Men from Boys Read online

  He put it in drive and the car lurched forward. He reached over and punched his partner on the shoulder. ‘We got it, McHugh. We got the arrest.’

  McHugh didn’t answer.

  ‘What about my car?’ the boy asked.

  ‘What about it?’ Mendez replied. ‘It’s in a safe place. Someone will take you back to it when you’re finished with the detectives.’

  ‘I need to call my dad.’

  ‘We can do that at the station. First thing.’

  Fifteen minutes later the boy was sitting at a desk in the detective bureau. Mendez handed him the phone and told him to dial nine first to get an outside line. Mendez said the boy could tell his father to come to the station if he wanted.

  The boy dialed his home number but after ten rings the old man didn’t pick up. He hung up. He thought it was strange that there was no answer. His father had not said anything about going out. If he had gone out for cigarettes or beer it seemed as though he would have done so earlier. The boy dialed the number a second time but once again got no answer. He hung up the phone.

  ‘Pop’s not there, huh?’ Mendez said.

  ‘No answer.’

  ‘Okay, well, the lead detective on this case wants to talk to you so we’re going to move you into one of the interview rooms and then he’ll be in to see you as soon as he’s free. We’ve got to get our paperwork done and then get back out on the street.’

  He followed Mendez and McHugh to a small room with a table and two chairs. There was also a mirrored window that the boy figured led to a viewing room. He’d seen it on Kojak before.

  They left him there and an hour drifted slowly by while the boy thought about what the running man had said before they shoved him into the patrol car. Then the door opened and a man wearing a suit stepped in. He had fiery red hair and a grim smile. He said his name was Sonntag and offered his hand. The boy said his own name as they shook and the detective, for just a moment, stopped shaking then started again. He then pulled out the chair and sat across from the boy.

  ‘Where do you live, kid?’

  He gave his address and watched the detective’s face turn grimmer.

  ‘What? What’s wrong?’

  ‘I need to some questions first. Who lives there with you? Your mom and dad?’

  ‘Just my dad.’

  ‘Where’s your mom?’

  ‘I don’t know. She’s been gone a long time. What does this have to do with anything? I saw a guy running. What does it matter where my mother is?’

  ‘It doesn’t. I’m just asking questions. Tell me about the man you saw running.’

  The boy repeated the story he had told the first two cops. He added no new details, believing the less said with Sonntag the better. The detective asked no questions until the story was finished.

  ‘And you are sure the man they took into custody was the man you saw running?’

  ‘I don’t know. I guess so.’

  ‘You guess so?’

  ‘Well, so far, I haven’t gotten to look at him, except from the car.’

  ‘We’ll take care of that in a minute. Now you said you saw this running man coming from the direction of the drawbridge, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you see him on the bridge?’

  The boy didn’t know what to do. The one lie he had told had cascaded. Now he had to keep lying to stay clear. He wished he could talk to his father.

  ‘You either saw him on the bridge or you didn’t,’ Sonntag said.

  ‘I didn’t. Can I use the phone again? I want to call my father.’

  Sonntag stared at him a moment before speaking. ‘Not yet. Let’s get the story down first. So you didn’t see him on the bridge but you’re pretty sure he was coming from that direction.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’re having trouble locating the weapon. Is it possible that he threw it into the river when he was coming over the bridge?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so. It’s possible.’

  ‘Did you see him do that?’

  ‘No, I told you, I didn’t see him on the bridge.’

  The boy knew that Sonntag was trying to trick him, or get him to agree to seeing something he didn’t see. The boy sat frozen. He knew that now was the time to tell. Tell about the gun and try to explain it. But he couldn’t.

  ‘I want to talk to my father.’

  Sonntag nodded like he understood and would arrange for the request right away. But that’s not what he said when he opened his mouth. ‘Your father’s name is Edison Chambers, correct?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ the boy answered, his voice rising with suspicion. ‘Is he here?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. I feel awful about this, kid, but I have to tell you. It looks like your father was one of the people this dirt bag shot.’

