Tracers Read Free Page B

What if his dad had picked a different store to rob? Or never pulled that gun? What if his mom hadn’t gotten sick?
    Was there a moment when he could have gone left instead of right? If he’d never taken the loan . . .
    Cam thought back to the time when Chinatown was just another neighborhood to him—before he’d even known what the name
Tong
meant. Of course he’d always known that Chinatown was
organized,
but until he’d been desperate to borrow money fast, he hadn’t needed to know anything more.
    He’d been making deliveries to a restaurant on Canal Street every few days ever since he started working for Lonnie. It had been obvious from the start that the well-dressed guys who met every night in the back weren’t waiters or cooks, so one night Cam worked up the courage to ask about a loan . . . and the rest was history. The Tong, he found out later, was a
particularly
well-organized group—especially when it came to making sure all debts were paid in full. If only he could go back and do things differently . . .
    But it was no use wondering about that. The fact was his mom
had
gotten sick. And they’d needed the money—period. Just like he needed money now.
    An image of the girl with the silver eyes appeared in his mind, seemingly from out of nowhere, just like she’d shown up that morning. Cam shook his head to banish her from his brain.
    Even if he found her—
and
decided to forgive her for ruining his day, and his bike—right now he didn’t even have the funds to buy her a hot dog.
    None of it mattered. Thinking about the mystery girl was just a waste of time, like showing up for work tomorrow (bikeless) would be. She’d made him curious was all. He would never see her again.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    Cam trudged the five blocks from the L station to Angie’s row house. Home sweet home: peeling gray paint, rusted bars on the windows. But all this luxury wasn’t for Cam—since it was the
garage
he rented from Angie, not an actual room.
    Not too many folks were keen on renting to someone like him—and even fewer were willing to skip the credit check and accept the rent in cash. But Angie had worked with his mom a long time ago. She was one of the few people who’d come to her funeral. When she’d asked if he had a place to stay—after the bank had taken the house—he’d been too depressed and defeated to lie. So he’d ended up in her garage. The rent was cheap; sometimes she even brought him leftovers. Angie’s stew, mac and cheese, and lasagna were the only things he ever ate that didn’t come on a stick or wrapped in paper or plastic. He never turned down her offerings. Cam hated feeling like a charity case, but he was starting to hate fast food even more.
    Angie’s kid, Joey, was pulling tricks on his skateboard in the driveway—as always, he looked like he was one sneeze away from a trip to the emergency room.
    Just at that moment, the kid wiped out, sent his board flying in Cam’s direction. Cam stopped it with his foot.
    â€œYou all right?” he asked as he kicked the skateboard up and caught it.
    â€œYeah. I’m good.” Joey cocked his head to one side. “Hey, where’s your bike?”
    Not much got by Joey—the kid was observant as hell. Cam had never had a little brother, but he imagined the way he felt about Joey probably fit into the little-brother category. Equal parts affection and annoyance.
    â€œI hit a pothole,” Cam lied, turning the board over to inspect the wheels. “Looks like you got bigger problems. Come on.” He led the way into the garage and through the maze of car guts.
    The garage was perfect for Cam—just enough room for the car and all his tools. He didn’t have much else. His living space was in the back corner: twin bed covered in a flannel blanket. (In his head, his mom’s voice still