there were not many, since the Wittiker family traveled light. Luellen prayed every hour
that Jerald would not find out where she had moved. He would show up. Oh yes. She
paced some more. Where the hell were the police? They think this was the lay-away
plan? Can’t do it now, pick it up later?
Oh yes. He would find her. Because of that bad seed child of hers.
Wheatie was out there right now, God only knew where, probably trying to find a way to
get hold of Jerald, who was not Wheatie’s biological father, but his mother’s last
boyfriend. Wheatie hero-worshiped Jerald, and that was the problem. Tangine watched
her mother pacing.
Tangine was eating a Popsicle. Jerald was nothing more than a lowlife drug man who
bought and sold the big stuff, and did it, too.
Cain, crack, diesel, smoke, all that shit. He walked around in his big warm-up suit and
Filas like he was in the NBA, and had a diamond earring, too, and a 4×4, black with red
and yellow detailing. He’d drive up, and Wheatie would start in, walking, badmouthing,
cool-talking, just like Jerald. Next thing, Wheatie would start cussing Luellen, and even slapping her around, or smoking marijuana. Just like Jerald. She heard feet on the steps
and called out to make sure.
“Police,” a woman’s voice sounded.
Luellen worked a big cinderblock back from the door, and removed a concrete support
steel bar that she had found on a construction site.
She had the same set of improvised locks at the back door, too. Even if Jerald or his bad
friends could get in, she’d at least hear things scraping and clanging, and have time to get
out her matte-black nine-millimeter Baretta Model 92FS pistol with its Tritium night
sights, wood grips, and fifteen-shot magazine. The gun had come from Jerald, as well,
and it had been a big mistake giving her this hand-me-down. If he so much as knocked
on her door, it would be his last gesture.
“Come on in,” Luellen said to the two police officers at the top of concrete steps.
VA^
W Brazil’s eyes adjusted to the glaring illumination of a naked lightbulb in a plastic
Greek column lamp. A small TV was on, the Braves playing the Dodgers. There was a
boom box in a corner, walls bare, the bed unmade and right there in the living room, a
little girl sitting on it. She had braids and sad eyes. It was hot as hell in here, and Brazil started sweating. So did West. She had attached an endless form on top of her metal
clipboard, and was prepared to do a lot of writing. Luellen began by telling the police
lady all about Wheatie, including that he was adopted and jealous as hell of Tangine and
the unborn baby, yet unnamed.
“He called you after he missed the bus,” West repeated as she wrote.
“Wanted me to come get him, and I told him I had no way,” Luellen said.
“Last time I was pregnant, he jumped on me and I lost the baby.
He was fifteen then. Always been hateful because he’s adopted, like I told you. Trouble
from day one. ”
“You got a recent picture of him?” West asked.
“Packed up. Don’t know if I can get to it.” Mother described Wheatie as small, bad skin, wearing Adidas, baggy jeans hanging off, teal green Hornets T-shirt and baseball cap,
and a fade haircut. He could be anywhere, but Luellen worried that he was running with
bad kids and into drugs. Brazil felt sorry for Tangine, who seemed unimportant in the
grand scheme of things as she climbed down from the bed, fascinated by this blond man
in his fancy uniform with all its shiny leather. He got out his Mag-Lite and started
bouncing the beam around on the floor, playing with her like she was a cat. Tangine
didn’t know what to make of this and got scared. She was screaming and did not intend
to stop by the time the police left. Mother watched Brazil and West feel their way down
the steps in the complete dark.
“Way to go,” West said to her partner, as Tangine wailed and shrieked.