Tribe, page 9
Linda sat down across from him. He knew the look in her eyes. Had seen it on the faces of counselors, correctional officers, and a kaleidoscope of foster parents. She was about to have a heart to heart with him.
“Ahh, chomon. Iwuv benin oh I oh.” His complaint was unintelligible, and the smile on Linda’s face told him that had been her plan all along.
“I’m not one to interfere in people’s lives, but I know what it means when a young person is so skinny his thrift store clothes hang loose, his hair hasn’t been washed in a month, he stinks like a post-game basketball team, and his shoes are nearly worn through.”
Henry swallowed, ready to argue. But something held him back. He was interested in hearing what she had to say.
“How long have you been living on the streets?” she asked.
“A month,” he said.
“And before that?”
“Foster homes.”
“How many?”
“Stopped counting at a dozen,” he said, and then added, “Fourteen.”
“Is this a regular thing for you?” Linda asked. “Getting chased, and shot, and all this other nonsense I’ve been hearing about?”
“I get into a lot of trouble,” Henry confessed. “I’ve been arrested for shoplifting, lewdness, trespassing, drinking, smoking pot—”
“I get it,” Linda says. “And I think I understand that all that comes from whatever it is makes you this way.”
Henry stuffed another cookie into his mouth. “I have no amygdala.”
“Uh-huh…”
“It’s the fear center of your brain.”
“Right…” Linda took a cookie for herself. “And that’s what makes you impulsive, and honest?”
Henry nodded. Drank half the glass of milk. “And not give a shit.”
“We both know that ain’t true,” Linda said.
Henry stopped chewing.
She glanced at the bathroom door where the hiss of a shower had replaced the sound of the buzzing clipper. Henry still needed a proper clean-up, but had wiped himself clean with a wet towel while Linda diverted her eyes, shook her head, and occasionally ‘tsked.’ “Near as I can tell, you care about Sarah.”
“I don’t know her,” he said.
“I didn’t say that.”
Henry felt his patience waning.
“And,” Linda said, “you thanked me for the milk.”
“Huh?”
“You thanked me for the milk.”
“So?”
“We both know you’re not polite. The only reason you’d thank me is because you’re concerned about me liking you or not.”
“I don’t get concerned,” Henry said. “It’s biologically impossible.”
Linda raised an eyebrow. “Says you.”
Henry’s face grew hot.
“And you care about how people see you. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be getting all red in the face.”
Henry’s argument caught in his throat. He was angry. Why? He didn’t care what she thought about anything. Didn’t care what anyone thought. And didn’t care about anyone, not even Sarah.
He was about to say as much, when there was a knock at the front door, on the business side of the building.
Linda stood. “Probably UPS. They come around this time of day.”
“It’s the police,” Henry guessed. “People died out there, remember? They’ll be looking for the people who did it. There’re enough cameras around that they have our pictures by now.”
“Police aren’t all bad,” she said.
That meant a lot, coming from her, not because Henry cared what she thought, but because he knew her history. The police weren’t kind to black people in general, but back when she’d stood up for her rights, they were downright brutal on a national scale.
“No way to tell who is who,” he said. “Until then, we can’t trust any of them.”
Linda pursed her lips. “Fine.”
Henry ducked to the side when she exited the apartment and entered the business. The move kept him from seeing who was at the locked door, but also kept him out of sight—the logical move.
The bathroom door cracked open. Sarah poked her head out. She’d shaved her hair short. Really short. “Did I hear someone knock?”
“You look tribal,” Henry said.
Sarah scowled. “What?”
“Like, I don’t know. African.”
“Racist much?”
Henry sighed. “I’m trying to say I like it. It’s bold. Strong. Like you hunt lions or something. Way better than those silly pom-poms.”
Sarah watched him for a moment, then relaxed. “And way better than this bullshit.” She stepped out of the bathroom dressed in a yellow and khaki ensemble that matched his. “Am I right?”
