First Avenue (24 page)

“I’ll have a cup of coffee, Miss,” he said.

Maybe he had forgotten her name, or maybe he didn’t know what to call her. She could understand that. She didn’t know what to call him either. He had not come for two days—two days when she had wondered countless times if she should have come, too. She poured coffee into the plastic cup and placed it before him.

“I’ll have a little milk, please,” he said. His voice made her feel unseen and insignificant. “The real stuff. Not those packages.”

She got a milk carton from the refrigerator and carefully poured milk into his coffee. He had not asked for milk the first time. She saw she had forgotten the spoon and quickly reached for one below the counter. She did not want to hear the indifference in his voice again.

“We missed you at the funeral,
Pierre
,”
Sam
said, turning toward
Pierre
at the end of the counter.

For a moment she thought
Pierre
might not look up from the newspaper, but he finally raised his head.

“What are you talking about?”
Pierre
’s voice sounded like a man who hated to talk.

“Alberta’s baby. The funeral was yesterday. Too bad you missed it.”

“I don’t know anything about a funeral.”

He picked up the newspaper and turned the page.
Sam
clenched his jaw and moved a seat closer to
Pierre
.

“I’m going to ask you some questions, but first let me read you your rights.” He took a blue card out of his shirt pocket and began reading in a loud voice.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney of your choosing.”

“What are you doing?”
Pierre
demanded, trying to interrupt the policeman’s warning. “I know my rights. You don’t have to read that to me.”

Sam continued reading from the card in a flat voice, “And to have the attorney present with you while you’re being questioned.”

Pierre’s face turned red with anger.

“If you can’t afford an attorney, you have the right to have an attorney appointed for you by the court and to have that attorney present while you’re being questioned. Do you understand your rights?”

Pierre said nothing. His face remained red.

“How often did you go to
Alberta
’s apartment?”
Sam
asked.

“You have no right to ask me questions here,”
Pierre
said.

“Did you beat her when you went there?”

Pierre stared at him without answering. His eyes narrowed into small slits in his head.

“Did you beat the baby, too?”

Again there was no answer, only his hateful stare.

“I guess you don’t want to talk to me. Maybe tomorrow will be better.”

He returned the blue card to his shirt pocket, then changed his mind and tossed it in front of
Pierre
. “You keep that. Read it every night before you go to sleep.”

Pierre looked down at the card but didn’t touch it. His jaw trembled as he pushed the newspaper away from him and stood up from the wooden stool.

“I’m leaving,” he said. “You have anything else to say?”

“No. Just don’t go too far.”

Pierre passed
Maria
without a word.
Sam
turned in his seat and watched
Pierre
until the angry man disappeared from view. Then he turned toward her.

“I thought you would be gone by now,
Maria
,” he said.

His voice changed to the way it had been the first time she met him. She could not keep up with these changes. Before she could answer, if she could answer,
Sam
stood up from his stool.

“Just a minute, son,” he said to the boy who had started for the door. “I want to talk to you, too.”

She thought the boy would run. His eyes darted from place to place as though judging his chances.
Sam
saw it, too.

“If you try to run, I’ll have to shoot you.”

The boy’s eyes focused then as he looked at the policeman, half-believing what was said. He slumped down into the closest chair without a word.

Before approaching the boy,
Sam
turned and looked at
Maria
for a long moment. She thought he might speak, but he didn’t. He looked at her like a person reading a sign, but she didn’t know what he read. He made his way to the table where the young boy sat waiting.

“What’s your name?” he asked as he sat down at the boy’s table, his back toward
Maria
.

She couldn’t understand the boy’s weak reply, but she could hear the break in his voice that made him seem very young. The boy seemed particularly dismayed when his voice cracked. She moved over to where
Pierre
had been sitting to be closer to their voices. She slowly and meticulously cleaned the counter space that she would otherwise have left alone.

“How old are you?”
Sam
asked.

“Sixteen,” the boy said hopelessly.

“If you’re sixteen, you have to carry your pre-draft card. Let me see your card.”

“I forgot it at home,” the boy said.

“Tell me again how old you are.”

The boy looked down and then back up. She thought she saw the precise moment he gave up. “I’ll be fifteen in January.”

“So how do you like it out there on the street?”
Sam
asked. He did not wait for the boy to answer. “Pretty exciting, isn’t it?” he said. “If you get hungry enough, you can always drop your pants for one of the wolves hanging around.”

“I’m not like that.”

“Don’t have to be.”

There was a long silence at the table.

“So how come you’re not in school today?”

“I was thinking about going.”

“Thinking? Now that’s a good idea. A guy can never think too much, can he?”

The boy’s face showed he was not sure if
Sam
was making fun of him or telling the truth.
Maria
was not sure, either.

