probably hadn’t even noticed the cold. It was a situation that could prove lethal. Hypothermia was a stealthy and insidious enemy, just one of many enemies lurking on these streets, waiting for the next unsuspecting victim.
“Hello, Terry,” he said.
She eyed him up and down. “Hope you’re not here to peddle any of that ‘Jesus loves you’ shit, Father, because I ain’t taking any.”
“I don’t peddle shit. I peddle second chances.”
“Yeah? Well, I already blew my second chance, so go find somebody else to pester.”
“Let me see your arm.”
“Go to hell.”
Her words were defiant, but they lacked bite. She didn’t even resist when he gently but firmly took her wrist in his hand and shoved up the sleeve of the thin jacket she wore. He studied the bruises and the needle tracks in silence, then tugged the sleeve back down and released her arm.
“It’s never too late,” he said. “I’ve told you before.”
“It was always too late, Father. But thanks for dropping by. Next time, give me a call first. We’ll have a tea party.”
Ignoring her sarcasm, he withdrew a business card from his pocket, tucked it into her hand and folded her icy fingers around it. “My cell phone number’s on the card. You can call any time, day or night. Even if you just want to talk. I’m a good listener.”
“Right.”
He held up the flyer. “I’m looking for this girl.”
She gazed dispassionately at the photo of Kit Connelly, “Yeah? So what?”
“She’s a sixteen-year-old runaway, and she’s not familiar with the city. Her aunt’s very worried about her.”
“My heart bleeds.”
“Her name’s Kit. If you see her, or hear anything about her, I’d appreciate a call. In case you lose the card, my number’s on the flyer. Remember, any time. I’m open twenty-four hours. Just like 7-Eleven.” He folded the flyer and slipped it into the pocket of her jacket.
“Yeah, right. Look, would you mind getting lost now? You’re scaring off my customers.”
He returned to the car, slammed the door behind him, and sat unmoving behind the wheel. “You okay?” Sarah said.
Instead of answering—or perhaps it was an answer of sorts—he said, “Terry spent a couple of months last summer at Donovan House. I tried desperately to get through to her, but nothing I did or said made an iota of difference. One of the other girls caught her using the second-floor bathroom as a shooting gallery. Heroin. I couldn’t allow her to stay. She could have undone months of progress we’d made with the others.”
He wondered who he was trying harder to convince, Sarah or himself. He folded his fingers around the steering wheel and sighed. “You know the old saying about one bad apple spoiling the whole bunch? It’s true. But it always breaks my heart when I have to put one of them back out onto the street.”
Softly, she said, “I’m sorry.”
“Yes. So am I. Welcome to La Vida Loca.”
----
Chapter 4
The Sir Charles wasn’t much of a hotel, but for fifty bucks a night, Kit figured she was lucky to have her own bed and a toilet she didn’t have to share with anybody but the resident vermin. The yellowed porcelain hadn’t been scrubbed in a while, but at least the plumbing was in working order. The hotel slouched dejectedly on a side street near North Station, in a seedy, run-down neighborhood dotted with bars that catered primarily to winos and off-duty Big Dig construction workers. Traffic on the nearby Expressway was a constant dull roar, punctuated at regular intervals by the screech of the green line train that ran on overhead tracks above Causeway Street. The place wore an air of tired resignation, and the desk clerk had a mouthful of rotten teeth. But he took her cash without asking for an ED, and never questioned the fake name she used when she signed the register. She suspected that was because few patrons of the Sir Charles ever used their real names.
She locked herself in her room, unpacked
“Hello, Terry,” he said.
She eyed him up and down. “Hope you’re not here to peddle any of that ‘Jesus loves you’ shit, Father, because I ain’t taking any.”
“I don’t peddle shit. I peddle second chances.”
“Yeah? Well, I already blew my second chance, so go find somebody else to pester.”
“Let me see your arm.”
“Go to hell.”
Her words were defiant, but they lacked bite. She didn’t even resist when he gently but firmly took her wrist in his hand and shoved up the sleeve of the thin jacket she wore. He studied the bruises and the needle tracks in silence, then tugged the sleeve back down and released her arm.
“It’s never too late,” he said. “I’ve told you before.”
“It was always too late, Father. But thanks for dropping by. Next time, give me a call first. We’ll have a tea party.”
Ignoring her sarcasm, he withdrew a business card from his pocket, tucked it into her hand and folded her icy fingers around it. “My cell phone number’s on the card. You can call any time, day or night. Even if you just want to talk. I’m a good listener.”
“Right.”
He held up the flyer. “I’m looking for this girl.”
She gazed dispassionately at the photo of Kit Connelly, “Yeah? So what?”
“She’s a sixteen-year-old runaway, and she’s not familiar with the city. Her aunt’s very worried about her.”
“My heart bleeds.”
“Her name’s Kit. If you see her, or hear anything about her, I’d appreciate a call. In case you lose the card, my number’s on the flyer. Remember, any time. I’m open twenty-four hours. Just like 7-Eleven.” He folded the flyer and slipped it into the pocket of her jacket.
“Yeah, right. Look, would you mind getting lost now? You’re scaring off my customers.”
He returned to the car, slammed the door behind him, and sat unmoving behind the wheel. “You okay?” Sarah said.
Instead of answering—or perhaps it was an answer of sorts—he said, “Terry spent a couple of months last summer at Donovan House. I tried desperately to get through to her, but nothing I did or said made an iota of difference. One of the other girls caught her using the second-floor bathroom as a shooting gallery. Heroin. I couldn’t allow her to stay. She could have undone months of progress we’d made with the others.”
He wondered who he was trying harder to convince, Sarah or himself. He folded his fingers around the steering wheel and sighed. “You know the old saying about one bad apple spoiling the whole bunch? It’s true. But it always breaks my heart when I have to put one of them back out onto the street.”
Softly, she said, “I’m sorry.”
“Yes. So am I. Welcome to La Vida Loca.”
----
Chapter 4
The Sir Charles wasn’t much of a hotel, but for fifty bucks a night, Kit figured she was lucky to have her own bed and a toilet she didn’t have to share with anybody but the resident vermin. The yellowed porcelain hadn’t been scrubbed in a while, but at least the plumbing was in working order. The hotel slouched dejectedly on a side street near North Station, in a seedy, run-down neighborhood dotted with bars that catered primarily to winos and off-duty Big Dig construction workers. Traffic on the nearby Expressway was a constant dull roar, punctuated at regular intervals by the screech of the green line train that ran on overhead tracks above Causeway Street. The place wore an air of tired resignation, and the desk clerk had a mouthful of rotten teeth. But he took her cash without asking for an ED, and never questioned the fake name she used when she signed the register. She suspected that was because few patrons of the Sir Charles ever used their real names.
She locked herself in her room, unpacked
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