(Duke)
Living in the street will teach you a few things. Don't trust cops or social workers. Don't bother with the colorful pills, because those'll kill you faster than the cops ever could. Don't try to break into a store with a brick, because most of the storefronts are break-proof. Don't forget that the smooth routine will get you farther than a crowbar ever could.
And don't hesitate to ignore any of those rules when you wake up in an alley with a stranger peering down at you.
I don't recognize the kid's face except in a vague way. He's from the suburbs, or at the very least a better part of the city. He's too untouched to be street dirt, even with grime smeared all over his face and ground into his hair. No scars.
He tilts his head when I sit up, startled but not afraid. He's staring at me like he knows me. He looks a little young to be a cop, and I know he's not one of ours. Can't be mistaking me for someone else; I don't exactly have a common face, unless the Cyclops look is coming into vogue this season.
So. I have no idea what's going on. Time to fall back on the default: smooth, yet unobtrusively threatening. I do that well.
"Okay, kid. You mind telling me who the hell you are?"
The strangest look crosses his face, something between surprise, resignation and what might be hurt. Definitely way too young to be out here, and I don't just mean physically. He opens his mouth, then clamps it shut so hard his teeth click. Letting his head hang, he seems to sigh, then looks back up and raises one hand.
Before I can decide whether it's worth blowing the smooth act to grab for a weapon, something moves out of the corner of my eye and I turn to look.
Headlights, stretching down the mouth of the alley. A reflection off of one of the cracked windows shows white paint, blue and red, a gold star painted on one side.
Well. Anaheim's finest, here to protect and serve. Fuck.
The kid is staring at the car, but the look on his face isn't fear. It's hope. When the faint echo of a voice rings out, he actually brightens.
Wonderful. He still thinks the police are his friends.
I glance over, make sure that there's no weapon directly visible in either of his hands, and grab his arm. The kid makes a small noise which I ignore in favor of dragging him behind the dumpster. I may have whacked his shoulder into the wall in the process. The fun of life without depth perception.
He stares at me, the whites of his eyes showing in the dark, but doesn't look like he plans on screaming. I look back at him without really seeing, too busy listening to the footsteps in the front of the alley. Closer, closer. The cop knows someone is here.
I focus on the kid again. Dropping my voice just low enough that the cop can't hear, I tell him, "You go ahead. Tell him you're lost, and you can go back home."
Maybe my people skills aren't as great as I'd thought. The sweet-faced, fresh-on-the-streets kid doesn't go charging back into the safety of the authority figures. He just narrows his eyes right back at me, then touches his throat and shakes his head.
'Can't talk.' Oh, hell, what they would probably do with a kid who can't answer questions, not even a block from where someone (i.e., me) ripped off some 'gifts' courtesy of the city of Anaheim. At best, it'll be a really uncomfortable twelve hours until someone finds out he's not kidding. At worst.
I might be amoral, but I'm not a complete bastard.
"Okay. Fine." I give him my best 'I know what I'm doing' smile. If all else fails, that may turn into the 'do what I say for the next five minutes or I'm dropping you into the nice policeman's lap' smile. "Hope you're not the kind to object to breaking a few laws, sweetheart."
The kid gives me a moderately unimpressed look. I don't remember being this much of a pain in the ass when I was his age.
Well, okay. I do. But I was well justified.
Leaning down, I curl my fingers around the neck of a half-empty wine bottle bumping against my foot. The building across from me is empty, windows clouded with old dust. So I feel completely justified winging it over the cop's head and through one of the windows.
One crash of glass, then another. The cop almost jumps out of his skin at the noise, one hand going to his gun as he looks around in the dark. Great; a gun-happy rookie. He zeroes in on the source of the noise, turning his back to us and walking away.
I nudge the kid and point up at the fire escape just above our heads. The kid doesn't have to say anything, because the disbelief on his face says volumes.
"Lesson one: yes, cops really are that dense." I nudge at him again. "But not dense enough to wait until you figure that out."
He gives me a slightly dark look, but apparently isn't annoyed enough to ignore me. I'll give him credit for moving quietly and staying low. I might even get away with this.
