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“They’re behind what happened to Mia and Wilt? Is that what you’re thinking? What—they broke in, tied up Wilt like that, tried to get him to tell them where this big wad of money was?”

“Look, Cliff. Like you’re always saying, they’re asshole junkies . . . end of story.”

“Yeah. Okay. But they’re too stupid to do anything like that. And too strung out.”

“Maybe. But what if they pump the kid for information and then sell it—like snitches—to other addicts who’re more together than they are? Maybe they tip off people which apartments are easy to break into, who’s holding a supply of pills or grass or whatever.”

He shook his head. “I don’t see it, Sandy. I don’t see Jordan telling them much of anything. He’s pretty cool for his age. And besides that, he barely even talks to me. Can’t you see what a fucked-up kid he is?”

No point in ringing the doorbell at Crash and Bev’s place. It probably hadn’t worked in years. What you did was stand on the sidewalk and yell their names until one of them heard you and came to the window. The key was then tossed down in a filthy sock.

It was Jordan who threw the window up and looked down at us. His eyes were big and terrified.

Cliff hurried up the stairs. “What’s the matter?” he said as soon as the boy opened the apartment door.

Bev, his mother, lay shivering on the couch, eyes way back in her head, her lips cracked and sore-looking. She was trying to talk, but only croaks came out.

“Shit,” I said, “you think she overdosed?”

“I don’t think so.” Cliff placed his palm on her forehead. “She’s sick, though. Got a real fever.”

And she stinks, I thought as I pulled the stiff army blanket at the foot of the couch up around her shoulders.

“It’s freezing in here,” I said.

“Jordan, get some matches,” Cliff ordered. “See if the space heater works, Sandy.”

“I hope they paid the gas bill,” I said.

I got the heat working and then found a packet of dry soup mix, not happy about rooting around in their nasty cabinets. I boiled water and brought the hot drink over to the couch.

Bev could sit up a little by then. No light in her eyes, but even in the ruin of her thin face you saw how pretty she must have been once. She sure wasn’t interested in that chicken soup, but she was too weak to lift her arm and push the cup away from her lips.

I took the cup away from her mouth for a minute and was startled when she spoke. “Still trying to heal me, huh?”

I had no idea what she was talking about. She began to slide back onto the sofa cushion, eyes flickering.

“Something happen to your mom, Jordan?” Cliff asked. “How long has she been sick?”

He was standing in a corner of the room, back to the wall. All he did was shake his head.

“Where’s Crash?” Cliff said.

“I don’t know. He went out.”

“She looks awful, Cliff,” I said. “What are you going to do?”

“. . . sweet girl . . . ,” Bev mumbled. “Only ones who ever help us out, you and that Indian man of yours. He’s fine.”

Cliff and I looked at each other. “Indian. You think she’s talking about Dan?”

“She must be delirious,” he said. “She thinks you’re Mia.”

I lifted Bev’s head again, which was heavy with sleep. It was then that I realized the smell coming off the blanket was not run-of-the-mill BO. I pulled the blanket away and saw the blood soaking into the couch seat.

“Call an ambulance, Cliff. She’s bleeding out.”

The ambulance driver told us Bev had had a miscarriage. Malnourishment and what looked like pneumonia—to say nothing of the heroin usage—didn’t exactly make for the healthiest pregnancy. By the time they were loading the stretcher into the emergency vehicle, Jordan was hysterical. When the county social services people turned up and informed Cliff they were going to keep Jordan until his father returned, Cliff went into his own set of hysterics.

Ain’t grown-up life grand? Blood and death. Just the kind of thing I bargained for when I left Ivy and Woody to strike out on my own.

I got Cliff calmed down enough to go back home. But I didn’t go upstairs with him. I’d had enough of my comrades for one day. And I’d had enough of bearing