Henry pushed the cookies across the table. “Cookie?”
Sarah sat down across from him. Took out three cookies. Ate the first. “What do you think of this lady? Weird that she let us in.”
“Seems cool. I think she was going to tell me I could stay here. Because I’m homeless.”
“Being a runaway isn’t the same as being homeless,” Sarah said, on her second cookie.
“It is if they don’t take you back,” he said. “They never take me back.”
“Yeah, well, who can blame them? Your taste in music is…blah. Your taste in clothing is worse. And you’re like a powder keg of unpredictability.”
Henry smiled and pushed his half-finished glass of milk to her.
“Thanks,” Sarah said, and she downed the milk.
You thanked me for the milk. Henry didn’t want to care, about anyone, but it felt good when Sarah thanked him. “Don’t mention it.”
“Oh, I’m going to mention it every chance I get. The day Henry—what’s your last name again?”
“Finch.”
“Weird last name,” she said, and then wistfully continued, “The day Henry Finch was nice. Narrated by John Lithgow.”
“Did you just turn my life into a children’s book?” Henry said with a laugh.
“They’re back there.” The voice was faint, but definitely Linda.
A swirl of emotion cut through Henry, strange and new. Unidentifiable. “Linda just sold us out.”
Sarah’s amused expression disappeared. “What?”
“To whoever is out there.” He motioned to the office door. He winced as he stood, hobbled over to the end table where his gun was, and picked it up. He didn’t know how to check the magazine for rounds, but he assumed there were still between one and three bullets left.
“Not here,” Sarah whispered.
“Why not?”
“Because she’s a sweet old lady, whether she sold us out or not.”
“Maybe she’s one of them?”
“Do you think she’s one of them?”
“No.”
“Then why would she sell us out?”
His eyes widened. “They’re going to hurt her.” He stepped toward the door, but Sarah held him back.
“Best thing we can do is leave. They won’t hurt her if we’re not here.” Sarah pointed to a wall-mounted keychain organizer beside the office door. There were twelve sets of keys, all with Daisy Duck Tours keychains. “And we have the perfect getaway vehicle.”
15
“Do we have to walk so fast?” Henry asked, as they moved past John Hancock’s grave, headed north. “You don’t even know where the floaty truck thing that goes with those keys is.”
“Floaty truck thing? They’re called Duck trucks. A World War II design for storming beaches.” Sarah pictured the six-wheeled amphibious truck-boat rolling onto a beach. She doubted they were very intimidating. Maybe if there were hundreds of them, packed full of marines. But alone, they were humorous to look at and probably better suited for tourism than fighting Nazis. “And yes, I don’t want to get shot.”
“I’ve already been shot,” Henry complained. Sarah noticed his slight limp and twinge of pain with each step. He was unflinching, but not impervious.
Sarah slowed her pace. “Just try to look normal.” It was a ridiculous thing to say. They were wearing bright yellow beacons with gaudy Daisy Duck Tours illustrations. Then again, no one was even giving them a second glance. The cemetery was busy with tourists, and had no doubt seen their fair share of Duck tours moving about the city streets. Perhaps their loud clothing was actually the perfect camouflage?
“Why do you know so much about Duck trucks?” Henry asked while staring at the rows of slate gravestones, names worn away by time. He pointed at one with a skull and crossbones engraved at the top. “That one’s cool.”
“I applied for a job there,” Sarah said. “Didn’t get it. Can we move on?”
“Where are we going?”
Sarah pointed to the tall building ahead. She’d been inside, only once—another failed job interview—but she knew there was a parking garage beneath it. If the Duck tour boats were parked within walking distance, that was where they’d be.
She hoped.
“Damn,” she said as they approached the cemetery’s north end. A four-foot-tall brick wall with an additional two-foot wrought iron fencing atop it blocked their path. “Parking garage is on the other side. In the alley.”
“Okay,” Henry said, leaping onto the wall. He gripped the iron bars and planted his feet on the brick. They were standing in what was essentially sacred ground in Boston. He wasn’t desecrating graves, but people were definitely looking now.
