Detective Faustino Brier stood just inside the door at the front of the diner, his gaze slowly traveling from right to left, studying the interior and the faces.
“Shit,” Dunk whispered. “Get under the table or something.”
“I’m not getting under the table. That will draw him over here for sure. He doesn’t know who I am. Just be cool, relax.”
“Right,” Dunk said, leaning back in the booth with both hands on the table, his fingers twisted together.
“Not that relaxed.”
“Right again.” He sat up straight and fumbled with his empty milkshake glass, his eyes fixed on the formica table top as if he were counting each speck of color for a homework assignment.
“Sit anywhere!” Krendal called out from the kitchen. “Someone will be with you in a second. Lurline—customer!”
The detective ran his hand through his hair in an attempt to tame it, but it bounced right back up. He took a seat at the counter, unfastening the buttons on his suit jacket. He pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket and began flipping through the pages.
I tugged out my wallet, retrieved a five-dollar bill, and placed it under my glass. “Let’s go.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Dunk said softly without moving his lips. “I’ll create a distraction, maybe knock one of these glasses off the table or a fork or something. Then while everyone is looking at me, you make a beeline for the door. If he chases after you, I’ll trip him and try and buy you more time. He’s big, but I can slow him down.”
“Or, we can just get up and walk out like two normal people.”
“We can’t take risks with your freedom.”
“Why are you talking like that?”
“Like what?”
“Without moving your lips.”
“I don’t want anyone to know what we’re saying.”
“Nobody cares what we’re saying. On three, we just leave.”
I counted, then stood and started for the exit. Dunk hesitated, then fell in behind me. I thought we’d make it. I could feel the outside air as my hand wrapped around the metal handle on the door and began to push through.
“Hey, kid—”
Both Dunk and I froze. People on the sidewalk circled around the half-open door and continued on their way. We could run. Maybe Dunk was right. Our heads swiveled in unison, looking back at the detective.
He had turned on his stool and was facing us. His eyes landed on Dunk. “You were out there yesterday, right? Across the street at the alley?”
“Yes, sir,” Dunk said. His voice lost whatever bass it had picked up in the past year. He sounded ages younger.
“Exciting, right? Like on TV?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your name?”
Without hesitation, “Duncan Napoleon Bellino. I live at 1822 Brownsville Road in apartment 207. I’m eleven years old, sir.”
The detective raised an eyebrow, reached for his pad, and made a note. He leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Dunk. “What about the day before yesterday? Or the day before that? Did you see anything strange over there? Anybody out of the ordinary hanging out?”
“No, sir.”
“When was the last time you were in that alley? Do you ever play back there?”
“No, sir.”
