Ten Thousand Saints - Eleanor Henderson [93]
“You got some balls,” said Rooster, “smokin’ that shit out here.”
“You selling that shit?” someone else wanted to know.
For them, it was all about jumping some small-fry drug dealer. They were just looking for confirmation—then the fun could start. But Jude wanted confirmation of something else. “Who helped you break into my mom’s greenhouse, Hippie?”
Hippie stroked his beard. It was the kind of full, unkempt beard you see on old men, but twisted into two dreads, like a forked tongue. A look of surprise crossed his face, then recognition, then uncertainty. “Nobody helped Hippie do anything,” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Hippie didn’t help anyone.”
“Where’s your friend Tory, then?” Delph asked.
“Hippie doesn’t know what you’re talking about, man.” He nodded sternly at the girl, who scurried away. His narrow, greenish eyes were cloudy and cold. “Tory’s not even in town. He’s visiting colleges with his parents.”
The idea of Tory involved in this well-behaved, adult-chaperoned venture—visiting colleges—let some of the air out of Jude’s sails. “Look,” he said, slamming his fist into his palm, “someone smashed up my mom’s greenhouse, and if it wasn’t you, you got your bodyguard to do it.”
Hippie didn’t deny that Tory was his bodyguard. But he seemed troubled by the association, his eyebrows knit under the frames of his glasses. He took an anxious toke. “Why would you think it was Hippie?” he asked. He released a series of smoke rings, like the tail of a thought bubble, and Jude could guess what was coming next. “Is it because you stole half a pound of super fruit from him?”
Jude didn’t answer. They were standing on the sidewalk in the unlit space between two streetlights, and it was difficult to see in the dark. He stood with his arms crossed, returning Hippie’s stare.
“I think you must have your facts wrong,” said Rooster, stepping forward. “This kid’s straight edge. Believes drugs of any kind are for the weak-willed. Doesn’t touch the stuff.” Rooster draped his arm around Jude’s shoulder, and Jude felt the untapped force of all the guys behind him. Why deny it? What was Hippie going to do about it now?
Jude stepped forward, letting Rooster’s arm drop. “No,” he said. “It was me. I stole your shwag. You know what happened to it? My mom flushed it. Wshhhhh. Gone. I’d do it again.”
Hippie shook his head in disgust. His dreadlocks shuddered. He walked a few paces away, rested his hands on top of the fence, and bowed his head, his hair hanging over his face. Then he turned around and launched a brown wad of spit on the sidewalk. “I wouldn’t go after your mom,” he said. “I respect her talent, man. I told Tory to leave her out of it.”
Hippie plugged his mouth with his joint, realizing what he’d said. Or maybe he’d let it slip on purpose; maybe he was giving up Tory to save himself. Either way, it was Tory who had broken into the greenhouse, maybe alone, maybe with some of his drunk friends, and demolished his mother’s work.
Jude almost took a step back. They’d given Hippie a little scare. They’d wait for Tory to return to town and save their beating for him. Jude exchanged glances with Delph and Kram. They shrugged, waiting for his call. Across the street, from the rec center, a blast of applause erupted, drunken hoots. The audience wanted an encore.
Then Hippie said something else. “Brother, Hippie’s been nothing but nice to you.” He was shaking his head again, his hands on his hips. “When your little friend died, I gave you a good deal on that weed. Why would you rip me off?”
Jude’s stomach sank to his bowels. It was what Tory had called Teddy, just before he’d pulled out his belt. Little friend. This feeling was followed not by anger or grief but by an excited relief; he