And if she lingered, she’d be the one confronted about it, thanks to their matching uniforms. Sarah leapt up onto the wall as Henry climbed over and dropped down on the far side. She landed beside him with a grunt. The pain in her leg had become a constant ache she could ignore while walking, but the jarring landing woke up her nerves. She winced and held on to the wall.
“I know, right?” Henry held a hand to his wounded butt cheek.
“You have a scratch,” Sarah said. “I have a puncture wound.”
“Well, I’m missing part of my ear,” he said, twiddling his wounded earlobe with a finger. He smiled. “Banter makes being injured fun.”
Sarah pushed away from the wall and started toward a blue sign with a big ‘P’ on it. “Not even close.”
She tried to look casual as they approached the small attendant’s booth outside the building. The Latino man inside looked bored. Pushing sixty.
“Hola,” Sarah said. The man flinched. He hadn’t been expecting anyone to approach from the alley’s dead end.
She held up the Duck tour keychain, offered a smile, and said, “Picking up.”
The attendant eyed them. The deep wrinkles around his eyes said he’d seen some shit, but the complete lack of interest in his eyes said those days were behind him. He looked from the keychain, to their matching uniforms, and their awkward smiles. Then he waved them toward a blue, solid metal door with the words ‘Parking Garage’ stenciled on it.
As they approached, a buzzer sounded, and the door unlocked.
Leaving the summer heat behind, they descended a stairwell. Clean for a parking garage. Inside, the garage smelled faintly of vehicles, but the air felt crisp and cooled, air conditioned and filtered. The parking spots were full of BMWs, Jaguars, Bentleys, and Teslas. “Nothing but the best for Boston’s elite.”
“And Duck tours.” Henry pointed to a line of Duck trucks. The thirty-foot-long, double-parked trucks that looked like boats in the front were hard to miss. They were painted in an array of bright colors, calligraphed with silly names like, ‘Rainbow Trout’ and ‘Pete’s Dragoon.’
Sarah held out the key-fob. Pressed the unlock button.
A bright pink Duck truck at the end of the row flashed its lights and let out a happy, ‘Bwip-bwip.’
“Pink is my least favorite color,” Henry said.
“Same.” Sarah headed toward the vehicle, reading its delicately painted name. “Pink Panther. Lovely.”
Henry snatched the keys from her hand.
“Hey. You can’t drive.”
“No shit,” he said. “Well, I can, but I know you won’t let me.” He stood by the side of the vehicle, scratching the pink paint with the key. “Why can’t we just hide out in here? It’s cool. It’s underground. Who’s gonna find us?”
“If Linda notices a keychain is missing—”
“Right,” he said. “I get it.” Henry stood back, revealing his handywork. He’d scratched the paint so that the Duck truck’s name now read, ‘Pink Panther’s Taint.’
Sarah snorted. “Taint?”
“I once had a friend named Al. Taint was his favorite word. Used it whenever he could. Used to call him Al McTainty.”
“Oookay. Weirdo much?”
He handed the keys back, and they climbed into the awkward vehicle—Sarah in the driver’s seat, Henry in a bench behind her—and started it up. The truck roared to life, loud in the solid garage. The truck’s interior was sparse and built more for water resistance than for comfort. The high ceiling was covered in strapped-in life preservers, and surrounded by a wall of glass providing panoramic views.
“So, where’s Al now?” Sarah asked. “Is he someone we could hide out with?”
“He was hit by a train…while trying to save a box full of kittens. They all died.”
Sarah sat silent for a moment, and then burst out laughing. She knew it was wrong, but ohh man, that was funny.
Henry laughed with her. “He was pretty stupid. Always rushing in—”
A door on the garage’s far side slammed open.
