you cut us loose?”
“No, Mr. Close. Which is where I give you the opportunity to produce a piece of art the entire neighborhood can enjoy. Art that will be around for years to come.” She gave a little shrug. “Well, if some tagger doesn’t come along and scribble over it, that is.”
She gave a nod to the sketch pads and pencils she’d given them. “That’s where your supplies come in. I’d like you to think about what you’d like to paint on the side of Mr. Harvey’s building.” She tipped her head toward the still-pristine wall they had painted a couple of weeks ago. “Put some thought into it. Work up some proposals. It can be anything.”
“Yeah, right,” Henry scoffed. “S’long as it’s boring old-people art, you mean.”
“No, I truly mean anything. Well, anything legal at any rate. No porn and no severed, gore-and-blood dripping body parts. But it doesn’t have to be representative art. It can be, if you want. But it could also be graphic, mural, storyboard or graffiti-based. Or something else that I haven’t touched on. The possibilities are only as limited as your imaginations, so show me some examples of what floats your boat. If you’re blocked, check out some of the public art in the various neighborhoods.”
“Like what?”
Henry’s tone was sulky but Ms. Calloway gave him a gentle smile. “Well, I could send you to West Seattle, to either the Alaska or Morgan Street junctions. They’ve got several murals in their business districts. But I bet you’d like Piece of Mind in Fremont better. It has totems and monsters and dudes with dreads and leans toward graffiti in its execution and bright colors.”
“When were you planning on us doing this?” Danny asked coolly, and Cory noticed that although he asked as if he didn’t give a big fat rip, the same spark of excitement she felt catching fire in herself burned deep in his eyes.
Ms. C. dug through the tote she’d dragged over with her and consulted her day planner. “How about next Saturday? That’ll give you almost a week to research ideas and work something up.” When they didn’t respond, she looked up at them. “That actually wasn’t a rhetorical question—I’m giving you a choice this time. So how about it? Does that sound agreeable?”
Henry hitched his shoulder and scowled, but both she and Danny G. nodded. Not with so much enthusiasm that they’d look like a couple of geeks, of course. They merely tipped their chins in cool agreement.
And Ms. Calloway laughed. “Excellent. Let’s meet at the Fremont Coffee Shop at eight.”
“In the morning?” Henry looked aghast.
“Yes. That way if we find a direction we’d like to take, we can dive right in. C’mon, Henry.” It was the first time since beginning this project that she’d addressed any of them by their given names. “Let’s produce some art. I’ll even spring for muffins and the drink of your choice.”
Once everyone agreed, Ms. C. excused herself, telling them she had to run because of a date with a black or white board or something—Cory didn’t quite get it. Henry barely waited for Poppy to stride away before he, too, took off. Cory gazed at Danny.
And swallowed dryly, then tried to take a calming breath.
Tried to think of a way to ask him if maybe…
Possibly…
Perhaps…
“Whataya say we go over to Fremont and see that Piece of Mind place Ms. C. was talking about?” Danny asked while she was still running all the pros and cons through her mind.
“Hey, I was just thinking the same thing!” she said—then could have smacked herself. She probably sounded like a dorkana, all wriggly with puppy eagerness and practically piddling on his shoes. “Uh, I wonder what bus we should take?”
“Number none.” He shot her a lopsided smile. “C’mon. I’ve got a ride.”
She walked by his side, thinking if this went okay, maybe she’d broach the idea of hitting the streets later on to practice a little graffiti. Then she wondered what kind of car he drove. If he was like most kids their age, it was probably some secondhand beater. Not that she’d sneer at that if it was.
Like people in glass shoes could afford to kick rocks! She probably couldn’t even aspire to owning the oldest wreck on the road—something even worse than Ms. C.’s heap of glued-together scrap metal—until she was really old. Like twenty-five or thirty or thereabouts.
When Danny G. stopped in front of a brand-new-looking, shiny pearlescent tobacco-colored SUV, however, her jaw sagged. “Holy crapoli, that’s your ride?”
He grinned at her.
“It’s not stolen, is it? ’Cuz I’m not getting in any stolen car.”
He twirled a set of keys beneath her nose. “It’s not stolen. It’s mine.” He beeped the doors open and leaned in the driver’s side.
His dad’s, more like. Or maybe his mother’s. But, man, she couldn’t even imagine her mom driving something this nice, let alone letting Cory borrow it. She stared at the long stretch of Danny’s back as he rummaged through one of those thingamajigs you Velcroed to the sun visor.
He backed out of his car and handed her a small, flat, black folder. She shot him a puzzled glance before turning her attention to it. Flipping it open, she saw a pale green Department of Licensing certificate and, noting that it was a car registration, focused in to read the entire thing.
Jeeeeez. It was made out to Daniel Gardo and she studied the pertinent parts in awe yet again before slapping the folder cl
osed and handing it back to him.
“This is, like, brand-new. How did you get a brand-new car?” An awful thought occurred to her and she narrowed her eyes at him. “You don’t deal drugs, do you?”
“For crap’s sake, Cory,” he snapped. “First you accuse me of stealing the car and now I’m a dealer?”
Her crushin’-on-Danny self demanded she scramble to take back the question, or at least to laugh it off—anything so he wouldn’t be mad at her and retract the invitation. But she stiffened her spine. She would not talk to—let alone get involved with—a gang member or a drug dealer, and she tipped her chin up at him. “You didn’t answer the question, Gardo.”
“Yeah, because it was stupid. I’m not a goddamn drug dealer.” He scowled at her.
Good enough, good enough, good enough, her inner Danny groupie moaned. He’d answered the freakin’ question. At least the second part of it. But something inside of her that no longer accepted anything at face value made her cross her arms over her chest and tap her foot.
He rammed his fingers through his hair and stared at her. Then he said in a low, sullen voice, “My mom’s husband is loaded, okay?”
“Okay.” She went around to the passenger side and climbed in, looking over at him when he got in the driver’s side. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. I wish my mom was loaded.”
But that reminded her of their fight and equal parts anger and guilt, which she’d forgotten for a while, immediately started duking it out in her stomach.
No. Determinedly she pushed them away. She re fused to feel guilty today. She wasn’t the one in the wrong this time. Mom was.
“There are worse things than not having money,” Danny G. said, and his tone was quiet, fervent.
But Cory snorted. “Spoken like someone who’s probably always had plenty.”
“Yeah, well, you know what they say,” he muttered darkly. “Money doesn’t always buy happiness.”
She swiveled as much as her seat belt would allow to look at him. And saw something she couldn’t quite define in his expression. But he looked sad, even if he was projecting an I-don’t-give-a-damn nonchalance. “Well, neither does being poor,” she said quietly. “My mom and I had a fight today.”
Bending the Rules Page 15