Weed was thinking. A U-Haul truck rumbled past, then a station wagon. Weed was still thinking, wiping his face on his sleeve. A VW Rabbit buzzed by, then a Jeep that reminded Brazil of CABBAGES. Brazil shrugged and walked over to his car. He opened his door.
‘Ill call a unit to come take you downtown,’ he said. ‘I’m not hauling prisoners in my personal car.’
‘You said you’d drive me home in it,’ Weed countered. ‘Now you saying you ain’t.’
‘I said I’m not hauling your butt downtown.’
Brazil shut his door.
Weed yanked open the passenger’s door and slid onto the leather seat. He fastened his shoulder harness and didn’t say a word. Brazil pulled back onto West Gary.
‘What’s your real name?’ Brazil asked him.
‘Weed.’
‘How’d you end up with a name like that, huh?’
‘I dunno.’ Weed stared down at his untied hightops.
‘Sure you do.’
‘My daddy works for the city.’
‘And?’ Brazil encouraged him.
‘Cuttin’ grass and stuff. Pullin’ weeds. Called me Weed ’cause he said I’d grow like one.’
Instantly he was humiliated and alarmed. It was obvious he had never grown like a weed, and he had told the cop way too much. He watched the cop write down
Weed on a little notepad. Shit! If the cop figured out Weed was a Pike, Weed would die. Smoke would see to that.
‘What’s your last name?’ Brazil then asked.
‘Jones,’ Weed lied.
Brazil wrote this down, too.
‘What’s the five for?’
‘Huh?’
‘The five tattooed on your finger.’
Fear turned to panic. Weed’s mind went blank.
‘I don’t got no tattoo,’ he said stupidly.
‘Yeah? Then what am I looking at?’
Weed examined one hand, then the other as if he had never taken a good look at himself before this moment. He stared at the 5 and rubbed it with his thumb.
‘It don’t mean nothing,’ he said. ‘I just did it, you know?’
‘But why the number five?’ Brazil persisted. ‘You picked it for a reason.’
Weed was beginning to shake. If the cop figured out that 5 was Weed’s slave number, one thing might lead to another.
‘It’s my lucky number,’ Weed said as sweat trickled from his armpits, down his sides, beneath his Bulls colors.
Brazil fiddled with the CD player, jumping around from Mike & The Mechanics to Elton John before deciding on Enya.
‘Man, how you listen to that?’ Weed said finally.
‘What about it?’
‘It ain’t got nothing to it. No good drums or cymbals or words that mean something.’
‘Maybe the words mean something to me,’ Brazil answered him. ‘Maybe I don’t care about drums or cymbals.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Weed got mad. ‘You’re just saying that because I play cymbals and pretty soon gonna learn drums.’
‘You mind telling me where we’re going?’ Brazil said. ‘Or is it a secret?’
‘I bet you don’t know nothing about cymbals.’ Weed’s logic was fading in and out, the dark smooth ride sedating him further. ‘We’re in the Azalea Parade, too.’
‘I know you have to live somewhere near Godwin or you couldn’t go to school there.’ Brazil was getting increasingly frustrated.
Weed was falling asleep. He smelled bad and Brazil still didn’t know why the kid had been out on the street drunk and running as if Jack the Ripper were after him. Brazil reached over and gently shook him. Weed practically jumped through the roof.
‘No!’ he screamed.
Brazil turned on the light above the visor and took a long hard look at Weed. Brazil noticed that the number 5 on his right index finger was crude and puffy.
‘Tell me where you live,’ Brazil said firmly. ‘Wake up, Weed, and tell me.’
‘Henrico Doctor.’
‘The hospital?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘You live near Henrico Doctors’ Hospital?’
‘Uh huh. My head hurts so bad.’
‘That’s not in Godwin’s district.’
‘My daddy live in the district. My mama don’t.’
‘Well, who are you going home to, Weed? Your mother or your dad?’
‘I don’t hardly ever go near him. Just now and then, maybe a weekend every two months so he can go out and leave me alone, which is all right by me.’
‘What street does your mother live on?’