The kettle was whistling. Susan got up to take it off. “I just feel like I’m stumbling through an obstacle course around here sometimes. I’ll get used to it.”
Dan dropped into one of the kitchen chairs and picked up the paper. His face creased, running little lines like fleshy shelves across his forehead. “All this publicity and it’s going to go to waste,” he said. “It’s a shame, isn’t it?”
“Why will it go to waste?”
“Because in about three days it’s going to disappear,” Dan said. “The media are going to figure out what’s happening and then it won’t be happening. As far as they’re concerned, anyway.”
“I don’t understand.” Susan brought the teapot to the table and set it down. “Why wouldn’t they go on with it? They’ve made such a fuss about it already. It seems like just their kind of thing.”
Dan gave her a funny look, funny-cynical. It was an expression of his she especially disliked. “They think the kid’s a kid,” he said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means they think they’ve got a nice little ordinary nine-year-old with a bullet in the back of his head. What they’ve really got is a hooker.”
Susan blinked. “A hooker? Do you mean a prostitute?”
“Of course.”
“That nine-year-old child was a prostitute?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t just keep saying ‘of course,’ ” Susan said. “How could a nine-year-old boy be a prostitute? Who would he prostitute himself to?”
“Men.” Dan folded the paper and slapped it back onto the table. “You really have been in a convent. Billy Hare prostituted himself to men, to pederasts. He’d been doing it since he was six or seven years old. His parents were a pair of prize junkies. They managed to bring him into the world clean. He was their asset. One day they probably got tapped out completely and sold him off.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus Christ,” Susan said.
She felt as if she’d just inhaled a lungful of natural gas, but Dan was going on, pouring himself a cup of tea from her pot, reaching for the sugar bowl at the center of the table. She didn’t remember him getting up to get the cup, but he must have. She couldn’t understand why he didn’t sound upset. It was as if he dealt with this sort of thing every day.
“That’s why the media are going to lose interest,” he was saying. “Murder in the middle class is news. Murder in the underclass is invisible. Especially if it’s politically sensitive.”
“ ‘Politically sensitive.’ ”
“I don’t mean the governor’s running a meat shop,” Dan said patiently. “I mean the whole thing gets into areas the press doesn’t want to deal with. You ever hear of a man named Father Thomas Burne?”
Father Thomas Burne. The name rolled around in Susan’s head and finally poked a hole through the fog it was in. She had heard of Father Thomas Burne.
“I think we used to get brochures for his place at Saint Michael’s,” she said. “Requests for money and food. Damien House. A place for runaway children.”
“What they’re mostly running away from is pimps.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Susan, I’m sure. And I personally think Tom Burne is a saint. The problem is, every time they give him air time he starts talking about pornography, and every time he starts talking about pornography he starts talking about censorship. And that—”
“What does censorship have to do with turning children into prostitutes?”
Dan smiled. “Go down to Congress Avenue and take a look at the pornography he’s talking about.”
“Pornography about children.”
“Of course.”
“Is that legal?”
“Probably not. The legality of it isn’t the problem here. The existence of it is the problem here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No,” Dan said, “I don’t suppose you do.”
“What about all those investigative reporters I’ve heard about? Wouldn’t they be interested?”
“I don’t know that either, Susan.
Dan dropped into one of the kitchen chairs and picked up the paper. His face creased, running little lines like fleshy shelves across his forehead. “All this publicity and it’s going to go to waste,” he said. “It’s a shame, isn’t it?”
“Why will it go to waste?”
“Because in about three days it’s going to disappear,” Dan said. “The media are going to figure out what’s happening and then it won’t be happening. As far as they’re concerned, anyway.”
“I don’t understand.” Susan brought the teapot to the table and set it down. “Why wouldn’t they go on with it? They’ve made such a fuss about it already. It seems like just their kind of thing.”
Dan gave her a funny look, funny-cynical. It was an expression of his she especially disliked. “They think the kid’s a kid,” he said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means they think they’ve got a nice little ordinary nine-year-old with a bullet in the back of his head. What they’ve really got is a hooker.”
Susan blinked. “A hooker? Do you mean a prostitute?”
“Of course.”
“That nine-year-old child was a prostitute?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t just keep saying ‘of course,’ ” Susan said. “How could a nine-year-old boy be a prostitute? Who would he prostitute himself to?”
“Men.” Dan folded the paper and slapped it back onto the table. “You really have been in a convent. Billy Hare prostituted himself to men, to pederasts. He’d been doing it since he was six or seven years old. His parents were a pair of prize junkies. They managed to bring him into the world clean. He was their asset. One day they probably got tapped out completely and sold him off.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus Christ,” Susan said.
She felt as if she’d just inhaled a lungful of natural gas, but Dan was going on, pouring himself a cup of tea from her pot, reaching for the sugar bowl at the center of the table. She didn’t remember him getting up to get the cup, but he must have. She couldn’t understand why he didn’t sound upset. It was as if he dealt with this sort of thing every day.
“That’s why the media are going to lose interest,” he was saying. “Murder in the middle class is news. Murder in the underclass is invisible. Especially if it’s politically sensitive.”
“ ‘Politically sensitive.’ ”
“I don’t mean the governor’s running a meat shop,” Dan said patiently. “I mean the whole thing gets into areas the press doesn’t want to deal with. You ever hear of a man named Father Thomas Burne?”
Father Thomas Burne. The name rolled around in Susan’s head and finally poked a hole through the fog it was in. She had heard of Father Thomas Burne.
“I think we used to get brochures for his place at Saint Michael’s,” she said. “Requests for money and food. Damien House. A place for runaway children.”
“What they’re mostly running away from is pimps.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Susan, I’m sure. And I personally think Tom Burne is a saint. The problem is, every time they give him air time he starts talking about pornography, and every time he starts talking about pornography he starts talking about censorship. And that—”
“What does censorship have to do with turning children into prostitutes?”
Dan smiled. “Go down to Congress Avenue and take a look at the pornography he’s talking about.”
“Pornography about children.”
“Of course.”
“Is that legal?”
“Probably not. The legality of it isn’t the problem here. The existence of it is the problem here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No,” Dan said, “I don’t suppose you do.”
“What about all those investigative reporters I’ve heard about? Wouldn’t they be interested?”
“I don’t know that either, Susan.
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