Free CONCOURSE (Bill Smith/Lydia Chin) by S.J. Rozan Page B

buildings stood square and black against the clear night sky.
    “Mr. Moran calls you ‘kid,’ the way Shorty does.” Lydia’s face was eerie in the sodium streetlight. “Why do they do that?”
    “You mean when I’m so obviously not one?”
    “Well, unless you count adolescent behavior.”
    I ignored that. “I was a kid when I met them. There was a tight group of guys who were friends of my uncle Dave’s. Cops, mostly. Dave called me ‘kid,’ so they all picked it up.”
    “Your uncle Dave was the one you lived with?”
    “For a few years. I moved in with him when I was fifteen. When I was seventeen I joined the Navy.”
    “Why did you do that?” She waited, then added, “Unless it’s none of my business?”
    “No, no, it’s okay.” The moon, bright and almost full, slipped for a moment from behind the old Western Union building, then hid again behind something else. “I joined the Navy because I was trouble for Dave.” I wasn’t sure that was the question she was asking, but I didn’t want to answer the other one.
    We stopped at a light. From a black custom Camaro next to us came the pounding boom of heavy metal and the sweet smell of marijuana.
    Lydia said, “Trouble?”
    I lit a cigarette. “Those were bad years for me. If it hadn’t been for Dave I’d have a rap sheet a mile long, but all the cops in the neighborhood knew I was Captain Maguire’s kid.”
    The light changed; the Camaro smoked out and was gone.
    Lydia was looking at me curiously. “I didn’t know that about you.”
    “No. Most people don’t.”
    She was quiet; then she said, “And the Navy?”
    I swung the car left onto Canal.
    “The night I got arrested for maybe the twentieth time, the cops who picked me up knew Dave, so they didn’t even book me. They called him to come down.” I studied the empty road ahead as though driving it took great concentration. “I still remember the room where they put me, at the precinct. Bright lights, no windows. Hot and smelly. They left me there for a long time. When Dave finally came, he told me he’d had it. I could stay where I was, or I could join the service.”
    Lydia was silent beside me.
    “There was something in his eyes when he said that that was never there before. The next day I enlisted. My father was Army; nothing would have gotten me into the Army. Dave had been in the Navy.”
    Lydia’s eyes searched my face, but she didn’t ask the other question.
    I worked my way into Chinatown, pulled over in front of the old brick walk-up on Mosco Street.
    “I’ll call you in the middle of the day,” I told her. “And we’ll have dinner tomorrow?”
    “Okay.” She made no move to get out of the car, but sat for a minute, looking over the street. “Bill? Nobody said anything tonight about Mike Downey’s enemies.”
    I nodded. “And you’re thinking that’s where we really ought to start.”
    “Well, shouldn’t we?”
    “Uh-huh. And I’m going to work on that end. But I don’t want to bring Bobby into that, yet.”
    “I thought maybe that was it. That’s why I didn’t say anything at the bar.”
    I kissed her lightly. “Thanks.” As she started out of the car, I said, “Lydia?”
    She closed the door, leaned in the window.
    “Bobby may be wrong about all of this,” I said. “The cops may be right. There may be nothing to find.”
    Her eyes were gentle. “Then we’ll find that,” she said. “Then we’ll know.” She smiled, turned to go.
    “Hey, Lydia?” She turned back to me. “Give your mother my love.”
    Her smile became a grin. “If I gave her your love, she’d take something for it. She thinks it’s a disease.” She straightened, walked away. I waited until she was inside her building, then drove home in an empty car.
    The sharp ringing of the phone cut through the darkness, brought me groggily out of someplace where dark shapes slid through glistening black water. I groped for the receiver, rasped, “Smith.” I coughed. The clock