Free Crang Plays the Ace by Jack Batten Page B

say something to the judge that will make him look kindly on you.”
    The kid shrugged.
    â€œOtherwise it’s the reformatory.”
    â€œI thought about it already,” he said in his flat voice.
    â€œMaybe you thought the wrong things. I know you’ve got some brains. The pre-sentence report says you passed grade twelve.”
    â€œBig deal.”
    â€œSays you were brilliant in maths.”
    â€œSo?”
    Behind me, I could hear Moriarty cursing the spilled coffee on his green cushion.
    â€œThis may not interest you, Jimmy,” I said, “but for the hell of it, I’ll tell you I’ve acted for a thousand guys in the same situation as yours and I think I know how to help you in front of the judge this morning.” “James.”
    â€œNever Jimmy?”
    â€œJames,” the kid said. “And I don’t give a shit who you acted for.”
    His eyes looked into mine without a blink.
    I said, “You got any suggestions about what you’d like me to tell the judge?”
    â€œSuch as?”
    â€œAmbitions,” I said. “What do you have in mind as a sequel to your splendid career hitting on cab drivers?”
    â€œI want to be a real good break-and-enter man.”
    I contemplated smacking the kid’s chalky kisser.
    â€œWhy?” I asked instead.
    â€œComputers suck.”
    Maybe we’d established a basis for communication.
    I said, “I’m not keen on the age of electronics myself.”
    James Turkin leaned closer to the bars and his voice dropped to the confidential level. Lower volume, same monotone, more voluble.
    â€œAny creep can screw money out of a computer if they know how to punch into it,” he said. “All these fourteen-year-old kids at school, the ones with the glasses, those wimps, they got their systems worked out. I did it myself. So what’s the deal? But, like, one night this spring, I figured my way into the Canadian Tire store up Yonge Street, right past the alarm, no noise, no tipoff, nothing. I walked around in there a couple hours. Nobody knew. It was a total high.”
    â€œWhat did you take out when you left?” I asked.
    â€œVCR for my sister.”
    â€œThat’s all?”
    â€œAll I could think she needed.”
    What was I dealing with? The Pale Pimpernel?
    â€œI felt real raced up,” Turkin said. “Getting in that store, not anybody could do it. It’s what I’m meant for, break and enter.”
    â€œIf you’re such a smarty,” I said, “how come you mixed in this little contretemps in the underground garage that’s going to send you to the slammer, barring an act of God?”
    â€œIt was the girl’s idea, the one who brought the cab down the garage,” the kid said. His voice had lost the zest it displayed during his celebration of the art of breaking and entering. “Not my idea,” he said. “I helped her out because we were—involved.”
    â€œYou were what?”
    â€œI was banging her.”
    The kid wasn’t a hopeless cause, just had a slightly twisted sense of chivalry.
    â€œUpstairs,” I said, “call the judge ‘sir’ when he speaks to you and stand up straight in the prisoners’ box. Small details help.”
    â€œI got excellent posture.”
    It was true. “See you in court,” I said and turned away.
    Moriarty had vacated his post at the door.
    â€œHe’s gone to wipe off his shirt,” the young cop said.
    â€œMy guy’s coming up in Twenty-one Court,” I said. “You mind taking a look who’s sitting there today?”
    The cop lifted the clipboard from Moriarty’s chair and leafed slowly through the sheets of paper, one sheet for each courtroom in the building.
    â€œTwenty-two’s got Robertson,” he recited. “Twenty-one’s got— hey, you hit it lucky.”
    â€œNot Bert?”
    â€œHis Honour the old