Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [93]
“Then talk to her parents,” Carolyn said. “You can say things to them in a way that I can’t.”
“Jenny’s father came to me because he knew something I didn’t,” Boomer said.
“What?”
“He knew that I’d bring in Malcolm and save his kid.”
“And you did bring him in,” Carolyn said. “You and your partner did save her life. Don’t let that get lost in all of this.”
“Maybe so,” Boomer said, standing up and zippering his jacket. “But we did make one mistake. One very big mistake.”
“Which was?” Carolyn also stood. She reached out her hand and placed it in his.
“We brought him in alive,” Boomer said.
He shook Carolyn Bartlett’s hand, turned, and walked slowly out of her office.
• • •
DEAD-EYE BANKED A shot against the backboard, took a step back, and watched as the ball fell through the net. He let his son, Eddie, race for the bouncing ball, grab it with both hands, and toss it back to him.
“Your shot,” Dead-Eye told him. Both of them were smiling. “Make it count.”
Eddie, one month past his third birthday, bounced the ball twice against the concrete court, then stumbled, scraping his hands and falling down to his knees.
“What happened to you?” Dead-Eye asked, lifting him to his feet and dusting off his hands.
“I fell,” Eddie said, brushing off the fall with a sad face and a shrug.
“Game’s over anyway,” Dead-Eye said, reaching down to give his son a quick hug. “I guess you know what that means?”
“Winner buys ice cream.” The smile rushed back to Eddie’s face.
“I don’t remember who won,” Dead-Eye said. “Do you?”
“I didn’t score, Daddy,” Eddie giggled. “You did.”
“Looks like it’s me buyin’ again.” Dead-Eye feigned a sigh, lifting his son in the cradle of one arm, bouncing the basketball with his free hand and walking out of the fenced-in playground and toward the ice cream truck parked at the next corner.
They sat with their backs against the black wall of a handball court, their legs stretched out, faces up to the sun, each working over a double-swirl vanilla ice cream cone. Eddie was getting as much on his chin and cheeks as he was in his mouth, occasionally dabbing at his face with a wadded-up ball of napkins. The grounds around them were quiet and empty except for two winos sleeping the night off on a set of park benches to their right.
“Is Mama mad?” Eddie asked, his gaze focused on the melting ice cream in his hands.
“Yes,” Dead-Eye said. “She’s very mad at me.”
“Why?”
“She doesn’t want me to do something,” Dead-Eye said.
“Why?”
Dead-Eye looked down at his son, washed in ice cream, his innocent face crammed with a natural sweetness, his eyes blazing with curiosity. He reached over, picked him up, and wiped the ice cream from his face. He then sat Eddie between his legs, resting the boy’s head against his chest.
“What kind of work does Daddy do?” Dead-Eye asked him, leaning down and kissing the top of his son’s head.
“You let people into buildings,” Eddie said, looking up at him. “Right?”
“I’m a doorman,” Dead-Eye said. “That’s right.”
“Before that you were a policeman. Mama said you were famous.”
“I wasn’t famous,” Dead-Eye said. “I was good. There’s a difference.”
“Mama says you don’t like opening doors.” Then Eddie asked, “That why she’s mad at you?”
“Being a doorman is a good job,” Dead-Eye said, looking out over the park, past the swings and slides, the backed-up traffic moving into Manhattan. “It’s just not the right job for me.”
“Mama says you wanna be a policeman again.”
“And that’s why she’s mad,” Dead-Eye said. “She’s afraid I’ll get shot up all over again.”
Eddie jumped from his father’s lap and turned to face him.
“I don’t want you to die, Daddy.” There was a lilt of fear in his voice.
Dead-Eye laid his two hands on the sides of his son’s face and stared at him for several moments, willing the fear from the boy’s body.
“I want you to be proud of me,” Dead-Eye said. “Same way that I’m so proud of you. When you grow up, I want you to go out and do what’s in your heart to do. What you feel you have to do more than anything