Past Crimes (8 page)

Granddad was staring at me. He was impatient.

But I had to concentrate. This was
crucial.

“I think,” I said, “I’m gonna have the Boom Blast.”

“That’s what you told me before we sat down,” said Granddad.

“I know, I know,” I said. The Boom Blast had chocolate brownie and chocolate ice cream and salted peanuts. I liked all three things. The Boom Blast was what I always pictured in my head whenever somebody said the word “dessert.” I hadn’t had one since my last birthday. That had also been right here at Farrelly’s, not in this same booth but in the one across the room. A fat kid in a green sweater was sitting in that spot tonight.

I’d been thinking about the Boom Blast all week. Although I really wished Farrelly’s were just a plain old diner. It was a little stupid, with bright red vinyl booths and cartoon farm animals on the walls and everything striped like candy canes. I wouldn’t have wanted to come back if it weren’t for the you-know-what.

But then, on the big plastic menu with the pictures of every dish, there was something new. The Avalanche. Three kinds of ice cream
and
whipped cream
and
cherries
and
your choice of sprinkles. Gargantuan. That was what Davey would have said.

Granddad raised a hand, and one of the waiters in the candy-cane shirts hurried over. Granddad could always do that, have someone run right over to help him, without him even saying anything. It was cool.

He ordered a dish of mint chocolate chip for himself and the Boom Blast for me. For an instant I thought of changing
my order—again—but I really didn’t like cherries, and the Avalanche had those. Even if I picked them off, I might still taste them. Stick to the plan.

Granddad sipped his coffee. “Mrs. Stark tells me you’re doing better with your spelling.”

“Yeah,” I said.

Like I had a choice. Mrs. Stark was a buster. Another of Davey’s words. If I got behind again and failed another quiz, she’d be on the phone to Granddad in ten seconds.

“How’s social studies?” said Granddad.

Uh-oh.

Did he know somehow? “It’s okay.”

It really was, even though I hadn’t done the homework last week and Mr. Smithson wouldn’t let me make it up. I was doing good on all the tests this semester. I knew that my grade wasn’t on a shit slope. But if Granddad learned about the homework, he’d be pissed.

Maybe even pissed enough to skip our Saturday lessons and make me do extra chores instead. When I’d been caught at the 7-Eleven instead of in class last year, he’d canceled our Saturdays for a whole month. And I really wanted some more practice on that five-pin Yale lock. I knew I could beat it.

“Mr. Smithson sent me a note,” Granddad said, “asking if you and I wanted to book time with the school counselor.”

I almost fell back against the bench with relief. So that was all it was.

“Did he mention your mother again?” Granddad said.

“No.” And he hadn’t. Not since that one time.

On the first Wednesday of the school year, Smithson had kept me after class. I was more confused than freaked. I couldn’t be busted
already
, right? I waited at his small, banged-up desk at the front of the classroom.

Smithson asked the last student out to shut the door.

“I was one of your mother’s teachers, you know,” he had said. “A long time ago.”

No
shit,
I’d thought. Back when my mom was my age? That had to be fifteen or sixteen years. I wondered what she’d looked like. Did Smithson know she was dead?

“She was a good student,” he said. “I’m happy to have another Shaw in my class.”

I nodded. Smithson was definitely old enough. The little halo of hair still on his head was the same shade of white as the dandruff flakes on his sweater. He was thin, I guess, but he had a belly that made Terry Bonder next to me whisper
“Beer here
” like the guys selling plastic cups of Budweiser at the Kingdome.

“You living with your dad now?” said Smithson.

“No,” I said.

He waited for me to say more. I didn’t. I hated telling people that I’d never met my dad, and that the guy
wasn’t
my dad, not really.

“Do you live with your grandfather, then? Your mom’s dad?”

I nodded again. Smithson nodded, too, like he’d been expecting that answer all along.

He tapped the top of his desk with his fingertips, staring at the coffee-cup stains on the wood. “When Moira—your mom—was here, she went to live with Mrs. Reynolds and her family for a couple of years. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“Sharon Reynolds was one of the first-grade teachers then. She had your mom in her class.” Smithson’s watery brown eyes narrowed. “Your grandfather was … away. Is he around a little more these days?”

“Uh-huh. All the time.”

