‘And they just kept him there, laid out.’
The boy nods. He is looking queasy again, looking the child he is. But she’s not seeing how his face has gone soft and bunched up. She’s staring into the middle distance, biting her lip as she thinks.
A minute passes, maybe two, and then she turns toward him again. ‘I don’t think it was an accident, Tick.’ I cannot see her face from where I sit, but her voice has grown hard. ‘I don’t think, if he was hit by a train, there’d have been anything much left to lay out. I think they killed him – and they killed him because of me.’
I jump down from the sill. This is an interesting development, and I follow the girl to the desk to examine for myself the papers to which she has returned. I make my next leap with care. She is hunched over the cluttered surface and will not want to be disturbed. It does not matter. She barely acknowledges me as she scans the document before her. ‘The question,’ she says, running her finger down a piece of paper, ‘is why.’
‘I don’t understand.’ The boy steps up to the desk and tilts his head. It is clear he can read no more than I, but I at least content myself with watching the girl. Waiting to see if she pulls any new pages from the pile.
‘I didn’t get a chance to tell you,’ she says without looking up. ‘I met with Diamond Jim. He was there, in his shop with his muscle, and I told him that I’d solved the case. That Bushwick was behind the robbery. That he probably still has the jewels, though I’m betting the necklace has been broken up by now. And, Tick.’ Here she looks up. I can see that she wants the boy to understand. I can see also that he’s trying, mouth slightly agape as he listens. ‘He didn’t care. I think he already knew. It was the weirdest thing.’
She bends back over the paper. ‘I found the contract. He was promised either info or the jewels. Paid half upfront too, but he didn’t care.’
‘Maybe he heard already?’ The boy’s voice is tentative. He’s trying out a theory without realizing his own process. ‘I mean, if his guys roughed up Fat Peter before they offed him, maybe they already knew about Bushwick?’
She shakes her head, still reading. ‘Bushwick should be toast. He should be as dead as Fat Peter if he stole from Diamond Jim and was found out. And he’s not – he’s not even scared. When I realized how odd it all is, I remembered something Jonah told me. About how Bushwick is the big boss now. It made sense, ’cause that’s how he was acting, and I was wondering …’
She breaks off. ‘You heard them say it was because he was talking too much, right?’ The boy nods. ‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Yeah.’ The word comes out like a croak.
She nods to herself. ‘Jonah wasn’t supposed to tell me that. That’s why they killed him, Tick.’
The boy is silent. This is not an unusual development, I sense. These children live in a world of casual violence and retribution.
‘But why would that be a capital offense?’ She is asking herself, thinking, no longer reading. I sit up to watch her. Her pale face is smutty, streaked with dust and grime; these children seem to attract filth, no matter how often the girl washes herself or washes her friend. The finger she rubs absently over her chapped lip is frayed as well, the nail chewed down to the cuticle. And yet, there is something feline about her. The movement of her eyes, perhaps. The way her brow knits, as if she would bring her ears up, keen and alert, scanning for the slightest sound.
‘The answer is here, Tick. I know it.’ She looks at me and I blink, slowly, to encourage her. I too know the frustration of feeling a solution to be ever so slightly out of reach. I sense a kinship with this girl, despite her youth, her inexperience, her inability to see …
‘If Diamond Jim knew that Bushwick was behind the robbery but didn’t do anything …’ Her voice startles me, and the train of thought is lost. ‘Could it be because Bushwick is his boss? You know how AD is about tribute.’
She barely acknowledges the boy’s enthusiastic nod. She is thinking aloud, and so I fold my paws beneath me and close my eyes, the better to hear her reasoning through.
‘If Diamond Jim wanted to give – had to give – the necklace to Bushwick, maybe it made sense to pretend it was a robbery. To hire someone to hunt for it, knowing …’ She laughs softly. ‘I bet he had insurance on the thing. I bet he made sure of it, and now he’s going to collect. No wonder everyone is so happy.’ Her voice has turned bitter. Turned cold. ‘Everybody makes out. Only the old man was too good at his job. He came around asking questions and Fat Peter must have said something – given something away. The old man said he wasn’t on the level, right?’