“What do you have in your pockets? Empty them out on the table for me.”

The boy stood up, reached into his pockets, and put a few articles on the table.
Sam
watched him carefully.

“Is that it?” he asked.

The boy searched his pockets again and nodded.

“Sit down then.”

The boy sat down, and
Sam
separated the items so that each had its place on the table.

“Twelve cents. Not much you can do with that, is there?”

The boy shook his head.

“What do you have the matches for?”

The boy shrugged his shoulders, then said, “Cigarettes.”

“I don’t see any cigarettes.”

“I had some.”

“Rubber band and a gum wrapper. At least you didn’t litter. That’s a good sign. Not much to get started with, is it?”

The boy shook his head again. He didn’t want to talk anymore.

“Do your parents know where you are?”

“It’s just my mom. She doesn’t care.”

“You’re sure about that? Is that what she would say if I called her?”

“We don’t get along.”

“She doesn’t have to get along. You do. How’d you get along last night?”

“It was okay.”

“Sure it was. That’s why you’re sitting in this dump with nothing to eat. It must have been great. Tonight will be even better. Like you said,
Roger
, you have to start thinking. Is that your real name?”

“Yeah, but my last name is
Kramer
.”

“Okay. What do you say I give you a lift home, maybe talk to your mom.”

“I don’t want you to talk to her.”

“Okay, I’ll just drop you off.”

“You won’t go in and talk to her?”

“Not this time. Next time you won’t have that choice. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll get us a couple of doughnuts for the road. By the way, Roger, I lied about that draft card stuff. There’s no such thing as a pre-draft card.”

As
Sam
stood, the boy had a blank look on his face. It took a moment for what the policeman said to sink in. The boy smiled, however, when the policeman turned his back to him.

As he walked toward
Maria
,
Sam
was smiling, too. She wondered whom the smile was for—the boy? himself? Could that smile be for her? She would not have picked that smile for herself. She moved away from
Pierre
’s spot to stand at the center of the doughnut case.

“What do you recommend?” he asked her.

“He had a glazed doughnut earlier,”
Maria
said.

“All right. Two glazed doughnuts then—make it three—and two cartons of milk.”

“Do you want those to go?” she asked.

“Yes. To go.”

She sensed he was watching her, but she didn’t look at him while she placed the doughnuts and milk in sacks. She didn’t look at him until she rang up the total on the cash register. She couldn’t look away forever.

He noted the total price and handed her two dollar bills.

“Did you find the girl yet?” she asked in a soft voice before making change from the open cash drawer.

“No.” His voice was also softer.

“Was it her baby you were talking about?”

“Yes.”

“He made you mad, didn’t he?”

“Who?
Pierre
?”

She thought he was going to say no.

“Yes. He always makes me mad.”

She looked around the shop to see if anyone was listening. There was only the old lady and the boy inside. Even so, she lowered her voice more.

“He’s a bad man, isn’t he?”

He looked at her for a moment, as if deciding what he would say. He decided to nod his head, but said nothing aloud. She made a decision, too.

“I have something to tell you,” she said.

“Not here.” His voice was so low that she understood almost as much from reading his lips as from hearing the sounds.

“Where?” she asked.

“Across the street.” He nodded toward
First Avenue
. “What time do you get off?”

“About three.”

“I’ll wait for you by the newspaper stand.”

She looked out the side window and saw the place he meant. She nodded her agreement, then handed him the change for the doughnuts. This time he accepted it and put it in his pocket.

He nodded quickly, one final time, and turned away. He gestured to the boy, who got up and followed him. At the door he gave the boy the two paper bags. He walked to the corner with the boy beside him, waited for the traffic light, and crossed the street. She would cross there, too, at
three o’clock
. She looked at the clock above the refrigerator. It was only ten.

The .38 tugged on the straps of his shoulder holster as Sam walked toward the Market. He could have stuffed the lightweight snub-nose revolver into his belt, but he had taken the regulation .38 instead. Did he think he would shoot somebody, or was it the girl’s voice that made him carry the extra weight? The shoulder holster was a leftover from a more enthusiastic time when he had worked plainclothes on the hill, but it had hung unused for years in his locker. Had he become enthusiastic again—going to funerals, meeting the girl on his own time? On this, possibly the last fine day of summer, he wore a jacket unnecessary for the weather to conceal his harness.

At the newsstand across
First Avenue
from the Donut Shop, he sought refuge among the open racks of newspapers and magazines. He picked up a newspaper from
Omaha
with a headline about an abundant corn crop. He turned the corn crop toward
First Avenue
and looked over it to the Donut Shop. The large windows on the west wall were dirty, and he watched for some time before he was certain
Maria
was still there. He recognized the way she carried herself—an awkward grace that showed through the dirty windows.