Which was true. I didn’t count Granddad’s trips out of town, which were never more than a few days. He always made sure I was okay. I had my spare key, and he’d give me cash for food.

Smithson sighed and smiled. It wasn’t a very big smile. “Well, I’m glad to hear it. That everything’s cool.” The word “cool” sounded totally wrong coming out of his mouth.

“Yeah.”

“Moira was a very sharp kid. She would have gone far if —” He stopped.

If she hadn’t had you,
was what I put on the end of that.

Right then I decided I didn’t like Mr. Smithson. Even if he had liked my mom.

The waiter came back and put the dishes of ice cream down in front of me and Granddad, and I forgot all about my social-studies teacher and his stupid questions. I was too busy letting the salt from the peanuts melt into the chocolate on my tongue.

When I was done—after running the long-handled spoon around the inside of the dish so that the brownie crumbs would soak up the melted ice cream and get that last bite and a half left—I looked up and caught Granddad watching the front entrance. His mint ice cream was only partly eaten, and mostly liquid.

He wasn’t looking straight at the front door, of course. He was watching from the corner of his eye, only flicking his gaze in that direction every few seconds. But I could tell.

I dropped my spoon on the red vinyl bench. When I bent to pick it up, I peeked under the table.

Two Seattle cops were standing in the entrance, next to another man who wore the same striped shirt as the waiters plus a red vest. The cops were acting casual, talking with the guy in the vest, but they were watching me and Granddad. They weren’t as good at hiding it as Granddad was.

I started to turn and look at the back of the restaurant, but Granddad said, “Don’t.” I snapped my head around. Don’t look at the rear exit. Don’t signal that we might go that direction.

But then a second pair of cops in their two-tone blue uniforms stepped up to the booth. And I realized that “Don’t” had meant “Don’t bother.”

“Mr. Shaw?” one of the officers said.

Granddad nodded.

“There may be some trouble with your car, sir,” the cop said. Louder than he had to for just me and Granddad to hear him. “Would you come with us?”

Everyone was staring. The fat kid’s mouth was wide open. He had yellow ice-cream dribbles down the front of his green sweater.

Granddad got out of the booth without a word, and both cops took a hasty step back. I grabbed my coat and stood up, too, dodging one of the officers as he tried to put a hand on my shoulder. We all walked out of Farrelly’s, all four cops and me and Granddad.

There were two more uniformed cops in the packed parking lot outside, standing by our black GMC. The passenger-side door to the truck was open. One of the cops—a woman—was sitting in the cab, rummaging through the glove box.

My face got hot. Our truck!

The cop standing next to the one in the passenger seat looked up and saw us coming and walked over. He was as tall as Granddad and much thicker. His name tag said
YOUNGS.
“You’re Donovan Shaw,” he said to Granddad.

“What’s it about?” Granddad said. Not angry, not in a hurry. Cool.

“This is your truck?” said Officer Youngs. Dumb question—they must have seen the registration. Maybe he was required to ask, like a cop thing.

“I don’t think I have any unpaid tickets,” said Granddad. “And the tabs are up to date.”

The cop who’d tried to put his hand on my shoulder came around in front of us. He was older than the other cops,
and his head was shaved bald. The two of them stood a few feet apart, one on either side of Granddad.

“Where were you earlier tonight, Mr. Shaw?” said Baldy.

“With me,” I said. Granddad shot me a look. I closed my mouth.

“And where was that?” said Baldy.

“We were at the movies,” Granddad said, “and then we came here.”

“Which theater?” said Youngs.

“The Varsity,” Granddad said.

Baldy smiled at me. “What’d you see?”

I didn’t answer.

“Forgot already?” he said.

“Go ahead,” Granddad said to me.

“
Independence Day
,” I told Baldy.

“‘Welcome to Earth,’” he quoted. “Is this a special occasion?”

Granddad turned away from him and pointed to where the woman cop was looking under the seats of the GMC. “What’s your cause? Because if you’re just pulling a random, I’ll leave the truck with you and call a cab.”

The smile disappeared from Baldy’s face.

“The Washington Mutual branch on Fortieth was robbed tonight, just before closing,” he said. “The robbers left the scene in a black pickup with a canopy.” He nodded at our truck. “One of the men matches your description.”