Sarah tensed. The garage was full of cars. It could be anyone, but she didn’t want to find out. She steered the long vehicle through the garage. She was sure Henry would have plowed into a number of hundred-thousand-dollar cars, had he been behind the wheel, but she was careful. Last thing they needed were car alarms, and security—who was no doubt watching—to call the police.
The big truck barely fit in the vehicle elevator. Sarah pulled in, just an inch from the front wall, before the gate closed behind them and the vehicle rose two stories. They jolted to a stop, and then the garage door ground up.
Sarah pulled out, nice and slow. Looked down at the attendant. Gave him a wave. The man seemed to look right through her, and then went back to reading a paperback novel. She had to perform a three-point turn to fully enter the alley, but she made it with room to spare.
At the end of the alley, Sarah hit the brakes, sending Henry sprawling to the floor. Without getting up, he said, “You have a license right?”
“Yeah,” Sarah said.
“But you live in Boston…so you never drive.”
“Right.”
“Well…” Henry pushed himself up and took the seat across from Sarah. “This will be interesting. Let’s go!”
She looked at him, waiting. “You’re not going to buckle—” Shook her head. “’Course you’re not.”
The Duck truck jolted forward, lagged, jolted again. Horns honked. “Sorry!” Sarah called out.
“No, she’s not!” Henry shouted, smiling, back to having the time of his life.
And then they were on Beacon Street, headed east toward the city’s core.
“So, what’s the plan?” Henry asked. “Hide in plain sight?”
“What?”
“You know, like being so obvious that no one even thinks to look at you?”
“We’re driving a bright pink Duck truck, wearing blindingly yellow shirts. Yeah, I think that’s the plan, unless you have a friend that wasn’t hit by a train?”
“Don’t have any friends.” Henry grew serious. “Don’t have any family. You?”
Sarah cringed. She hated being asked about her situation. Her parents were dead. Henry already knew that. But she’d lost all her friends after getting kicked off the wrestling team—she broke a teammate’s arm during practice—and she had no cousins, uncles, or siblings to speak of. She was alone. It embarrassed her. But Henry was alone, too. “No one.”
“Peas in a pod,” he said.
“Great.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “Awesome. My life is improving.”
Henry missed the sarcasm. “Mine, too.”
Sarah felt like an ass. However bad her life had been, Henry’s was worse. Without a fear filter, he’d made a series of bad choices, including running away, and very nearly robbing a bank. She had an apartment—which she felt sure the bad guys had found by now—and while she had lost her job, she would find another. Henry…he was fearless and hopeless.
She put on a smile for him, and continued driving straight through the intersection. Park Street to the right was blocked off by police vehicles. An intense search was underway. A crowd of onlookers had gathered. Covered bodies on stretchers were being carried to ambulances.
Sarah gripped the wheel, emotions surging.
Then Henry grabbed her shoulder. “Down the street. First cop car on the right.”
Sarah’s eyes flitted to a parked police cruiser. It was Linda, being questioned by a man in a suit. Her eyes flitted toward them, and then locked on target. If anyone would know the Duck truck was out of place, it would be her. But she said nothing. Did nothing. She just watched them move through the intersection…
…a little too long.
The man turned, saw the truck, and then looked down at Linda’s Daisy Duck Tours shirt. The man’s gaze snapped back toward them. He pulled off a pair of sunglasses, eyes blazing, a frown on his face. Then he sprang into action, just as they slipped out of view.
“Can you just give us a break!” Sarah said to the sky. “Just one!” Then she hit the gas, racing up behind the vehicles in front of her and hit the horn.
It came out as a crackling, ‘Quack, quack!’ and was followed by the sound of a motorcycle tearing down the street behind them.
16
“Turn right when I tell you,” Henry said.
“Why would I follow your directions?!” Sarah was frazzled, driving fast in a thirty-foot-long truck-boat, half on the brick curb, half on the street, circumventing the traffic caused by their previous…adventures.
Henry hitched a thumb toward the lone biker closing in behind them. “Because he’s gaining on us. I know the city. I can chart a course that will be difficult for him.”