The flashlight is still moving around in the dark, not really pointing at anything anymore. So I follow the kid up, not half a step behind and- if I do say so myself- much more quiet, thank you. There's a window on the third story that looks vaguely promising. I raise a hand to poke the kid between his shoulders and-
And hello, nice officer staring through the broken window at me. Didn't even see you there.
Funny. You don't look really friendly. That could be a problem.
The cop's face disappears. I push the kid, a little harder than I had intended. When his head whips around and he gives me the evil eye, I tell him, "Run now."
Give me a break. It's a little hard to come up with wise ass comments for police pursuits. But there's an advantage in doing this with a mute, in that he doesn't make a wise ass comment about my lack of wise ass comments. He just takes my word for it and runs, like he knows exactly what that tone means.
Which is impossible, since I don't stay around anyone long enough for them to figure out tones and expressions. And now is really not the time to be thinking about this.
No use being subtle now; the fire escape clangs and rattles and wobbles rather alarmingly as we both bolt up the stairs. The kid is fast and in shape enough to make it without slowing down, tripping or stopping. If I had to be stuck with an innocent bystander, at least it's not a completely useless one.
He scrambles over the edge of the building and turns to offer me a hand up. Without hesitation or so much as a glance at the cop, even, like it's character rather than guilty conscience. I could respect that, just not right now.
I knock his hand aside and jump over the barrier myself. Have to keep both hands free. A brief look, almost hurt, flares over his face, but I don't have time to stop and soothe his ego. I turn and look down at the cop.
Thankfully, he's not better than most of Anaheim's finest, more wind than threat. He's new, but not so new that he hasn't had time to get rusty from training. The hand without the gun is clasped over a stitch in his side, and he's turning pretty colors as he wheezes.
"Stop," he gasps, shaking the gun in my general direction. Yeah, right. Your normal shoplifter might not know his rights, but I've been doing this since I was 14. Petty theft and resisting arrest is not grounds for pulling the trigger. He has the safety on.
Still. I don't exactly care for being cornered, and he might have had time to call for back-up.
I give my friend the cop a friendly Brotherhood salute, one finger raised, then reach over and shove the kid's shoulder. "Go."
This time I can feel him hesitate, probably torn between 'the police is your friend' and 'guess what they do to you in juvi?', but another shove gets him moving. I follow half a step behind, close enough to grab his arm and haul him back in case he goes too far.
Control freak, moi? Ha.
It's a narrow building, naturally, so I run out of space just as the nice officer comes up on to the ledge. There's no door to escape from, nothing to duck behind. This could be a challenge. Maybe I can vault the alley between this building and the next. The twenty foot alley. Maybe not.
It's not until the kid starts squirming that I realize that I have a death grip on his arm. Oh, well. Makes it easier to haul him up on to the edge. He goes still, staring over my shoulder with a deer in the headlights expression. Whether he's afraid of the cop or me is anybody's guess.
Whatever. Let him be afraid. I'm busy, even if I had the time or inclination to be reassuring.
Anyway. Even an eye-challenged individual such as myself can see that it's a pretty fair drop down into the alley. There's a dumpster there, laying half-open with a rotting mattress inside for padding, but whether the padding is enough to cushion the drop is hard to tell. Which could mean the difference between a few bruises and a few broken bones.
Oh, well. Even if I'm busted, that might buy me hospital time to sneak out and away, and some painkillers to trade to boot. Better than jail. Then again, a broken neck would be better than jail.
With what I've been told is my usual gallow's humor, I reach over and plant one hand between the kid's shoulderblades. His head whips around, and he gives me the strangest look. Not fear, but something a lot more familiar. Less 'don't kill me' than 'don't you fucking dare'.
Can't be that familiar. Otherwise he'd know better than to dare me on anything.
I push him straight off the edge.
The cop yelps, high and startled, and out of the corner of my eye I can see him fumbling with his gun. Oh, right. Apparent homicide is grounds for pulling the trigger. Whoops.
"Stop," he bellows, and it works about as well as it has the last couple times he's said it. "Stop right there, don't do it, don't-"
Well, gee, Mister. Now I feel sorta obligated.
All it takes is one step backward. One step, and I'm falling, high on the rush, nerves screaming, air whipping past-
Landing is slightly less fun.
