‘Me, too,’ Weed said. ‘Maybe I’ll just hang out with you from now on.’
‘The hell you will!’ Pigeon said in a voice that startled Weed. ‘You ever been shipped off to war, had your foot shot off, part of your hand, too? Ever been in mental hospitals ’til they can’t keep you no more so they dump your ass out on the street? Ever slept on the sidewalk in the dead of winter, nothing but a newspaper for a blanket? You ever eaten rats?’
Weed was horrified. ‘Did you really get your foot shot off?’
Pigeon raised his right leg and showed his stump. Weed couldn’t see it in detail because it was covered with a sock and the morning was still pretty dark.
‘How come you were in mental hospitals?’ Weed got around to the most important question as he had second thoughts about staying with Pigeon.
‘Crazzzzzzy.’ Pigeon shook his body and rolled his eyes.
‘No you ain’t.’
Weed thought of the fence again and if he could get back over it fast.
‘Well, I am. Sometimes I see things that aren’t there. Especially at night. People coming at me with knives, guns. Cut off arms, legs, blood flying everywhere. They got all kinds of names for it, but it don’t matter in the long run, Weed. No matter what you call something, it’s still the same thing.’
Pigeon fished another cigarette butt out of his pocket, and when he lit it, Weed saw his mangled hand. All that was left was part of the index finger and thumb.
‘What you running from?’ Pigeon asked.
‘Who says I am?’
‘I do.’
‘So what.’
‘Cops after you for something?’ Pigeon asked. ‘Don’t be shy, boy. They been after me a time or two.’
‘So what if they is?’ Weed said.
‘Huh.’ Pigeon blew out smoke, wheezing in the dark. ‘Someone’s after you for sure. I bet it’s some other kid out there. Maybe you stole his drugs or something.’
‘No, I didn’t! I never even seen drugs! He’s just mad ’cause I didn’t do what he told me to!’
‘How mad? Like maybe he’s gonna really get you?’
Tears filled Weed’s eyes. He wiped them away, hoping Pigeon couldn’t see.
‘Huh, one of those bad kids. Shoot people for the hell of it,” Pigeon went on. ‘Whole new breed. And they get away with it too, for the most part.’
Weed’s fury burned hot like the cigarette filter burning Pigeon’s lips. Pigeon tossed it and seemed disappointed.
‘Kids worse than what I saw in ‘Nam. All strapped up with bombs. Hi, nice to meet ya. KABOOMf Pigeon went on. ‘Least over there we had a reason. Sure as hell wasn’t no goddamn sport, tell you what.’
‘He already hurt me more ‘an once,’ Weed blurted out. ‘Made me join his gang and tattooed my finger when I didn’t want to and now I’m not in school and ain’t been to art class or the last two band practices! And he knows where I live and if I go anywhere he’ll find me and blow my head off. He’s worse than the devil!’
‘Sounds like only one thing to do.’ Pigeon pondered the situation. ‘You said the cops might be looking for you?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What’d you do?’
‘Painted a statue in the cement-tary.’
‘Let them catch you.’
Weed was shocked.
‘Why would I want to do that?’ he asked.
“Cause you get locked up, the devil can’t get you.’
‘I don’t want to go to no jail!’
‘They put you in a home for kids, right across the street from the jail. You get clothes, three meals a day, your own little room, play basketball, watch TV, go to class. You want a doctor, a shrink, they give it to you. How bad’s that? Oughta hear the kids on the street. Vacation. Where you been, man? Man, I been on vacation. Rotten little bastards.
‘Now kids, I’m afraid of. Been beat up, robbed, rolled, cut on, kicked in the nuts. One time they set me on fire for the helluvit. And what happens to ’em? They go away on fucking vacation for two, three weeks. Come right back out, laughing, strutting under streetlights, big wads of cash in their pockets.’