Free Carnival of Shadows by R.J. Ellory Page B

otherwise…
    “What’s your name?” Michael asked.
    “Huh?
    “Your name.”
    “My name is none of your fuckin’ business, kid. Why the hell do you want to know my name?”
    “Because when someone asks me who’s the boss here, I wanna be able to tell ’em.”
    Scarapetto smiled his sly, paper-cut smile again. “Scarapetto,” he said. “Anthony Scarapetto.”
    “And what do I call you? Do I call you ‘Mr. Scarapetto’ or ‘sir’ or what?”
    Scarapetto started to nod. “You’re a smart kid,” he said. “You ain’t no fool, is ya? You know how to treat a man with respect, right?”
    “I don’t know, sir,” Michael said. “Seems that if a man deserves respect, then he should get it. Obviously, you know the deal here. I am just a new guy who knows jack shit, and I wouldn’t want to upset things. Seems like a new guy would want to make friends with a man like you, someone who could take care of things, show him the ropes in a place like this.”
    For the first time, Scarapetto seemed to unwind a little. Whatever six-foot steel rod he carried up his ass seemed to give a little, and he nodded his head sagely. “I like you, kid,” he said. “You seem like a good kid to me. Why the hell are you in here, anyhow?”
    “Because I got no place else to go,” Michael said. “My mom killed my dad, and she’s in jail and they got no place else to put me.”
    “Is that so?”
    “Yes, sir. That is so.”
    “Hell, kid, you don’t need to be callin’ me that. Just call me Tony.”
    “Really?”
    “Sure thing. Tony is just fine. What’s your name?”
    “Michael. Michael Travis.”
    Scarapetto reached out his hand. Michael took it and they shook.
    “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Tony,” Michael said.
    “What the fuck is that? Jesus Christ. Who the fuck talks like that? Are you for real, kid? Pleased to make your acquaintance? Seriously, kid, you can’t talk like that around here. Folks is gonna think you’re a homo or somethin’.”
    “Are you a homo?” Michael asked.
    Scarapetto looked surprised, as if he was now doubting his own ears.
    Those seated on the tables within earshot fell silent. That silence seemed to spread out like ink through water.
    Listen up.
    What’s happening?
    Someone’s fucking with Scarapetto. Called him a homo.
    No, really?
    Really. Now, shut the fuck up, will you?
    “What did you say?”
    “I asked if you had a home,” Michael said. “Why are you here? Don’t you have someone to look after you?”
    Scarapetto—for a split second—wondered what was happening. He shook his head, just once, like a cartoon character shaking off a damn good whack.
    “A home?” Scarapetto asked.
    “Sure,” Michael said, as nonchalant as anything. “Your folks, right? A home. Everyone has a home, don’t they?”
    Scarapetto was still frowning. “I thought you asked me…”
    The room was silent. Those far away didn’t know why they were being silent, but they didn’t dare utter a word.
    A couple of custodians started down from the far end of the room. Michael could hear the squeak of their shoes on the polished linoleum floor, the metal jangle of keys on their belts. For some reason—inside of himself—Michael felt almost nothing then, as if his real self had retreated into some safe internal space, and the State Welfare Michael , the one who would survive this, the one who would see him through, was out there facing the world and all it had to offer. The rage had subsided, his blood had stopped boiling, and the shadows had retreated.
    “I had a home,” Scarapetto said. “A while back. Don’t have one no more, as far as I know.”
    “How long you been here?” Michael asked.
    “Three years.”
    “How much longer you got?”
    Scarapetto squinted at Michael. “Why all the questions, buddy?”
    “Because that’s what friends do,” Michael said. “They talk about shit, you know? They ask questions; they answer them. You never had a friend before?”
    “Sure I