I didn't judge quite as well as I thought. I rebounded off the rim of the dumpster, in fact, with a ominous pop that makes it difficult to suck in a full breath. Tumbling in onto the mattress isn't much better. I'll have bruises everywhere after this shit. Somebody ought to tell the mattress people that they need to make these things thicker for criminals like me. Somebody might get hurt.
Cupping a hand over my side really doesn't help anything, but it does let me sit up and look around. The kid is gone, either a mess on the ground outside the dumpster or running home like a smart boy. First sign of intelligence he's shown all night-
A hand comes out of the dark and drags me to the covered side of the trashbin, out of sight. I have to chew on my lip to keep from cursing. After thirteen years of doing this, I can say quite comfortably that the urge to swear, no matter how dire the situation, never really goes away. Just like pain can drown out the little voice that makes sensible suggestions like 'get out of sight, you idiot, and close the other flap while you're at it'.
Done. Moving makes me want to curl up with a bottle of vodka and wait for the pain go away, but I make myself move anyway until the Dumpster is safely covered.
Closing the other flap makes it unbearable in here, ripe and hot and dark. It's going to take weeks to smell human again. Weak stripes of light reach in through the holes in between the flaps, letting me see the kid's pale face.
Okay. So he's not a complete waste of space.
I reach out and punch his shoulder, give him a wry smile. When you make it a policy not to say 'thank you' or 'I'm sorry', you figure out other ways around it. If he doesn't get it, tough. Even if most suburb babies would've left me there to get busted, or run off to narc on me. Why protect the guy who shoved you off a building?
The kid gives me a weak, lopsided grin back. With his hair mussed and a long smear of trash up his cheekbone, he's starting to look almost presentable out here. Luckily for him he'll be back home before the grime gets in under the skin, into the blood and bone and soul.
Anyway. Now that my eyes have adjusted to the dark, I get to do my very best Houdini imitation. If I'm lucky, either rust has eaten through the side of the Dumpster (no joy there) or there's storm drain under this thing-
My fingers touch rust, jagged metal, and. slimy grates. Thank you, whoever looks out for people like me.
The metal at the bottom of the Dumpster is corroded enough to peel back without much trouble, though I can feel my fingers bleeding by the time the grates are completely uncovered. Small price to pay, really.
Usually this would be where I bid my audience 'adieu', Robin Hood slipping away into his Sherwood Forest. If Sherwood was a sewer, Robin Hood were anything but a fairy tale and I was little less realistic, anyway. But when I glance up to tell the kid to stay here, keep out of trouble, and wait until the voices are gone, the words freeze on my tongue.
He saved my ass. That makes us even. I hate being even. You only live by having favors to call in, debts owed to you, and there's no room for even trades.
"Okay, kiddo." When the kid tilts his head, interested and irritated all at once, I have to laugh. Just a touch. "Shall I leave you hear to wait the cops out, or shall I take you down into the sewers and get you out of this and back home?"
He doesn't blink. A little more of the color in his face drains away, yes, but he sets his mouth and nods. Before I can ask which he's agreeing to, his fingers reach down and grip the grates.
Okay, then.
"On three. One, two, three." The cover rasps loudly as we haul it up, torn out of place for the first time in probably decades, but I don't end up bearing most of the weight. Kid's stronger than he looks.
I set the cover aside, then lean forward and peer into the dark. The smell wafting up almost makes the dumpster seem pleasant, but you don't get far by being squeamish. What's one more stench when I've already been playing in garbage most of the day thus far?
Another punch to the kid's shoulder. "Go down, wait for me there. Don't let go of the ladder or you might fall in."
Harsh, maybe, but honest. The pathways down there, running along either side of the water, are narrow and slick. I've known too many people who've fallen in and not been able to pull themselves out again. The water is deep and the current is vicious.
He doesn't even nod that time, just crawls over me and into the gaping dark. I can feel him shaking. Adrenaline, probably. I remember my first time running from the cops. It gets to be an acquired taste, the fear and the chase and the sweet pounding rush. But there's no use telling him that, not when he most certainly won't be staying long enough for the advice to be useful. Besides, comfort is a cheap coin around here. So I just let him go, watch the dark swallow him whole.
