Free Fresh Kills by Reggie Nadelson Page A

been placed neatly near the garage. Someone had trucked the garbage in and dumped it.
    â€œLet’s get out of here,” I called to Billy. “Now.”
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” he said, coming down the steps of the house.
    â€œGet in the car.”
    â€œOK, sure,” said Billy and then he saw the garbage. “Garbage men are all fucking idiots.”
    â€œSome guy probably just trying to dump stuff into the truck missed,” I was running my mouth, making stuff up, trying to reassure Billy.
    â€œIt’s OK, Artie. I’m OK. I think we should clean this mess up.”
    â€œJust get in the car,” I said. “Please. Let’s go.”
    From the car, I put in a call to a young cop I knew in Brighton Beach. Bobo – his real name was Boris Borisovitch Levin, the parents were Russian immigrants – was a good guy I’d helped train on the job. He still lived with his parents, and he knew everything that went on around Brighton Beach. I asked him to get someone to clean up the lawn at the Farones. I also asked him to drive over and make sure everything was OK.
    On the way into the city, Billy slept. The radio was on, but he didn’t hear it, his breathing deep and even. Asleep, he looked sweet, like a little boy. I knew the doctor in Florida was right. Billy could come out whole. The sickness was gone. “He’s good,” the shrink had said. In the city at my place, he’d be safe.
    I looked in the rearview mirror. I wanted Billy out of Brooklyn, away from Stanley Shank and his crude phone calls and the creeps who were Shank’s friends.
    Looking at Billy, I knew I had never cared about anyone more than this kid. He felt like my own; he always had.
    By the time we got to the bridge, the weather guy on 1010 was predicting a couple of dry days. The sports guy said the Yankees were doing lousy. On the news was an item about the plane crash in Coney Island and something about a little kid found dead in a vacant lot in Midwood. Battered with hisskateboard, the kid was only eight. It could have been one of the boys I’d seen earlier. It could have been Billy who got beat up.
    I drove over the bridge, and watched Manhattan’s lights come towards me, and I was feeling a lot better when my phone rang.
    â€œI went by that house like you asked me,” said Bobo Levin, the young cop from Brooklyn. “I cleaned up the garbage myself for you, Artie. What bastard did that?”
    â€œYou see anything else?”
    â€œNot much. There’s a few scratches on the mailbox, and the garbage thing. Looked to me like somebody wanted the Farones, is that their name, to know they’d been around. I checked the doors and windows,” said Bobo anxiously, wanting to impress me. “Is that OK with you, Art? Anyone living there? The pool was full of water.”
    â€œYeah, it’s OK, thanks, man,” I said. “The people who live there are away for a couple days. Business trip, something like that. London. I’ll get in touch with them; you don’t have to bother about it. You did great, Bobo. I owe you.”
    â€œYou don’t owe me, Artie. You don’t want me to write it up?”
    â€œMaybe not. That good with you?”
    â€œSure, man, sure, of course,” Bobo said. “Friends of yours?”
    â€œRelatives.”
    â€œJeez, you’ve got family that sure lives nice,” he said, not envious, just appreciative. “One weird thing.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œI almost killed myself when I tripped over some hunks of glass in the back yard. I mean I had to do a little breaking and entering, but I figured you wanted me to take a good look around the house, right Artie?”
    â€œRight,” I said to Bobo. “Go on.”
    â€œThere’s like a lot of broken glass there, heavy stuff, youhave any idea what it could be? I almost cut off my hand on it. Bastards who do this, I’d