‘I think …’ she says, turning back to the boy, to us, ‘… I want to call on George Bushwick.’
‘Who?’ The boy stands yawning, his question a delaying tactic. But I am no longer at rest. The memory of Bushwick’s warehouse, the stench of those pelts, has banished thoughts of sleep. There was something – is something – wrong with that man, reeking of fear and death. I cast my thoughts about for some way to communicate and find myself twining around the girl’s ankles, willing her to listen as I mewl out my complaint.
‘Hey, Blackie, it’s OK.’ She picks me up, burying her face in my fur. It’s an uncomfortable sensation, being lifted off one’s feet, and although the warmth of her embrace is pleasant – I am not immune to the affectionate gesture and the rubbing of her face against my side translates – I struggle to be let down, twisting in her grasp. ‘You didn’t eat your cheese.’ She has noticed the rind and reaches for it before I can bat it away. Strict economy delays her further as she retrieves her bag to stow the waxy morsel. I close my eyes in frustration. Not being able to communicate directly seems wrong, somehow.
‘I don’t think he wants you to go out.’ The boy surprises me, although I suspect he is speaking from selfish reasons. The grey dawn has grown no brighter and I smell rain as well as fog. ‘He likes that we’re warm and dry here.’
‘He didn’t know the old man.’ Her voice has acquired an edge; some combination of anger or fear makes her want to push this boy. ‘But it’s more than that, Tick. Bushwick came looking for something the other night, something he thought the old man had. I don’t know if it was that pawn ticket or something else. But until we get to the bottom of it, those jerks are going to keep coming after us. They’re going to start looking for you.’
The boy shuts up at that, although he stares at me as if I am to blame. Because the mistrust runs both ways, I leap, once again, to the sill. Despite my earlier plans, when the girl takes off, I will tail her. If I can, I will stay out of sight. It is my deepest hope that she does not know about this Bushwick’s warehouse, that she never goes to that place of fear and blood. But there is an air about her – determination, fate – that I recognize. This girl is on the hunt, and I will not let her hunt alone.
‘Come on, Tick.’ She ushers the boy out the door as I watch from my perch. ‘First, I want to go back to the old man’s place. Bushwick’s probably been and gone by now, but maybe I can figure out something by what he’s taken. If there’s anything left.’
So far, so good. I trot behind them. The boy is still sleepy and they proceed at an easy pace. She is speaking, as much to encourage him as to explain, I believe. Her voice is musical and soft.
‘I don’t know why he lied, but I’m pretty sure that he didn’t have any outstanding business with the old man,’ she is saying. ‘Still, that tells us something. The old man always said to look at the absences – what are people not telling you? What are they lying about? That’s where you find the truth, he said.’ They walk in silence for a block. The fog is lifting but the clouds are growing thicker, as if all the dampness of the day is gathering overhead. ‘Why would he even come to the—’
She stops, her back stiffening in the cold morning. ‘Tick, why did you talk to Bushwick? Come on, I know you know him.’
The boy has stopped walking, too, but he kicks his worn shoes at the cobblestone before him, the thin canvas sliding over the grey stone.
‘Tick?’ Something about the action alerts her. I, meanwhile, have found a ledge, also stone but elevated from the roadway. It offers a dry perch from which to watch this little drama. ‘I know you told him about the office. He told me. But why were you speaking to him at all?’
‘I carry messages.’ His voice is nearly buried, his words addressed to that unfeeling stone. ‘I told you that.’
‘Messages, Tick?’ The effort she expends at keeping her voice level makes it tremble. I hear this. The boy must as well. ‘Both ways?’
He nods. ‘Intel, AD calls it. Things he wants to know.’
‘Like where the old man had his hiding places?’ Another nod. ‘But how does Bushwick figure into this? He’s not one of AD’s usual clients.’
A shrug – more eloquent than any of the boy’s words. ‘Intel is like gold, AD says. It doesn’t lose its value and it goes to the highest bidder.’
‘I don’t get it. The old man didn’t mess with AD. Didn’t mess with his business.’ She pauses, a memory flitting across her thin, pale face. ‘He always said he was there to help people who wanted it, not the ones too foolish to know better. And George Bushwick, well, he wasn’t the kind of client we were likely to see again.’
‘Who is he? I mean, what’s he do?’ Tick’s questions break into her reverie. She’s been thinking aloud, and his question smacks of a diversion. Still, she answers.
‘You don’t know?’