Page 133 of Devil and the Deep Blue Fish

She smiled at him, and he smiled back—a small miracle of grimy teeth she was still proud of—and then Henry gestured with his chin. “Come on, Cowboy. Let’s get started. Mrs. Roberts makes really good soup.”

They moved out down the hallway, and she turned to John and Galen with raised eyebrows. “Cowboy?”

John grimaced. “He swore it’s his real name. I don’t… I mean, you know. He’s fourteen—that much we got out of him. For all we can tell itcouldbe.”

She grunted. “Well, to hear my son talk, it’s still better than the one I gavehim. This one looks like he’s been on the street for a while—will Lance be by in the morning?”

John nodded. “Yeah. And don’t worry about coming in tomorrow. I already asked Kelsey, and she can come in for the day.” John’s old receptionist had quit work at Johnnies to get her degree in child development so she and an ex-model named Ethan could run a day care out of the home they shared.

“Bless her,” Isabelle said. “But I’m sorry to miss the baby.” One of the perks of the job, she’d realized very quickly, was that gay, straight, or bi, young people tended to procreate—or have siblings that procreated. When Vern had come out, she’d quietly mourned the loss of grandchildren she’d never have, but now, in addition to the Johnnies models who treated her like the mother they’d never had, she was pleased to be surrounded by children who adored her.Shegot to be the nice lady with cookies in her drawer, or who could be counted on to babysit, or who got to give away presents at Christmas and sew samplers for birthday gifts. All the love she’d been too exhausted and frightened to shower on Vern when the two of them had huddled in the shadow of his abusive father, she was free to strew around her like flowers down a garden path, and her son told her—often and with feeling—that he was so proud of her for doing it.

“She’ll make it up to you,” Galen said warmly, and she glanced at him.

“Galen, please sit,” she said. “My recliner is waiting for you.” The poor man was white-knuckling his cane, and the fatigue of pain tightened around his eyes.

“Thank you, Isabelle,” Galen said, “but John and I were hoping to leave you here while we made some more calls. I’m afraid our young friend told us someveryconcerning things while we were on the way over, and I need to consult with my law partner for a bit. That’s best done at his home.”

He approached her as she busied herself in the kitchen and kissed her cheek. “We treasure you, Isabelle Roberts. If anybody can help this young person, it’s you.”

She gave him a rather watery smile. “Be careful, Galen. You and John are very much in danger of being philanthropists.”

“Hush your mouth,” he said gently, before turning to his partner in kindness. “John?”

John offered his arm to Galen before saying, “Isabelle, if you do not expense any of the things you need, I shall feel free to reimburse your check with sheer guesswork.”

She gave him a sharp look as she carved up the loaf of homemade bread she’d baked the night before. There was plenty, and she thought Henry and Cowboy would enjoy some of it toasted with cheese. “Your guesses are terrible,” she told him. “No mother in the world needs that much money to feed a child.”

“I wouldn’t know,” John said blandly. “I was raised by wolves. You do it or I will. Now please call us if you need us—and definitely update me in the morning.”

The first night he’d done this had been with Cotton, and John had spent a sleepless night on Isabelle’s couch, making sure the sloe-eyed, hurt child he’d brought in wouldn’t turn on Isabelle in the middle of the night.

There’d been others since—Randy and Vinnie included—but none this young. She knew that leaving Henry here was John’s best investiture in safety.

“We will,” she said. “Now go, get Galen home. You two let me know what’s going on with him. He can’t feel safe here if there are going to be surprises.”

They assured her that they would—and that they’d take the bag of clothes from the porch to be burned—and then left her to prepare dinner. She did so, keeping an ear out for Henry’s progress in the bathroom as she worked.

There was a quiet rumble of speech both during and after the electric buzz of the razor, and then the run of water in the bathtub. She was alert for the harsh breath of warm water hitting chafed skin and the quiet sobs that came with it. Living on the street in stiff clothes for long periods of time often generated sores, and that a hot bath was sometimes as painful as it was beneficial. She heard the pouring of water from a cup, which meant that Henry was helping the boy get clean, talking the whole time. She made out something about Henry and Lance’s new kittens, and Henry’s job working as a PI at Galen’s law firm, and how Henry’s brother’s boyfriend had turtles and snakes and a giant iguana named Mrs. Quincy. She knew all of this, of course, but she was sure that to a frightened boy being promised the world, that hearty rumble of gruff chatter was like being told fairy tales. Real life couldn’t be that normal, could it?

Finally, just as she was worried that she’d toasted the bread too early, Henry and the boy emerged from the hallway, both of them wearing the clean pajama bottoms and T-shirts she’d set out for them, including soft, faded hoodies that covered the boy’s thin arms. Henry had a full trash bag that he placed outside the door to take to the dumpster in the morning before he gestured to the boy to sit down at the table in front of a hearty bowl of soup and toasted bread with cheese.

Isabelle settled herself down in front of her own bowl and blew on her spoon before tasting. “Mm…,” she said, then smiled at her new charge. “I like lots of spices, how about you, Cowboy?”

He swallowed as though his mouth was watering, and he picked up a spoon and sipped, not even wincing at the heat. “I’venever tasted homemade,” he confessed. A smile spread across his pinched features, something unplanned, she suspected, and marvelous. “It’s really good,” he said in surprise, before taking a bite of bread and digging in.

“Well, young man,” she said, winking at Henry, “you keep praising my cooking and you and I will get along fine.”

Avenging Fucking Angel

By Amy Lane

I am not a good parent. My oldest had a communication handicap and was picked on often, and his sister has always been good at defending his honor. And no, she didn’t get in trouble once. From us. My favorite moment, though, was when a kid got inherface in the playground, and the two of them got in trouble because all the yard duty saw was my big guy sitting on the other guy, screaming, “Don’t hurt my sister!”

I think the point was gotten because that never happened again. And, yes. He got ice cream when it was over.

“ANTHONY!” RIVERcalled out, her voice furious and hurt. “Go! Get Diamond out of here! Go!”

But Anthony Cameron—that was his last name now, and he loved it—took one look at his sister’s face, streaked with blood and tears and snot and rage, and knew he wasn’t goinganywhere.It had been more than a year since Anthony had needed to fight for a meal or a toy or a place to sleep—but those muscles tightened up in his thirteen-year-old body, and he knew they were poised, waiting to be unleashed.

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