Nerve Damage by Peter Abrahams Page B

had both taillights out, which was how come we pulled him over in the first place. Meaning he’s got a court date next month.”
    Skippy stared at his knees.
    â€œHow much to bail him out?”
    â€œNothin’,” said Freddy. “Just have to turn him over to a responsible adult.”
    â€œI’ll see who’s around,” Roy said.
    Freddy laughed. Roy walked Skippy out of the station.
    â€œDrop you off at your mom’s?” he said as they got in the pickup.
    Skippy shook his head.
    â€œMurph’s?”
    â€œHe hates me.”
    â€œNo, he doesn’t.”
    â€œRight,” said Skippy. He let out his breath, a long, resigned exhale, like a groan but softer. “Maybe just take me to Junior’s.”
    â€œWho’s Junior?”
    â€œThis friend of mine. Lives near the bridge.”
    â€œWhat’s his last name?”
    â€œCordero.”
    â€œTell you what,” Roy said. “Stay in my spare room tonight. In the morning, you’ll have to work things out with your mom.” Roy knew some of the Corderos.
    Skippy nodded, a very slight movement. He smelled pretty bad.
    Â 
    The phone woke Roy in the morning.
    â€œThis is Dr. Honey.” So many doctors recently, Roy had trouble placing him at first. “Dr. Chu, the colleague at Hopkins I mentioned, has agreed to see you. No absolute guarantee he’ll include you in his study, but I urge you to get to Baltimore as soon as possible.”
    â€œI, uh…” Roy, for some reason suddenly wanting to tell Dr. Honey all about his broken arm, barely stopped himself.
    â€œAny questions?”
    â€œNo,” said Roy. “Just—thanks.”
    â€œI’ll transfer you to my assistant,” said Dr. Honey. “She’ll fill you in on the details.”
    Dr. Honey’s assistant filled Roy in. He took notes. Then he went down the hall, looked in the guest room. Skippy was sleeping on the bare mattress, still fully dressed, boots and all; the sheets Roy had given him lay folded on the bedside table.
    â€œTime to get up,” Roy said.
    No reaction.
    â€œYour mom’s probably—”
    The phone rang again. Roy went into the big room. The early-morning sun, bright and silvery, made sparkles on Delia, nudging the Fourth of July dream into Roy’s conscious mind. He picked up the phone.
    â€œMr. Valois? Richard Gold. I’ll need information on Tom Parish.”
    â€œOne r ,” said Roy. “Don’t you check your messages?”
    â€œI got that,” Gold said. “But I was hoping for a little more.”
    â€œFor Christ sake,” Roy said. “Is this the way your paper handles everything? Delia worked for the Hobbes Institute. Tom Parish was her boss. He recruited her, in fact.”
    â€œFrom where?”
    â€œThe State Department,” Roy said. “But she hadn’t been there more than a few months and I don’t see how—”
    â€œDid she have any military training?” Gold said.
    â€œMilitary training?” Roy said. “Of course not. She was an economist—with a PhD from Georgetown and a job at the Hobbes Institute. Period.”
    â€œIt’s not that simple,” Gold said. “The problem is—” Roy heard commotion in the background. “Hang on a second,” Gold said.
    Roy hung on. He heard soft muffled sounds, then a little crash, as though a glass had fallen. After that, nothing. “Mr. Gold?” Fifteen or twenty seconds went by. Then came a click, followed by the dial tone. “What the hell?” he said.
    Roy called back. Voice mail. “Forget the whole thing,” he said. “Write whatever you want.” What difference did it make?

Seven
    Roy and Skippy met Skippy’s mom in the parking lot at Dunkin’ Donuts. Skippy’s mom sat in the passenger seat of a van with painted-over lettering on the side. The man behind the wheel was eating a pink