Outside the Dumpster I can hear faint voices, footsteps, the sing-song of a siren as it comes closer. I grab the cover and pull it down with me, closing it tight over my head.
It's darker in here than in the Dumpster, not even a few stripes of light to latch on to. I can't see my eyes an inch in front of my face, or the kid as I bump into him on the way down. He's clutching the bars of that ladder like his life depends on it, his knuckles sharp against my palm as I cup my hand over his. His skin feels clammy.
I slide my hand back, take a hold of his bony wrist, and move towards the wall. He resists for a moment, then follows.
They've always told me that I have good fingers, deft hands, that I could walk into a police convention and swipe wallets from all the commissioners without a single blip. They always strung me along with promises that if I stuck around, behaved myself, I could have a future in the high end of things, when a twitch of your fingers in the wrong direction can earn you a life in a cement box. I was always proud of that, but now, feeling his pulse fluttering too fast against my fingertips.
I'm glad to press his hand against the wall, because it means I get to let go.
"It's like walking the high beams." My voice sounds strange in here, hollow, like the walls aren't used to reflecting back voices anymore. Most people walk here alone or in silent pairs, easy as can be. Even I'm whispering. The hallowed halls of the Brotherhood. Right. "The platform's about three feet wide. Slip and you'll go down in seven feet or so of water, trash and. otherwise. People have drowned down here, and nobody's quite sure what lives in the water. So. Don't trip."
His voice sounds harsh, shallow.
I've scared suburban babies before. I've leaned my face in close to the little prom queens to see them flinch when they seen where my eye used to be. I've lost track of how many people I've pick-pocketed, conned, threatened, and quietly intimidated since I started as an apprentice at 16. I shouldn't really care anymore, not for him, not for the yuppie scum that have driven us back into the dark corners and the sewers and the broken buildings with the other shit they don't want anymore. Hell, he's gotten more than I've given some of my own people.
And yet.
And yet somehow my hand's coming up to grip his shoulder, and my voice is telling him like he's street, like he's earned it, like he deserves it, "I'll be behind you."
He takes another deep, shuddering breath, and moves. One step, then another. He moves gingerly, picking out each step at a time.
And we walk, the sirens fading behind us.
Living in the street will teach you a few things. Don't trust cops or social workers. Don't bother with the colorful pills, because those'll kill you faster than the cops ever could. Don't try to break into a store with a brick, because most of the storefronts are break-proof. Don't forget that the smooth routine will get you farther than a crowbar ever could.
And don't hesitate to ignore any of those rules when you wake up in an alley with a stranger peering down at you.
I don't recognize the kid's face except in a vague way. He's from the suburbs, or at the very least a better part of the city. He's too untouched to be street dirt, even with grime smeared all over his face and ground into his hair. No scars.
He tilts his head when I sit up, startled but not afraid. He's staring at me like he knows me. He looks a little young to be a cop, and I know he's not one of ours. Can't be mistaking me for someone else; I don't exactly have a common face, unless the Cyclops look is coming into vogue this season.
So. I have no idea what's going on. Time to fall back on the default: smooth, yet unobtrusively threatening. I do that well.
"Okay, kid. You mind telling me who the hell you are?"
The strangest look crosses his face, something between surprise, resignation and what might be hurt. Definitely way too young to be out here, and I don't just mean physically. He opens his mouth, then clamps it shut so hard his teeth click. Letting his head hang, he seems to sigh, then looks back up and raises one hand.
Before I can decide whether it's worth blowing the smooth act to grab for a weapon, something moves out of the corner of my eye and I turn to look.
Headlights, stretching down the mouth of the alley. A reflection off of one of the cracked windows shows white paint, blue and red, a gold star painted on one side.
Well. Anaheim's finest, here to protect and serve. Fuck.
The kid is staring at the car, but the look on his face isn't fear. It's hope. When the faint echo of a voice rings out, he actually brightens.
Wonderful. He still thinks the police are his friends.
I glance over, make sure that there's no weapon directly visible in either of his hands, and grab his arm. The kid makes a small noise which I ignore in favor of dragging him behind the dumpster. I may have whacked his shoulder into the wall in the process. The fun of life without depth perception.
He stares at me, the whites of his eyes showing in the dark, but doesn't look like he plans on screaming. I look back at him without really seeing, too busy listening to the footsteps in the front of the alley. Closer, closer. The cop knows someone is here.
