Exceptions to Reality_ Stories - Alan Dean Foster [95]
Harbison was drawn to him immediately.
The boy didn’t snuff out the joint, but he did look over as the lawyer approached. His attitude was an intriguing mix of bottled arrogance and heartrending vulnerability. The latter was a quality Harbison was accustomed to encountering in the boys he used, but the former was not. He immediately got down to business. He had to, if he was going to finish and still make lunch.
“How much?” he asked offhandedly. Those eyes. His own eyes strayed elsewhere. The boy didn’t object to the blatant inspection. It was expected, and clearly he was used to it.
“The usual?” The kid’s voice was high, sweet, girlish. Natural, somehow not yet broken, not a put-on. Better and better. Harbison nodded, struggling to contain his eagerness. “Twenty.”
Fair, the lawyer thought. Good. He wouldn’t have to waste time bargaining. “Needs to be quick. I’ve got a lunch appointment.” He indicated his wrist without exposing his watch. This was not a prudent location to flash a Piaget. “You got a place?”
The boy nodded. Flicking the stub of the joint onto the street, where the gathering cold slush instantly extinguished it, he turned his head toward the nearby alley. That made Harbison hesitate.
A grin creased the child-like face. Full of magic, it bordered on the angelic. The boy looked even younger than he doubtless was, Harbison mused. What an enchanting discovery.
“Got a little box in back,” the kid told him. “Propane heater. Mattress, chair. Doorway locks. Nice and private. I’m okay with spending the night there. You don’t have to, but then you don’t want to. It’ll do fine for what you want.”
Harbison was not convinced, but there was no way he was going to pass this up. He had to make a decision fast. Lunch beckoned. And the boy was slim, couldn’t weigh more than 110, 120. An utterly adorable adolescent. Remarkably his skin was as pale and unmarked as a baby’s, devoid of scars and needle marks. Not something one encountered every day on a less-traveled city street. Especially on this street.
“Okay, but no funny stuff.” He put a hand in an empty pocket. “I’ve got a taser.”
The grin lingered, humorless. “You ain’t payin’ enough for funny stuff.”
Smart, too, Harbison decided as he followed the boy into the alley. Not that he was paying for smarts. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Peter.”
Harbison choked back something akin to an amused response.
“No, really,” the boy told him. “Ironic, huh? Or poignant. Depends on your point of view, I guess.”
Something about the reply struck Harbison as out of the ordinary. Natural suspicion being a hallmark of his professional as well as his private life, he slowed his stride. “Just out of curiosity, kid, where’d you learn how to use that word?”
The boy stopped too and turned to face the curious lawyer. “What word?”
“Poignant.” Turning slightly, Harbison indicated the street behind them. “The kids I meet up with here usually can’t get a handle on anything with more than four letters.”
Blue eyes narrowed slightly and hands rested challengingly on narrow hips. “You want to fucking talk or you want to get it on? I thought you were in a hurry.” The pose reminded Harbison of something, but he could not decide what. Then he saw the green shirt peering out from behind the battered leather jacket. It had a fringed hem. His gaze dropped. The shoes. They hadn’t registered at first. Now they did.
“Your toes must be freezing in those.”
Looking away, the boy muttered something obscene under his breath before his gaze returned to meet the lawyer’s. “What the fuck do you care about my friggin’ toes, Jack? You into feet or something?”
“You’re an actor, right?” Harbison