Free Claire DeWitt and the City of the Dead by Sara Gran Page B

fact, about birds.
    Then how had he gotten it? And why did he carry it in his pocket? When I’d asked him he’d gone back to monosyllabic non-responses.
I dunno. Nothin’. No reason
.
    Détection
, I wrote in my file.
Andray. Why?
    I went back to his record. He’d been removed from one foster home for suspected sexual abuse by the foster father and another for suspicion of neglect by the foster mother. After that he’d been ripe for picking by the gangs that ruled New Orleans.
    In other cities there were programs and missions and social workers just waiting for a malleable lump of humanity like Andray to fall into their lap. They’d train him to be obedient to a boss and a wife instead of a pimp or a gang leader. That was objectionable on its own terms, but at least he’d have a chance. But there weren’t enough of those programs in New Orleans in any case, and most of the few that had existed had closed since the storm. If he could find a program, he’d have to compete fora spot with twenty other kids, all of them probably a better risk than he was.
    And besides, I was pretty sure early death was a job benefit for Andray.
    Â 
    When I came back from breakfast Mick Pendell was waiting in the lobby of my hotel for me. He sat stiffly on a rigid high-backed chair, flipping through
Detective’s Quarterly
. He looked like he was waiting to see a doctor about an unusual lump.
    I hadn’t seen Mick in nearly ten years. I recognized his tattoos before I recognized his face, especially the little star near his eye on his left temple. I felt a rush of something I couldn’t name—nostalgia, maybe, maybe happiness.
    I put a lid on it.
    â€œWell, gee,” I said coldly. “It’s my lucky fucking day.”
    Mick heard my voice and jumped up. He looked good. He’d gone a little gray around the edges but he carried it well. He wore an old black sweater over a T-shirt, and black jeans, all of it faded and rumpled and not too clean. He had his sweater pushed up, and I saw that his arms were now completely covered in traditional Japanese tattoos: water, flowers, black swirls. On his knuckles were rune marks and around his wrists were words: HATE on the left and LOVE on the right.
    If you ask me, if you can’t remember which is which, maybe you ought to stay home.
    â€œBut unfortunately,” I said, “you didn’t make an appointment. So. You know. Bye.”
    Mick laughed as if I were joking.
    â€œClaire,” he said, smiling wide, his voice deep and aged. “Claire. Oh my God. I am
so happy to see you
.”
    I didn’t need to be a private dick to know he was lying. No one has ever been happy to see me. Not unless I owed them money. Even that didn’t always fly.
    I looked at him.
    â€œI’m sorry I couldn’t see you,” Mick said, putting his hands in and out of his pockets. “I’m sorry about the appointment thing. I just—”
    â€œYou just had better things to do,” I finished for him. “As do I.”
    I turned to walk through the courtyard to my room. Mick followed.
    â€œIt’s just—” he began.
    I walked faster. He caught up to me.
    â€œIt’s just—” he said again.
    We’d reached my room. I took out my key and opened the door.
    â€œSorry,” I said. “I would invite you. It’s
just
that, you know, I want you to go away.” I waved my fingers. “Go.”
    â€œClaire,” Mick said, trying to catch my eye. “Claire. I’m sorry about the appointment thing.”
    â€œNo, you’re not,” I said. “You came here because you want something. And whatever it is, you’re not getting it. So you can go now.”
    â€œOh, come ON!” Mick cried, maneuvering between me and the door. “I was in with a student! I—”
    â€œYou’re lying,” I said. “Next you’re going to tell me you value our friendship