history books.
Thats the past. I like to read about what hasnt happened yet.
Hmm. Francis let that last phrase hang for a few seconds before he put the book facedown and stared at Julian, establishing the unspoken ground rules: Your only way out is through me.
So you know why we asked to stop by here today. Right, Julian?
Yeah. The other guy told me. You wanted to talk about Allison.
Francis took out a yellow legal pad and put it on the table between them. They both took a moment to contemplate the invisible third presence in the room.
In family pictures, she was a little heartbreaker. All wild red hair and smoky eyes, fair freckled shoulders and cloud-parting smiles. You could see why she was still getting carded at twenty-seven. She looked barely older than the kids she was taking care of in the pediatric ER. All the other doctors and nurses hed interviewed at Bellevue made a point of saying that she didnt have to stoop much over the examining table. Everything was eye level with her. No matter how much the parents were screaming or freaking out in the doorway, she never raised her voice or resorted to baby talk when she had to put in a stitch or set a bone. She just talked to kids as though she were one of them.
Not that she was any Heidi of the hillsHeidi probably didnt have expensive black Dior underwear in her dresser or a picture of Keith Hernandez, the stache-wearing Mets first baseman, taped to the bottom of her mirror or E-Z Wider rolling papers in her night table. On the other hand, Heidi might not have stayed after her shift with an eleven-year-old boy who had brain cancer, holding his hand and reading inappropriate sections out loud from Mad and Cracked. And three days ago, somebody hit her so hard with a claw hammer that one of the tongs went up into her frontal lobe.
Does your dad know youre here talking to us? Francis asked, knowing the boy had been picked up by Sully at lunchtime outside the St. Crispins School on East 90th Street.
Julian shook his head. I called, but its hard for him to hear the phone sometimes when hes working in the basement.
Hes the superintendent of the whole apartment house, right?
The boy allowed himself a quick proud smile. Yeah, he takes care of everything. Seventy-two apartments.
Okay, thats fine. Its just a formal thing we have to go through whenever anybody comes in to help us. You know, you have the right to an attorney, blah, blah . . .
Francis could almost hear the sigh of relief from behind the glass. Up until a few years ago, he probably couldnt have gotten away with questioning a high school senior without a grown-up present. But then that little psychopath Willie Bosket murdered a couple of subway riders for the hell of it when he was fifteen and presto change-o! a new law was born.
And then we usually say something likehe dropped his voice into his best mock- Dragnet registerif you cant afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. You know, all that bullshit. By the way, did you try calling your mom?
Shes dead. Julian folded his hands on the table.
Really?
Yeah. Long time ago. Cancer.
When you were how old?
Four.
I lost mine when I was nine. Francis said.
For real?
Francis rested a hand on his gut. I had my First Communion in her hospital room four weeks before she died. . . .
He sat back and waited. Other guys had simpler ways of getting a rapport going. But sometimes a pack of smokes and a White Castle burger werent enough. Real scars had to be displayed. Wound psychology. You needed that shock of recognition to get a man to put his guard down.
I still pray to Saint Christopher for my mom, the boy said softly, reaching under his collar and showing Francis part of a chain around his neck. My father gave me a