Brazil missed a step and landed on his ass.
“I’d put a light on if I had one,” Luellen said from the doorway.
The next two hours were spent in the records room. West continued to fill out forms,
having no idea that there were so many of them these days. It was astonishing, and she
was unfamiliar with anyone back here tonight, and all were rude and not inclined to
respect West’s rank.
Were she paranoid, she might have suspected a conspiracy, as if someone had instructed
the clerks to give the deputy chief a bad dose, to stick her but good. Mostly, West got
their backs as they typed, and sipped their Frescas and Diet Cokes. West could have
asserted herself, but didn’t. She entered the missing person information in NCIC herself.
She and Brazil rode around for a while in the Midland area, hoping they might spot the
small adopted son with bad skin and Hornets cap.
They drove slowly past kids hanging out on corners, and beneath street lights, hateful
eyes following. Wheatie remained at large, and as the evening wore on, Brazil had
developed a relationship with him. Brazil imagined Wheatie’s wretched life, his
loneliness and anger. What chance did anyone like that have? Nothing but bad
examples, and cops out there like cowboys waiting to lasso and round him up.
Brazil’s early years weren’t perfect, either, but there was no comparison. He had tennis courts and nice neighbors. Davidson security treated him like family, and he was always
welcome to visit their small brick precinct, and listen to their stories and gossip and
exaggerations. They made him feel special when he came in. The same was true at the
laundry with its rooftop of tangled rusting metal, from students picking up laundry and
tossing the wire hangers up there, where they stayed for years. Doris, Bette, and Sue
always had time for Brazil. The same could be said in the snack bar, the M&M soda
shop, the bookstore, anywhere he went, really.
tw Wheatie had never experienced any of this, and quite likely never would. At the very
moment West was reprimanding a driver for not wearing a seatbelt, Wheatie was jailing
with his heroes in the slums off Beatties Ford Road. There were four friends, all years
older than Wheatie. His pals had big pants, big shoes, big guns,
and big rolls of cash in their pockets. They were high- fiving, laughing, soaring on wings of smoke. Yes sir, the night had been good, and for one sweet minute, that hollow,
hurtful spot in Wheatie’s heart was full and feeling fine.
“Give me a gun, I’ll go work for you,” he said to Slim.
“Little piece like you?” Slim laughed.
“Uh uh.” He shook his head.
“I
give you a job, you get spanked and I end up with nothing. ”
“Bullshit,” Wheatie said in his biggest, boasting tone.
“Nobody fuck with me.”
“Yeah, you bad,” said Tote.
“Yeah, you bad,” Fright imitated Tote, while popping Wheatie on the head.
“Man, I gotta go get me some food,” said Slim, who could eat tires after getting high.
“How ’bout we hit Hardee’s.”
He meant this literally. Slim and company were under the influence and armed, and
robbing Hardee’s was as good an idea as any they had come up with this night. All of
them piled into his red Geo Tracker. They headed out with the radio so loud the bass
could be felt five cars away. Wheatie plotted as they drove, thinking about Jerald and
how proud he would be of Wheatie right now. Jerald would be impressed with Wheatie’s
buddies. Wheatie wished Slim, Tote, and Fright could meet Jerald. Shit, wouldn’t they
step back and give Wheatie a little more respect? Fuck yeah, they would. He watched
telephone poles and cars go by, his heart picking up speed. He knew what he had to do.
“Give me a gun, I’ll do it,” he said loud enough to be heard over heavy metal.
Slim was driving, and laughed again, eyeing him in the rearview mirror.
“You will? You ever hit anything before?”
“I hit my mother.”
They all laughed.
“He hit his mother! Woooo-weeee! Bad ass!”