“Was the other robber a ten-year-old kid?” Granddad said.

“Did you see anybody you know at the theater?” Youngs said. “Anybody who can verify you were there?”

“I’ve still some popcorn kernels in my teeth, if you’d like to look.”

I wanted to scream.
Don’t be idiots! He was with me. He’s not dumb enough to rob a stupid bank. And be seen, too, for Pete’s sake.

“I think the boy should go back inside,” said Baldy.

“No,” I said.

“Yes,” Granddad said to me. “Go inside.”

I didn’t move. I couldn’t leave him, out of my sight. Anything could happen.

Granddad’s face darkened, and I could tell he was about to give me an order when the woman back at the truck said, “Hey,” very clearly. She had finished with the glove box and was looking up at the top of the cab. I could see a flap of tan fabric hanging where she’d torn the ceiling cover open.

She stepped down from the cab. “Gun,” she said, and held up a pistol, fingers pinched around the trigger guard. Strips of duct tape dangled off the barrel and grip. It was a silver short-barreled automatic. I hadn’t seen it before. It wasn’t one of the guns Granddad let me shoot at tin cans out in the woods.

Around us the cops tensed. The skinny cop standing next to Baldy slid his hand up to rest on his pistol.

“Yours?” Officer Youngs said to Granddad.

“Nope,” Granddad said.

“It’s in your truck,” said another cop.

Granddad shrugged. “Don’t know what to tell you.”

“I bet,” said the woman cop, who had come up to join the group. She had brown hair in a bun and a square body and jaw. Strong-looking. “What the hell are you thinking, driving around with a gun hanging a foot above your kid’s head? It’s loaded.”

Youngs leaned over for a closer look. “Serial numbers are ground off, too.” He drew his stun gun from his belt. Baldy had already taken a step back and was holding his riot baton by its side handle.

Baldy pointed at the concrete in front of Granddad. “Sir, I’m going to need you to get down on the ground. Now.”

It was crazy.
They
were crazy. Granddad and I
were
at the
movies, and we could prove it if the cops would just calm down for a minute. We could call the theater right now. Surely someone would remember us buying popcorn or tickets or …

The ticket stubs. Granddad had let me hang on to them. “Wait!” I said, and reached into my coat pocket.

“Don’t move!” Youngs shouted. The skinny cop reached out and clutched me hard around the upper arm. Pain zapped all the way down to my fingertips. I hollered.

Then the skinny cop was falling backward, Granddad’s fist rebounding off his face. Baldy stepped forward, and I cried out as his riot baton hit Granddad on the back of the knee. Granddad staggered sideways. Youngs’s big arm wrapped around me.

Baldy swung again, the baton bouncing off the top of Granddad’s shoulder. Granddad fell. I screamed. Granddad curled into a ball as Baldy and the fourth cop kicked at him. The woman was yelling something. The kicks sounded like falling sandbags as they hit Granddad’s body.

I thrashed and tried to bite the arm that was crushing my chest. Youngs squeezed harder. My vision went white.

When the world came swimming back into focus, Granddad was facedown on the concrete. Not moving. Baldy was on top of him, one knee pressing between Granddad’s shoulders. Yellow plastic strips bound his wrists behind his back.

We didn’t do anything,
I tried to say. The air just wheezed through my throat. I pushed again at Youngs. The skinny cop was still out cold on the ground, his partner bending over him.

“Don’t help or nothing,” Baldy said to the woman cop.

Her face was red. “Go to hell,” she said. She stepped around Granddad and Baldy over to where Youngs was holding me up.

She leaned down to look in my face. I tried to twist away, to keep my eyes on Granddad. He was moving a little, turning his head.

“I’m over here,” I said. My voice louder now.

“He’ll be okay,” the woman said to me. “Hey. Look at me.”

I didn’t, but I stopped wrestling against Youngs.

“He’ll be okay,” she repeated. “But he needs you to calm down. Can you do that?”

Fuck you, lady. Even if you’re right, Fuck you.

I nodded.

“Good,” she said. Youngs relaxed his arm a little. When I stayed upright and didn’t bolt, he let me go, staying inches away.

“We have to take your dad in,” the woman said. I didn’t correct her. “And we have to call someone for you. Is your mom somewhere we can reach her?”