  The boy’s mouth shot open. He felt the room and the bright lights crashing in on him. He heard Sonntag still talking.

  ‘Edison Chambers. We got the ID from his wallet. He was in the store, getting a six-pack from one of the coolers in the back. He bent down to get it from the bottom and we guess the shooter didn’t see him in there. He came in and went to the register. The woman there, he probably shot her first. That was when your father stood up. The shooter saw him then . . .’

  Sonntag didn’t have to finish. The boy leaned forward and put his face into his hands. In the blackness he heard the detective ask him if he had any other family living in the area.

  ‘My aunt and uncle,’ he said.

  ‘We need to call them when we’re finished here.’

  ‘I want to go to my house.’

  ‘We’ll release you to your aunt and uncle and the three of you can decide.’

  The boy didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say or to think. He suddenly flashed on the gun in the glove box. He wanted to get back to his car.

  ‘We’re setting up a line-up,’ Sonntag said.

  The boy straightened up. Tear trails marked both sides of his face. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’re putting the suspect in a line-up of men and we’ll see if you can pick him out. Don’t worry, he won’t see you. You’ll be behind a mirror.’

  But he already did see me, the boy thought but didn’t say. He just nodded his head. A plan was formulating. He concentrated on it instead of thinking about his father.

  ‘You ready, then?’ Sonntag asked.

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Okay, then. Let’s do it and then we’ll get your aunt and uncle on the phone. Let’s go do this thing for your dad.’

  The boy stood up and followed Sonntag through the door. He was taken to a dark room where a window looked into a well-lighted room. The far wall was white and spotless, except for the hash marks that marked feet and inches so an observer could gauge height. After a few minutes six men were led into the well-lit room in a line and they stood facing the boy against the wall.

  ‘They can’t see me?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Sonntag. ‘It’s one-way glass.’

  The boy looked at the men in the line-up. Only two had beards. And one was the running man. He could tell. He was looking at the man who had killed his father. Thoughts blasted though him with sounds like waves crashing on the beach. He felt weak in the knees but strong in the heart. He felt a tear slide down his soft, whiskerless cheek. He wiped it away and heard the waves replaced by his father’s voice. Time to be a man.

  ‘Well,’ Sonntag said, bending down close to the boy’s ear to whisper. ‘Which one?’

  The boy didn’t answer. He was working a plan out in his head.

  ‘Pick him out, son,’ said the detective.

  The boy shook his head. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘You don’t have him. He’s not there.’

  The boy could literally feel the detective tense.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean the guy I saw isn’t there.’

  ‘Kid, come on. We’re talking about your father.’

  ‘I know. I
want to get the right man and he’s not there.’

  Sonntag bent closer to him again to whisper, ‘Don’t be afraid. He can’t hurt you. Just pick him out.’

  ‘I’m not afraid. He just isn’t there.’

  ‘But one of those men over there is the one you picked out at the bar.’

  ‘It was dark and I was sitting in a patrol car. I saw the beard and thought . . .’

  ‘Thought what?’

  ‘I thought it was him but it’s not. You have the wrong guy.’

  Sonntag exhaled loudly, angrily. His voice returned to normal volume. ‘Let me tell you something, besides you we’ve got nothing. No weapon, no witness, no camera in the store. The guy you say you picked by mistake does have one thing, though. Gunshot residue on his hands. We know he fired a gun in the last few hours. But if we don’t get an ID or recover that weapon and connect him to it, then guess what, he walks out of here like nothing ever happened. They’ll have his beer waiting on the bar for him at The Pirate. So do me a favor and look again and pick him out.’

  The boy shook his head. ‘I can’t. He’s not there.’

  ‘Well, kid, then I hope you can face your father’s ghost. Let’s go.’