I focus on the kid again. Dropping my voice just low enough that the cop can't hear, I tell him, "You go ahead. Tell him you're lost, and you can go back home."
Maybe my people skills aren't as great as I'd thought. The sweet-faced, fresh-on-the-streets kid doesn't go charging back into the safety of the authority figures. He just narrows his eyes right back at me, then touches his throat and shakes his head.
'Can't talk.' Oh, hell, what they would probably do with a kid who can't answer questions, not even a block from where someone (i.e., me) ripped off some 'gifts' courtesy of the city of Anaheim. At best, it'll be a really uncomfortable twelve hours until someone finds out he's not kidding. At worst.
I might be amoral, but I'm not a complete bastard.
"Okay. Fine." I give him my best 'I know what I'm doing' smile. If all else fails, that may turn into the 'do what I say for the next five minutes or I'm dropping you into the nice policeman's lap' smile. "Hope you're not the kind to object to breaking a few laws, sweetheart."
The kid gives me a moderately unimpressed look. I don't remember being this much of a pain in the ass when I was his age.
Well, okay. I do. But I was well justified.
Leaning down, I curl my fingers around the neck of a half-empty wine bottle bumping against my foot. The building across from me is empty, windows clouded with old dust. So I feel completely justified winging it over the cop's head and through one of the windows.
One crash of glass, then another. The cop almost jumps out of his skin at the noise, one hand going to his gun as he looks around in the dark. Great; a gun-happy rookie. He zeroes in on the source of the noise, turning his back to us and walking away.
I nudge the kid and point up at the fire escape just above our heads. The kid doesn't have to say anything, because the disbelief on his face says volumes.
"Lesson one: yes, cops really are that dense." I nudge at him again. "But not dense enough to wait until you figure that out."
He gives me a slightly dark look, but apparently isn't annoyed enough to ignore me. I'll give him credit for moving quietly and staying low. I might even get away with this.
The flashlight is still moving around in the dark, not really pointing at anything anymore. So I follow the kid up, not half a step behind and- if I do say so myself- much more quiet, thank you. There's a window on the third story that looks vaguely promising. I raise a hand to poke the kid between his shoulders and-
And hello, nice officer staring through the broken window at me. Didn't even see you there.
Funny. You don't look really friendly. That could be a problem.
The cop's face disappears. I push the kid, a little harder than I had intended. When his head whips around and he gives me the evil eye, I tell him, "Run now."
Give me a break. It's a little hard to come up with wise ass comments for police pursuits. But there's an advantage in doing this with a mute, in that he doesn't make a wise ass comment about my lack of wise ass comments. He just takes my word for it and runs, like he knows exactly what that tone means.
Which is impossible, since I don't stay around anyone long enough for them to figure out tones and expressions. And now is really not the time to be thinking about this.
No use being subtle now; the fire escape clangs and rattles and wobbles rather alarmingly as we both bolt up the stairs. The kid is fast and in shape enough to make it without slowing down, tripping or stopping. If I had to be stuck with an innocent bystander, at least it's not a completely useless one.
He scrambles over the edge of the building and turns to offer me a hand up. Without hesitation or so much as a glance at the cop, even, like it's character rather than guilty conscience. I could respect that, just not right now.
I knock his hand aside and jump over the barrier myself. Have to keep both hands free. A brief look, almost hurt, flares over his face, but I don't have time to stop and soothe his ego. I turn and look down at the cop.
Thankfully, he's not better than most of Anaheim's finest, more wind than threat. He's new, but not so new that he hasn't had time to get rusty from training. The hand without the gun is clasped over a stitch in his side, and he's turning pretty colors as he wheezes.
"Stop," he gasps, shaking the gun in my general direction. Yeah, right. Your normal shoplifter might not know his rights, but I've been doing this since I was 14. Petty theft and resisting arrest is not grounds for pulling the trigger. He has the safety on.
Still. I don't exactly care for being cornered, and he might have had time to call for back-up.
I give my friend the cop a friendly Brotherhood salute, one finger raised, then reach over and shove the kid's shoulder. "Go."
