The owner looked at the kid, then at the money. Then he made the three bills vanish. “Get him outta here,” he said.
Cash. The sovereign remedy for everything.
I took the kid by the arm and led him toward the door. The boy thrashed in my grip. He was stronger than he looked, or maybe just desperate. His jerking and yanking threw me off balance, and I bumped into a couple of shelves on the way out. But I finally got him through the door and onto the sidewalk. I didn’t let go. I frog-marched the kid down to the corner and turned right. The side street wasn’t as busy, so I stopped. I pushed the kid against a wall and faced him squarely, looking him over. The boy was scrawny, undernourished, probably a few years older than my first guess. Maybe twelve? Probably Central American. Salvadoran or something. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Monsy,” the kid said sullenly.
“Where’s your mom?”
Monsy shrugged. “Probably fucking some dude so she can shoot up again,” he said.
“Father?”
“Who the fuck knows,” Monsy said.
I just nodded. It was about what I expected. Just the way I grew up, stealing because if I didn’t, I’d go hungry. I mean, Mom never whored, but for the kid it was about the same. I looked at him. Monsy met my eye for the first time. “Listen, mister, I don’t care how many dollars you pull out, I ain’t gonna do that stuff.”
Yeah, same deal. It was exactly what I would have assumed at that age. The street teaches hard lessons. Some stuff never changes. I shook my head and smiled. “I’m not a chicken hawk, kid,” I told him.
“Yeah, sure, a hundred fifty bucks cuz you a nice guy.”
“Money is easy,” I said.
The kid actually managed a sneer. “Yeah, sure it is,” he said. But his eyes went wide when I reached under my jacket and pulled out a bag of chips and a handful of Slim Jims. “How the fuck—oh!” Monsy said with a sudden look of comprehension. “When you bumped the shelf?”
“Watch and learn,” I said. “And don’t go back to that bodega.”
“I’m not stupid,” Monsy said.
“Then stop acting like you are,” I said. I reached into my jacket and flipped him one last thing, a Little Debbie cupcake. He caught it, and I turned to go. “Later, Monsy.”
I could feel his eyes on me as I walked away. I didn’t care. And I didn’t mind the hundred fifty bucks at all; it’s just money. Besides, it felt good to do a good deed like that. And anyway, I’d slipped a razor into my pocket at the same time, without paying. Riley’s Second Law: Free is always better.
CHAPTER
7
Special Agent Frank Delgado was an unusual man. Not because of his appearance; that was completely unremarkable. He stood five foot ten, had a stocky frame and dark hair. You would pass him in the streets of any US city without a second glance. Delgado’s abnormality came in other, less visible areas.
He said no more than he had to, kept his thoughts to himself, and maintained a stone face that showed almost nothing, no matter what the circumstances.
And as a special agent of the FBI, he lacked many traits that are virtually part of the uniform. His hair was just a little too long, his suit was never quite pressed, he did not communicate well with other agents working with him, he seemed to lack automatic respect for superiors—suffice it to say that he would not have lasted two weeks if J. Edgar Hoover still ran the Bureau.
But Frank Delgado got results. No one argued with that. If he set out to nail a criminal, that criminal was as good as nailed. Over a seventeen-year career with the Bureau, Delgado had a success record that was the envy of his peers.
There was, of course, one glaring exception. Three times he had failed in his pursuit of a wanted criminal. Three times—the same criminal. And the same result: Special Agent Delgado could not make the collar. In Delgado’s most recent run-in, just a few months ago in Chicago, he had missed his man by a matter of only hours. But he had still missed.
Aside from that, his record was remarkably good, and Frank had earned some true respect. With that went a certain amount of tolerance for his somewhat unorthodox behavior.
And so it was perfectly normal for Special Agent Frank Delgado to walk into his supervisor’s office without knocking. On top of his reputation, Delgado had enough seniority to get away with it. In fact, he had been offered his boss’s job himself and turned it down. He said he didn’t like paperwork. The man who now held the job, Special Agent in Charge J. B. Macklin, was well aware that Delgado had been the AD’s first choice for this position. It didn’t bother him anymore. At least, not too much.
But Macklin was a little irritated that Delgado just came in and sat down in the chair facing him across his desk without saying a word. So he finished reading the report he’d been working on, signed it, and pushed it into his out-basket before he sat back and gave Delgado his attention. Delgado didn’t speak, though. He just sat and looked back. “What’s up, Frank?” Macklin said at last.
“Riley Wolfe,” Delgado said.
“No,” Macklin said automatically. This was not the first time Delgado had asked to take off after Riley Wolfe. The master thief was, in his opinion, an unhealthy obsession for Delgado. Especially after the near miss in Chicago. Delgado said nothing and showed no disappointment, but Macklin was sure it rankled, and he suspected it was one reason Delgado had turned down the supervisory job—he wanted to stay in the
field until he caught Wolfe.