Nevertheless Mitch realized he had pulled a boner coming back. Because after a while this Jackson fellow who ran the place would come over and ask Mitch what he was doing. Mitch would say he was just looking, or else he’d say he was doing calisthenics or something, and the guy would get nasty about it and the whole thing would end up with an arrest. Then Mitch would have to hang around tomorrow so he could show up in court.
This Jackson fellow was built like a tackling dummy, except he had muscles instead of cotton wadding inside him. An hour ago he’d told Mitch to fork over fifty cents and go out and find his own hub cap. Tough cookie, this Jackson.
Any other time Mitch would have taken it all in stride and walked in without any worries except maybe was there any poison ivy around. But now he stared at the shack that was supposed to be an office, over there at the other end of the lot. There was no sign of Jackson, so the hell with him.
Mitch had gone about twenty or thirty feet, watching his step so he didn’t trip over the rusty springs and fenders and stuff, when the kid’s voice sounded out. “Boom-boom — you’re dead!”
Mitch swung around and saw this brat with the toy gun. He was maybe six years old, but for a second or two that mug of his had wrinkles and the gun was real, so Mitch froze.
There couldn’t be two faces like that — the same bulging eyes and spread ears and oversized forehead. For that second Mitch felt as if he were seeing Rogan cut down to size. Then the kid’s eyes seemed to get a little smaller, the ears weren’t quite so spread out, and the forehead looked almost normal. Mitch wasn’t sure now, except the impression stuck.
Yes, this was Rogan’s kid. He was sure of it.
Mitch let out a smile, lifted his hands and said, hamming it up, “You got me, kid. Now what?”
The kid stared, bug-eyed. Mitch, real friendly-like, said, “What’s your name, huh?”
The kid didn’t answer.
You can chase a kid in the open and catch him easy, but six-year-olds are slippery and they get through narrow spaces where a grown man can trip and land flat on his puss. And by the time Mitch could get hold of the kid and drag him off, Mitch would have Jackson on his neck, and then what?
So Mitch said, “You know what?”
The kid didn’t move.
Mitch lowered his hands and said, “I give up. Now you take me to jail and lock me up.” And trying to make like a crook caught with the goods, he approached the kid.
“Pretend that’s your car over there,” Mitch said softly. “You bring me over there and make me drive, see? You just keep your gun on me, and I can’t do a thing about it.”
The kid still stood his ground, still didn’t say anything. Maybe he was scared or maybe they’d left the brains out of him and he didn’t have enough sense to scram. Anyhow, all he did was say, “Boom-boom” again, but in a frightened kind of a whisper.
So Mitch put his arm around him, and when the kid tried to pull back, Mitch picked him up and said, “What’s your name, huh? What are you doing here?”
The kid shook his head and dropped the toy gun. Mitch picked it up, stuck it in his pocket, and brought the kid over to the squad car and settled him down on the front seat Mitch chattered all the way back to headquarters, but the kid didn’t say a word. His vocabulary was boom-boom, and that was it He took Mitch’s hand when they got out of the car, and he kept hanging on tight while they walked down the corridor and through the door marked Homicide Squad. There, a couple of the boys were kidding around with the blonde who did secretarial work for the lieutenant.
They stopped talking at the sight of Mitch and the kid. Bankhart said, “Holy hell — did you make a pinch?”
The blonde smiled and bent down and said to the kid in a soft, sugary voice, “Hello. What’s your name?”
Junior’s face puckered up like a walnut and he burst out crying. Mitch, still holding his hand, said, “He don’t talk much. Lieutenant in?”
The girl nodded. Mitch, dragging this yowling brat along with him, crossed the room, knocked on the lieutenant’s door, and went in.
Lieutenant Decker had the smallest office and the biggest collection of junk in the Police Department. He went in for souvenirs of his cases and for magazines on criminology, and he stacked them up on the filing cabinets and the shelves and the window sill and the extra chair, along with the official reports he was always in the middle of reading. He swung around and looked at Mitch and the kid as if they both belonged in the loony bin, which maybe they did.
“Well?” Decker said. But the kid let out a blast and kept pumping it out, and Decker put his hands over his ears. When the kid finally stopped for breath, Mitch had a chance to say something.
“Take a gander at him,” Mitch said. “What does he look like?”
“Like a damn nuisance,” Decker said. “What’s the idea?”
Things weren’t working out exactly the way Mitch had intended. He’d figured the gang outside might be a little slow on the trigger, but the lieutenant ought to be sharper. Still, Mitch had to admit that a six-year-old, with his face screwed up and his heart in shreds on account maybe he wanted his mother, didn’t look much like Public Enemy Number One.
All Mitch said was, “He got lost.”
“Brother!” the lieutenant exclaimed. “You’ve pulled some screwy ones, but this time — wow! Listen, Taylor. In case nobody ever told you, the Homicide Squad handles crimes of violence against the person, but there’s a Lost and Found Department and a Juvenile Bureau, and you can classify the kid either way. Use your own judgment.” Decker grinned. “What’s really on your mind?”
Mitch came straight out with it. “He’s Rogan’s kid.”
Decker flipped back in his chair and almost dumped over. “Did he tell you that?”
“No. But when he quits crying, he looks like Rogan.”
“And when does that happen?” Decker asked.
“Lieutenant,” Mitch said, “this looks like a lead. I could be wrong, but do you want to bet on it?”
Decker nodded. “Yes,” he said. “How much?”
Mitch didn’t take the bait. “What I want,” he said, “is we should put the kid’s description on the teletype and on the municipal radio. A kind of appeal. Then somebody comes and picks him up, and we tail whoever it is.”
Decker frowned, searched his soul, and decided to give Mitch a break. “All right,” Decker said. “You’re going on vacation tomorrow, you’ll be out of my hair. Tell the girl to send it out.”
“Thanks,” Mitch said, and went outside.
The kid quieted down a little, but he wasn’t happy. He needed somebody to blow his nose and tie his left shoelace, which the blonde proceeded to do. Meanwhile, Mitch pulled a form from the supply shelf behind the door and began filling out the description: age, color of eyes, color of hair, height, weight, clothing worn, where found, identifying scars or marks, if any, and so on.
He handed the sheets to the blonde and told her what the lieutenant had said. Then Mitch took the kid upstairs to Jub.
Jub turned out to be no smarter than the others. He frowned at the kid and said, “Who’s he?”
“Rogan,” Mitch said.
“Doesn’t look like him.”