Page 42 of The Love Scam
And what was her expression? It was starting to make him a little nuts.
“Rake, my Italian is shit. Will you translate?”
“Sure.” This should be good. Delaney made things interesting almost as often as Rake himself did, and usually for better reasons. And her Italian was hardly shit; she spoke it about as well as someone who’d studied it for a couple of years. If she lived here, she’d be fluent in about a year. But she didn’t have a year, and whatever she was going to tell the kid, she wanted to be very, very clear.
Lillith said something else to the kid, speaking in such a low voice that Rake couldn’t catch it.
“You can have the other half in less than two minutes,” she told the kid. She loosened her grip but didn’t let go, then squatted so she could look him in the face. “How long have you been pulling?”
The boy maybe wasn’t fluent, but he understood enough English to follow her question; Rake chalked up the quick answer to the boy’s surprise. He’d either never been caught before, had been caught but was always able to get free before, or the person who caught him had zero interest in talking to him, just wanted to dump him on a cop.
“Due anni, signora.”
“Two years,” Rake told her. And wasn’t that just fucking sad? The boy was maybe nine. Ten at the most, and all elbows and eyes and unkempt hair and astonished expression. He was dressed pretty well considering his day job—the jeansand orange-and-red long-sleeved T-shirt were worn but not tattered; his hands and face were clean; his shoes looked worn but “This is how the cool kids do it” worn. He was a cutie, too, with long dark hair to his shoulders and almond-shaped dark eyes.
“You pulling for anybody special?” Delaney asked. “Or pooling?”
Rake translated the rapid-fire answer: “His older sister. She’s head of the group. Parents are dead.”
“Uh-huh. How’s business today?”
“Great… two cruise ships so far.” Rake laughed. “Lots of stupid—” He started to say “Americans” but changed it to “tourists.”
Delaney grinned. “You didn’t have to rephrase. We’re the worst.”
Rake started to translate, only to be interrupted by the boy. “What’s wrong with you? I understand English.”
“Some English. And you’re pretty mouthy for a crook who weighs less than a bag of Purina,” he snapped.
“Both of you shush,” she said, exasperated. Then, to the kid: “Okay, so. I won’t ask your name, or call the police, or try to take you to them. I won’t try to take you anywhere. I’m not being nice to trick you and I’m not giving you money to make you do something you don’t want to do. I’m not a cop and I’m not CPS. I’m not a mandated reporter, d’you understand?”
Christ. She’s nailing all the reasons someone might grab him, a Good Samaritan or a scumbag pimp. And it’s working! He’d probably follow her anywhere, but not to rob her.
“Okay,signorina.I know this now.”
“But what story do you tell?” Lillith put in.
“Che cosa?”
“Lillith, I can handle this.” He turned to the kid. “Whenyou get caught. When a cop busts you, or a well-meaning tourist tries to turn you in. What do you tell them?”
What followed in a terrible flood of words were some of the worst things Rake had ever heard out of a child’s mouth. And it wasn’t just that what he was saying was so horrible—though it was—it’s that he was so calm andnot superpissedabout it. Like it was NBD. Like most fourth graders lived that way.
He talked about how he almost never got caught anymore. When he did, he could usually wriggle free. When that didn’t work, he made up stories about shelters just for kids and they always had plenty of beds and food. Or he had run away, but he missed his mom and dad and would go home now and stay out of trouble, cross his heart and hope to die.
Sometimes they weren’t so well-meaning. Sometimes they grabbed him to hurt him, to… make him do things. But his sister had runners all over, so the locals knew better than to try that shit anymore, and the tourists who tried it usually went back to their hotel with his—his—his something sticking out of one eye.
“Sorry, your what?” Rake asked.
The boy showed them what he’d had his hand on the entire time; sunlight bounced off of the thing, making it shine. “Oh,” he replied weakly. “I did hear you correctly. You really said your ‘lucky corkscrew.’ How silly of me.” And yegods,he’d never be able to look at a corkscrew again without picturing it in somebody’s eye. “Is there a reason it’s not an unlucky corkscrew? Don’t answer that!”
“Wow” was Lillith’s comment. “You keep it really shiny.”
“Why not a switchblade or something?” Rake asked.
A scornful look—from himandDelaney: “This isItaly.”
“Right, right. Sorry.”