  Sonntag roughly clapped the boy on the shoulder and pushed him toward the door.

  Twenty minutes later the boy sat on a bench in the front lobby. His uncle was on the way. Sonntag had told him he had twenty-four hours to change his mind about the identification. That was how long they could hold the running man. After that they had to charge him or let him go. That was fine with the boy. Twenty-four hours was plenty of time to do what he needed to do.

  His uncle wasn’t happy to see him. He had been told by Sonntag about the failure to make an identification of the running man. ‘He was your father but he was my brother,’ the uncle said. ‘If he was the guy you should’ve said it was the guy.’

  ‘I would’ve, but they don’t have him. They just wanted to arrest somebody, doesn’t matter who.’

  ‘That detective told me on the phone that they had the right guy. That it was you who messed it up.’

  ‘He’s wrong. Can you take me to my car?’

  ‘You are supposed to come home with me. The police said you –’

  ‘I am coming to your place but I can’t leave my car in the middle of a gas station all night. I also need to go by the house to get some clothes. So drop me off at my car and I’ll come by later.’

  ‘Don’t make it late.’

  ‘It already is late.’

  They said very little the rest of the way. They drove by the Kwik Mart where the shooting had taken place. There were still police cars and a white van in the parking lot. There was yellow tape all around.

  ‘Is that where . . .?’ the uncle asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  The boy looked away. In a few minutes they pulled into the closed gas station and the lights of his uncle’s car washed across the boy’s Volkswagen.

  ‘Still there,’ the uncle said.

  ‘Yeah. Thanks for the ride.’

  ‘We’ll see you in a little while?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Look, Bobby, I’m sorry. About your dad. My brother. You know. He wasn’t the nicest guy to you, I know. But something like this . . . It shouldn’t have happened, you know?’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  He said goodbye and closed the door. After his uncle pulled away the boy looked around. The streets were dark and empty. The police were gone. He looked up toward the bridge and the hedge that ran alongside the sidewalk. No police, only darkness.

  He thought about the plan and decided it was a good plan, a plan that would work. He went to his car and opened the passenger door. He punched the button on the glove box and the lid dropped open to reveal the red plaid shirt containing the gun was still in place. He pulled it out and held the bundle close to his chest. With his other hand the boy reached into the glove box for the Swiss Army knife he kept in there, mostly for emergencies, or if he needed to turn the fuel feed screw on the car’s carburetor.

  The boy closed the car door and headed on foot toward the bridge. He chose to stay off the sidewalk, walking instead in the dark shadows along the hedge line.

  Three days later the boy found the story on the second page of the metro section. It wasn’t a long story but he didn’t care about its placement or importance in the newspaper. He cared about its contents.

  DOUBLE-MURDER SUSPECT FATALLY WOUNDS SELF

  A man the police said was the primary suspect in a convenience store robbery that left two dead was killed himself yesterday when he attempted to retrieve the hidden gun used in the crime.

  Police said that Edward Togue, thirty-nine, was shot once in the upper body when he reached into a hedge lining the ramp of the Sunrise Boulevard drawbridge and attempted to withdraw a gun he had apparently hid there three days earlier. The gun’s trigger apparently was snagged on a branch inside the hedge and was engaged when Togue pulled on the gun.

  The weapon discharged once and the bullet struck Togue. He was fatally wounded and died at the scene.

  Police termed the shooting accidental and said it also will serve to conclude the investigation into the Saturday night shooting at the Kwik Mart just three blocks from where Togue killed himself.

  Police said the gun Togue was retrieving has been matched by ballistics analysis to the shooting in which a cashier and customer were killed during a robbery. Togue had been arrested shortly after that shooting and questioned by police but later released when no evidence could be found linking him to the shooting.

  The boy stopped reading. The rest he knew. He folded the paper closed and put it aside. He went back to packing his clothing and other belongings into boxes. He didn’t know if he would be able to fit everything into the bug but he was going to try. He was then going to get in the car and start driving. Not to his aunt’s and uncle’s home. He was just going to drive.