This time I can feel him hesitate, probably torn between 'the police is your friend' and 'guess what they do to you in juvi?', but another shove gets him moving. I follow half a step behind, close enough to grab his arm and haul him back in case he goes too far.
Control freak, moi? Ha.
It's a narrow building, naturally, so I run out of space just as the nice officer comes up on to the ledge. There's no door to escape from, nothing to duck behind. This could be a challenge. Maybe I can vault the alley between this building and the next. The twenty foot alley. Maybe not.
It's not until the kid starts squirming that I realize that I have a death grip on his arm. Oh, well. Makes it easier to haul him up on to the edge. He goes still, staring over my shoulder with a deer in the headlights expression. Whether he's afraid of the cop or me is anybody's guess.
Whatever. Let him be afraid. I'm busy, even if I had the time or inclination to be reassuring.
Anyway. Even an eye-challenged individual such as myself can see that it's a pretty fair drop down into the alley. There's a dumpster there, laying half-open with a rotting mattress inside for padding, but whether the padding is enough to cushion the drop is hard to tell. Which could mean the difference between a few bruises and a few broken bones.
Oh, well. Even if I'm busted, that might buy me hospital time to sneak out and away, and some painkillers to trade to boot. Better than jail. Then again, a broken neck would be better than jail.
With what I've been told is my usual gallow's humor, I reach over and plant one hand between the kid's shoulderblades. His head whips around, and he gives me the strangest look. Not fear, but something a lot more familiar. Less 'don't kill me' than 'don't you fucking dare'.
Can't be that familiar. Otherwise he'd know better than to dare me on anything.
I push him straight off the edge.
The cop yelps, high and startled, and out of the corner of my eye I can see him fumbling with his gun. Oh, right. Apparent homicide is grounds for pulling the trigger. Whoops.
"Stop," he bellows, and it works about as well as it has the last couple times he's said it. "Stop right there, don't do it, don't-"
Well, gee, Mister. Now I feel sorta obligated.
All it takes is one step backward. One step, and I'm falling, high on the rush, nerves screaming, air whipping past-
Landing is slightly less fun.
I didn't judge quite as well as I thought. I rebounded off the rim of the dumpster, in fact, with a ominous pop that makes it difficult to suck in a full breath. Tumbling in onto the mattress isn't much better. I'll have bruises everywhere after this shit. Somebody ought to tell the mattress people that they need to make these things thicker for criminals like me. Somebody might get hurt.
Cupping a hand over my side really doesn't help anything, but it does let me sit up and look around. The kid is gone, either a mess on the ground outside the dumpster or running home like a smart boy. First sign of intelligence he's shown all night-
A hand comes out of the dark and drags me to the covered side of the trashbin, out of sight. I have to chew on my lip to keep from cursing. After thirteen years of doing this, I can say quite comfortably that the urge to swear, no matter how dire the situation, never really goes away. Just like pain can drown out the little voice that makes sensible suggestions like 'get out of sight, you idiot, and close the other flap while you're at it'.
Done. Moving makes me want to curl up with a bottle of vodka and wait for the pain go away, but I make myself move anyway until the Dumpster is safely covered.
Closing the other flap makes it unbearable in here, ripe and hot and dark. It's going to take weeks to smell human again. Weak stripes of light reach in through the holes in between the flaps, letting me see the kid's pale face.
Okay. So he's not a complete waste of space.
I reach out and punch his shoulder, give him a wry smile. When you make it a policy not to say 'thank you' or 'I'm sorry', you figure out other ways around it. If he doesn't get it, tough. Even if most suburb babies would've left me there to get busted, or run off to narc on me. Why protect the guy who shoved you off a building?
The kid gives me a weak, lopsided grin back. With his hair mussed and a long smear of trash up his cheekbone, he's starting to look almost presentable out here. Luckily for him he'll be back home before the grime gets in under the skin, into the blood and bone and soul.
Anyway. Now that my eyes have adjusted to the dark, I get to do my very best Houdini imitation. If I'm lucky, either rust has eaten through the side of the Dumpster (no joy there) or there's storm drain under this thing-
My fingers touch rust, jagged metal, and. slimy grates. Thank you, whoever looks out for people like me.
