Free Dick Tracy by Max Allan Collins

cans and a string.” Tracy grinned.
    The boy polished off his plate before either Tracy or Tess were half finished.
    “Thanks, mister,” he said to Tracy. His manners extended that far, anyway. The boy’s eyes shifted from Tracy’s chili and then back to Tess’s Blue Plate Special, like a dog waiting for scraps.
    “You still hungry?” Tracy said, amazed, lifting a spoon of chili.
    “No, but the more I eat now, the less hungry I’ll be later.”
    Tracy had a feeling the boy knew hunger intimately.
    “How about some ice cream?” Tess asked.
    “I had that once!” the Kid said.
    “Ever hear the old expression,” Tracy asked. “You scream, I scream, we all scream for ice cream?”
    “No,” the Kid said, “but I’ll scream, if you want me to. If that’ll do the trick.”
    “Not necessary,” Tracy said. He called over to the counterman, saying, “Mike, fix this kid up with a couple of scoops of . . . what do you want, junior? They got vanilla and strawberry and chocolate.”
    “Gee,” the boy said, pretending to ponder. “I can’t make up my mind. Maybe I oughta try a scoop of each one of them.”
    Tracy smiled and nodded to Mike, who fixed the boy up.
    Tracy was just starting a piece of apple pie when the Kid was scraping his spoon on the bottom of what had been a humongous bowl of ice cream. Despite this manful effort to get every last melted drop of his dessert, the boy finally looked full. Tess was sipping coffee.
    “Are you guys married?” the Kid asked them.
    “No,” Tess said, and looked down at her own piece of pie.
    Tracy cleared his throat and looked at the boy sharply.
    “What’s the matter, Tracy?” the Kid asked. “Did I touch a sore spot or somethin’?”
    “First of all, it’s Mr. Tracy, or Detective Tracy—got that?”
    “Yeah, yeah. Mr. Tracy. Detective Tracy.”
    “Second of all, mind your own business,” Tracy advised, shifting in his seat.
    Tess smiled faintly.
    So did the Kid. His face wore memories of the food he’d just eaten—various shades of ice cream mingling with brown gravy smudges. His face looked like an abstract painting.
    Tracy was about to introduce him to the world of napkins when Sam Catchem’s voice jumped out of the two-way.
    “Tracy, something’s up down at the Southside Warehouse, on the riverfront. Better get down there.”
    “What’s going on?”
    “To tell you the truth, Tracy, we don’t exactly know. Pat called in and asked us to send some backup, ’cause he saw some suspicious lookin’ cops take Lips Manlis inside that warehouse . . .”
    “I know all about that. I told him to call it in.”
    “Well that’s fine, and he did, and we’re on our way over now—but when I try to check back in with Pat, I can’t raise him.”
    “He may not be able to respond without giving away his surveillance position.”
    “Yeah, sure, but then we had a call from a uniform cop patrolling the area, who also saw suspicious vehicles heading into that warehouse, and now we can’t raise him, either.”
    “I’m on my way,” Tracy said hurriedly, and slid out of the booth, tossing some dollar bills and coins on the table; both the Kid and Tess were looking at him widened.
    “Got to go,” Tracy said.
    “What about the eating machine?” Tess asked, nodding pointedly toward the boy.
    “Next stop,” the boy said with glum sarcasm, “Juvenile Hall.”
    “It’s awfully late for that,” Tess said. Her eyes beseeched Tracy to give the boy a reprieve.
    “Take him to my place, then,” Tracy said impatiently. He put a key on the table. “I’ll arrange something with the orphanage tomorrow.” He was half out the door. “I’ll radio for a squad car to pick you two up.”
    Tess blew him a kiss and Tracy blew her one back. The Kid made a face at such mush, even as he eyed the money Tracy left.
    “Touch that,” Tess said without looking at the boy, “and I’ll break your arm.”
    The boy made a disgusted face, but withdrew his hand.
    “I