  As he put some photos into a box he thought about what Sonntag had said about his father’s ghost. The boy smiled. He knew the only spirit he needed to worry about now was the ghost of Edward Togue.

  THE POKER LESSON

  Jeffery Deaver

  Poker is a game in which each man plays his own hand as he elects. No consideration should be expected by one player from another.

  John Scarne

  ‘I want into one of your games,’ the boy said.

  Sitting hunched over a hamburger in Angela’s Diner, Keller looked up at the blond kid, who stood with his hip cocked and arms crossed, trying to be cool but looking like an animal awkwardly trying to stand on its hind legs. Handsome enough even though he wore black-rimmed nerd glasses and was pale and skinny.

  Keller decided not to ask the kid to sit down. ‘What games?’ He ate more of his burger and glanced at his watch.

  The kid noticed the move and said, ‘Well, the one that’s starting at eight tonight, for instance.’

  Keller grunted a laugh.

  He heard the rumble of one of the freight trains that bisected this neighborhood on the north side of town. He had a fond memory of a diesel rattling bar glasses six months ago just as he laid down a flush to take a fifty-six thousand three hundred and twenty dollar pot away from three businessmen who were from the South of France. He’d won that pot twenty minutes after the first ante. The men had scowled French scowls but continued to lose another seventy thousand over the course of the rainy night.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Tony Stigler.’

  ‘How old’re you?’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘Even if there was a game, which there isn’t, you couldn’t play. You’re a kid. You couldn’t get into a bar.’

  ‘It’s in Sal’s back room. It’s not in the bar.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Keller muttered. In his late forties, the dark-complected man was as strong and solid as he’d been twenty years ago. When he asked questions in this tone you stopped being cute and answered straight.<
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  ‘My buddy works at Marconi Pizza. He hears things.’

  ‘Well, your buddy oughta watch out what he hears. And he really oughta watch who he tells what he hears.’ He returned to his lunch.

  ‘Look.’ The kid dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. Hundreds mostly. Keller’d been gambling since he was younger than this boy and he knew how to size up a roll. The kid was holding close to five thousand. Tony said, ‘I’m serious, man. I want to play with you.’

  ‘Where’d you get that?’

  A shrug. ‘I got it.’

  ‘Don’t give me any Sopranos crap. You gonna play poker, you play by the rules. And one of the rules is you play with your own money. If that’s stolen you can hike your ass outa here right now.’

  ‘It’s not stolen,’ the kid said, lowering his voice. ‘I won it.’

  ‘At cards,’ Keller asked wryly, ‘or the lottery?’

  ‘Draw and stud.’

  Keller enjoyed a particularly good bite of hamburger and studied the boy again. ‘Why my game? You got dozens you could pick.’

  The fading city of Ellridge, population two hundred thousand or so, squatted in steel-mill territory on the flat, gray Indiana river. What it lacked in class, though, the city more than made up for in sin. Hookers and lap dance bars, of course. But the town’s big business was underground gambling – for a very practical reason: Atlantic City and Nevada weren’t within a day’s drive and the few Indian casinos with licensed poker tables were filled with low-stakes amateurs.

  ‘Why you?’ Tony answered. ‘’Cause you’re the best player in town and I want to play the best.’

  ‘What’s this, some John Wayne gunfighter bullshit?’

  ‘Who’s John Wayne?’

  ‘Christ . . . You’re way outa our league, kid.’

  ‘There’s more where this came from.’ Hefting the wad. ‘A lot more.’

  Keller gestured at the cash and looked around. ‘Put that away.’

  The kid did.

  Keller ate more burger, thinking of the times when, not much older than this boy, he’d blustered and lied his way into plenty of poker games. The only way to learn the game poker is to play – for money – against the best players you can find, day after day after day. Losing and winning.