The metal at the bottom of the Dumpster is corroded enough to peel back without much trouble, though I can feel my fingers bleeding by the time the grates are completely uncovered. Small price to pay, really.
Usually this would be where I bid my audience 'adieu', Robin Hood slipping away into his Sherwood Forest. If Sherwood was a sewer, Robin Hood were anything but a fairy tale and I was little less realistic, anyway. But when I glance up to tell the kid to stay here, keep out of trouble, and wait until the voices are gone, the words freeze on my tongue.
He saved my ass. That makes us even. I hate being even. You only live by having favors to call in, debts owed to you, and there's no room for even trades.
"Okay, kiddo." When the kid tilts his head, interested and irritated all at once, I have to laugh. Just a touch. "Shall I leave you hear to wait the cops out, or shall I take you down into the sewers and get you out of this and back home?"
He doesn't blink. A little more of the color in his face drains away, yes, but he sets his mouth and nods. Before I can ask which he's agreeing to, his fingers reach down and grip the grates.
Okay, then.
"On three. One, two, three." The cover rasps loudly as we haul it up, torn out of place for the first time in probably decades, but I don't end up bearing most of the weight. Kid's stronger than he looks.
I set the cover aside, then lean forward and peer into the dark. The smell wafting up almost makes the dumpster seem pleasant, but you don't get far by being squeamish. What's one more stench when I've already been playing in garbage most of the day thus far?
Another punch to the kid's shoulder. "Go down, wait for me there. Don't let go of the ladder or you might fall in."
Harsh, maybe, but honest. The pathways down there, running along either side of the water, are narrow and slick. I've known too many people who've fallen in and not been able to pull themselves out again. The water is deep and the current is vicious.
He doesn't even nod that time, just crawls over me and into the gaping dark. I can feel him shaking. Adrenaline, probably. I remember my first time running from the cops. It gets to be an acquired taste, the fear and the chase and the sweet pounding rush. But there's no use telling him that, not when he most certainly won't be staying long enough for the advice to be useful. Besides, comfort is a cheap coin around here. So I just let him go, watch the dark swallow him whole.
Outside the Dumpster I can hear faint voices, footsteps, the sing-song of a siren as it comes closer. I grab the cover and pull it down with me, closing it tight over my head.
It's darker in here than in the Dumpster, not even a few stripes of light to latch on to. I can't see my eyes an inch in front of my face, or the kid as I bump into him on the way down. He's clutching the bars of that ladder like his life depends on it, his knuckles sharp against my palm as I cup my hand over his. His skin feels clammy.
I slide my hand back, take a hold of his bony wrist, and move towards the wall. He resists for a moment, then follows.
They've always told me that I have good fingers, deft hands, that I could walk into a police convention and swipe wallets from all the commissioners without a single blip. They always strung me along with promises that if I stuck around, behaved myself, I could have a future in the high end of things, when a twitch of your fingers in the wrong direction can earn you a life in a cement box. I was always proud of that, but now, feeling his pulse fluttering too fast against my fingertips.
I'm glad to press his hand against the wall, because it means I get to let go.
"It's like walking the high beams." My voice sounds strange in here, hollow, like the walls aren't used to reflecting back voices anymore. Most people walk here alone or in silent pairs, easy as can be. Even I'm whispering. The hallowed halls of the Brotherhood. Right. "The platform's about three feet wide. Slip and you'll go down in seven feet or so of water, trash and. otherwise. People have drowned down here, and nobody's quite sure what lives in the water. So. Don't trip."
His voice sounds harsh, shallow.
I've scared suburban babies before. I've leaned my face in close to the little prom queens to see them flinch when they seen where my eye used to be. I've lost track of how many people I've pick-pocketed, conned, threatened, and quietly intimidated since I started as an apprentice at 16. I shouldn't really care anymore, not for him, not for the yuppie scum that have driven us back into the dark corners and the sewers and the broken buildings with the other shit they don't want anymore. Hell, he's gotten more than I've given some of my own people.
And yet.
And yet somehow my hand's coming up to grip his shoulder, and my voice is telling him like he's street, like he's earned it, like he deserves it, "I'll be behind you."
He takes another deep, shuddering breath, and moves. One step, then another. He moves gingerly, picking out each step at a time.
And we walk, the sirens fading behind us.