Dunk shook his head. “Kids on bikes does not a tip-off make.”
“I think it was the radios,” I said.
Dunk frowned. “Did they see your radio?”
“No, I think they heard it. Every time those SUVs get close, something screwy happens with whatever radio I have with me. In the past, I noticed the signal on my Walkman boost when they got close. Today, we all lost contact even though we were well within range. Almost like something with a stronger signal interfered.”
“What? Like a transmitter in one of the SUVs?”
I twisted the Coke can in my hand. “I don’t know. Transmitter, receiver, some kind of radio something.”
“So next year, we don’t use radios,” Willy said.
I met his eyes. “Next year, I think I need to go alone again. Otherwise, they’ll know.”
“I agree, and that’s why you need this,” Dunk slid the .38 toward me.
“I’m not gonna shoot anyone.”
“For protection,” Dunk continued. “You keep it on you in case they try to finish what they started today. You put it in your pocket, and wait for them on the bench.” He took another sip of his beer. “If you have to, you pull the gun on Stella. This time, you get answers. You don’t let them leave. You control the situation.”
“They’ve got guns, too, much bigger guns.”
“Won’t matter. If you point a gun at Stella, they won’t risk shooting you.” Dunk finished his beer and crushed the can. He tossed it at the overflowing wastebasket in the corner of the kitchen. “This time, you’re getting answers for sure.”
I stared at the gun for a long time. Then I reached for my beer. The bubbles burned my nose. I didn’t like the taste one bit. At least, not that first time.
August 8, 1989
Thirteen Years Old
Log 08/08/1989—
Subject “D” within expected parameters.
Audio/video recording.
“What time is it?”
“Ahh, twelve after three.”
“Is the kid sleeping?”
Warren lowered his copy ofRolling Stonemagazine. “Did you know Madonna doesn’t shave her arm pits?”
“Neither do I.”
“You’re a hairy fucking monkey. She’s hot. Seems weird when a woman doesn’t shave.”
“They don’t in Europe.”
“That’s why I live in the good ol' U.S. of A.”
“Seems like a double standard to me.”
Warren returned to the magazine. “Wonder if she shaves her legs.”
“I’m sure she shaves her legs. We live in a civilized society. If Madonna doesn’t shave her legs, we might as well go back to sleeping in caves and beating buffalos with sticks to get our dinner.”
