“C’mon, Matt. You owe me.”
Nod.
“You knew it was my car?”
“Yeah.”
“Why’d you want to hurt me? Have I ever done anything to you?”
Shake of head.
“Then why?”
“The school.”
“What about the school?”
“Bringing the… them in.”
“Who?”
“The niggers and beaners. Everyone said you were bringing them in to take over the neighborhood.”
“Everyone? Who’s everyone?”
The boy shrugged. “Just people.”
Buchanan broke in. “He didn’t hear that here. Not that I approve of what you’ve done, but we stick with the law, go our own way and don’t make trouble for others. And we don’t talk gutter talk. I work with the colored- we get along just fine.”
“What kind of work do you do, Mr. Buchanan?”
He named an electronics company. “Line supervisor. Got seventy-five people under me, plenty of them Mexicans and colored. He didn’t hear that kind of gutter talk here.” To his son: “Did you!”
The boy shook his head.
“It’s the goddam rock videos,” said his father. “And that car- he never shoulda had it. Too damn babyish to wipe his own nose. Look at you!”
Mrs. Buchanan left the room and came back with a box of tissues. She pulled one out and handed it to her son.
He swabbed his nose.
His father said, “Congratulations, smart guy. That Trans Am is history.”
“Dad-”
“Shut up!”
Linda said, “Matt, let me get this straight. You resent me because you think I’m trying to take over your neighborhood by bringing in kids from other neighborhoods. So you smashed up my car.”
Nod.
“How’d you know it was my car?”
The boy said, “Seen you.” Barely audible.
“Was anyone else with you?”
Shake of the head.
“Did anyone else know you were going to do this?”
“No.”
“You just did it yourself.”
Nod.
“Why’d you paint a swastika on the car?”
Shrug.
“Do you know what the swastika stands for?”
“Kinda.”
“Kinda? What does it stand for?”
“Germans.”
“Not Germans,” said his father. “Nazis. Your grandfather fought them.”
Linda said, “Why’d you paint a swastika?”
“Dunno. Just being kinda…”
“Kinda what?”
“Rad, Bad. Like the Angels.”
“Hell’s Angels?”
“Yeah.”
“Christ,” said his father.
Linda said, “What were you doing up so late, Matt?”
Buchanan glared at his wife and said, “Good goddam question.”
The boy didn’t answer.
Linda said, “Matt, I asked you a question and I expect an answer.”
“Cruising.”
“With a crowbar?”
No answer.
“Why’d you have a crowbar with you?”
“To do it.”
“To smash my car with?”
Nod.
Buchanan said, “Talk, goddammit.”
“Yeah,” said the boy.
“So you’d planned to smash my car.”
Glance at his father. “Yeah.”
“For how long?”
“I dunno- few days.”
“Why a few days? What gave you the idea?”
“Her… the shooting.” The boy sat up straighter, doughy face brightening. “It just showed how fu- how trashed everything was, the ni- the black kids and the Mexes. It just showed how ruined everything was and it was the school’s fault.” Turning to his father: “That’s what you and she said.”
Mrs. Buchanan put her hand to her mouth.
“Oh, Christ,” said her husband, blanching. “You goddam little moron! People have opinions- this is America, for Christ’s sake! You express an opinion- you’re supposed to speak your mind. That’s what democracy is. Otherwise it might as well be Russia. But you don’t go around destroying private property for Christ’s sake!”
He turned to Linda. “Listen, ma’am, you’ll be paid every last penny for your car. That Trans Am is going to the used-car dealer tomorrow and every last penny we get from that will go for your car and you’ve got my word on that.”
“Good. I expect payment within a week,” said Linda. “But that’s not enough.”
The boy stared at her, petrified.
“Please,” said Mrs. Buchanan, “don’t make him go to jail. He’s-”
“Not jail,” said Linda. “Too easy. I want more out of him. Some real repentance.” To Matt: “Where do you go to school?”
“Pali.”
“Junior?”
“Sophomore.”
“What time do you get off?”
“Two.”
“He’s in limited academic,” said his mother.
“By two-thirty I want you over at my school. Helping out.”
“How?” said the boy.
“Any way I want you to help. One day you might be scrubbing some graffiti off a wall. Another day you might be working the Xerox machine. Or writing an essay.”
The boy flinched.
“Don’t like to write, Matt?”
“He’s had trouble,” said his mother. “Dyslexia.”
“Then it’ll be especially helpful for him.”
“Yes, it will,” said Mrs. Buchanan. “Yes, it surely will. We do appreciate it. Thank you, ma’am.”
“Detective Sturgis,” said Linda, “I’m willing not to press charges if Matt here cooperates and ends up being a big help to me. On one condition. If he screws up, can I still press them?”
“Absolutely,” said Milo. “I’ll keep the file open, make sure he gets the max, all felonies, tried as an adult.” To Matt: “We’re talking heavy jail time, son.”
“He’ll cooperate,” said his mother. “I’ll see that he-”
Linda said, “Matt? You understand what’s going on?”
“Yeah- yes. Ma’am. I will. I… I’m really sorry. It was dumb.”
“Then I’m willing to give you a chance.”
Mrs. Buchanan poured out copious thanks.
Mr. Buchanan seemed to sag in his chair, looking older, smaller, the strain of macho pretense lifted from tired shoulders.
He said, “You’re one lucky camper, mister. And you haven’t heard from me, yet.”
25
Outside at the curb, Milo said, “I had nothing to do tonight. Went driving. Saw his car circle the block real slowly, about nine-thirty, slow down further when he reached the school. Third time he came around I decided to put the cherry on my roof and stop him. He had the crowbar right there on the seat. Dumb kid. He nearly browned his pants when he saw me.”
Linda said, “You heard the mother- all those school problems.”
“Just like Holly,” I said.
“But they didn’t know each other,” Milo said. “I worked him over on that with extreme thoroughness. He has no record, no membership in any gangs or groups. So it looks like this is the only mischief he’s been into- or caught at.”
Linda’s back was to him. He raised an eyebrow, wanting to know how much I’d told her.
I gave a tiny shake of my head, said, “Maybe you nipped a criminal career in the bud.”
“His career wouldn’t have lasted long- the dumb ones are the ones we catch. Anyway, time to be shoving off. Sorry for waking you but I thought you’d want to know.”
“I did,” she said. “I’m glad you called. Do you think I did the right thing?”
“Seems as good an option as any. The juvenile system takes over on something like this, we’re talking stern lecture. Maybe. If you got a real kick-ass judge, a week at the honor farm and exposure to some people he doesn’t need to be exposed to. But if he screws up again, let me know. I can always pull a few fast ones, procedurally speaking, and scare the bejesus out of him.”
Linda said, “Okay. And thanks again.”
He said, “Bon soir,” saluted, and walked off.
“Good man,” said Linda.
“No argument there.”
We went back to my place and found we were too wound up to sleep. I located a deck of cards in a kitchen drawer and we bored ourselves with a few hands of poor-attention-span gin, finally turned off the lights and dozed, lying close to each other.
The next morning, I drove her back to her apartment and went up with her. She changed into a lilac-colored suit, picked up her rental car in the subterranean garage, and drove to school. I ran a few errands, then drove there myself. Bits of streamers still clung to the chain link. Otherwise the grounds were quiet- almost ghostly. Morning-after blues.