The Nightworld - Jack Blaine [39]
“Dude!” I’m not sure if he’s going to just shoot him right there, or what. I know I’ve been packing a gun myself, but I never really thought I would use it.
Zeke ignores me. “You better run your scrawny little ass outta here, boy, and tell your friends this ain’t the place to be. Come back and you’re dead. Got it?” He jams the gun harder into the guy’s head.
“I got it.” The guy is nodding like a bobblehead.
“He’s just a kid, man.” I bet he isn’t more than thirteen years old.
Zeke snorts. “Why don’t you check this kid’s pockets?” When I don’t move, he snarls, “Check his pockets!”
He’s wearing a black leather jacket. When I get closer, I see a crescent moon stenciled on the leather with what looks like spray paint. The same symbol as the guy in the red Mustang. The guy who killed a man and a little boy for no apparent reason. I start to sweat.
“Hurry up,” Zeke says.
I check his right pocket and come up with two knives: a butcher knife and a switchblade. In his left pocket, I don’t know what I’m feeling—it’s soft and wrinkled, like a dried apricot. I pull it out and instantly drop it.
“How many of those have you taken, you little asshole?” Zeke pulls the guy’s hair so that his neck is stretched. “I ought to shoot you here and now, but that would make me as bad as you. Now get the fuck out of here.” He shoves him so hard he stumbles and falls. From his knees, the kid sneers at Zeke.
“I’ll remember you.”
“You’d better!” Zeke roars it, and lunges at him. He scrambles up and runs out of the garage.
“That’s a . . . finger.” I whisper the last word. I can’t stop staring at it, lying there on the concrete floor. The nail on the finger is covered with chipped purple polish. It looks like somebody’s pinkie.
“They take them for trophies. The more you have, the tougher you are.” He walks to the edge of the garage opening and checks the street. “We gotta go.”
I follow him up the ramp and we make our way down the block. At the corner Zeke points toward a restaurant sign halfway down the next block. It’s hanging from one chain, dangling sideways. ROSY’S KITCHEN.
“That’s where we’re going.” Zeke doesn’t wait to see if I’m following. He takes off and is at the door of Rosy’s before I even get across the street. By the time I catch up, he’s scoping out the interior through the glass.
“Looks clear,” he says, and shoves the door. The lock has been completely bashed off the door, so it opens easily. Zeke heads to the back of the restaurant, where the restrooms are located. We go into the ladies’ room and he goes into the first stall. He lifts the toilet-tank lid and starts loading dripping cans of food out of it into his grocery bag.
“Get the other one.” He nods to the second stall. I do what he says.
“Nice hiding spot,” I say, loading the cans into my bag.
“Meagan thought that up.” I hear him chuckle. “She was always . . .” He stops talking.
I finish loading my cans. There are green beans and lima beans and kidney beans and black-eyed peas. Zeke finishes too and steps out of his stall. I want to ask him who Meagan is, but he won’t look at me. “Let’s get back” is all he says.
Chapter 22
When we get back, Tank is snoozing. Lara and Kath have planned a huge feast for dinner, but I plead exhaustion. “You guys go ahead. I just want to crash for a while.”
“I’ll show you where you can sleep.” Lara looks worried. She leads me down the hall to a bedroom. She’s put my backpack next to the bed and turned back the sheets. The little lamp on the bedside table is lit. It makes me smile.
“Just like a fancy hotel, except no mint.”
“Well. Like a fancy hotel, or maybe your mom.” She laughs, but then she gets serious, like she’s realized she may have said something painful. “Where are your parents, Nick?”
“Um. My mom died when I was seven.” Those words are familiar now, almost meaningless. I’ve said them for so many years. “And my dad . . .”
It catches me without warning.