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between his palms. “Probably not, but
it still stinks.”
    “Has
his mother been located?”
    “Finally.
The county just authorized her for methadone and they found her at an
outpatient clinic, waiting in line for her dose. The warden at Chaderjian said
she visited Troy once the whole month and that was for ten minutes.”
    He
shook his head. “Little bastard never had a chance.”
    “Neither
did Kristal Malley.”
    He
stared at me. “That rolled off your tongue pretty easily. You that tough?”
    “I’m
not tough at all. I worked the cancer wards at Western Peds for years and
stopped trying to figure things out.”
    “You’re
a nihilist?”
    “I’m
an optimist who keeps my goals narrow.”
    “I’m
usually pretty good at coping with all the crap I see,” he said. “But something
about this one . . . maybe it’s time to retire.”
    “You
did your best.”
    “Thanks
for saying so. I don’t know why I’m bothering you.”
    “It’s
no bother.”
    Neither
of us talked for a while, then he steered the conversation to his two kids in
college, looked at his watch, thanked me again, and left.
    A few
weeks later I read about a retirement party thrown for him at the Biltmore,
downtown. “Child Murder Trial Judge” was his new title and I guessed that would
stick.
    Nice
party, from the sound of it. Judges and D.A.s and P.D.s and court workers
lauding him for twenty-five years’ good service. He planned to spend the next
few years sailing and playing golf.
    Troy
Turner’s murder stayed with me and I wondered how Rand Duchay was faring. I
phoned the C.Y.A. camp in Chino, wrestled with the bureaucracy for a while
before reaching a bored-sounding head counselor named DiPodesta.
    “So?”
he said, when I told him about the killing.
    “It
might put Duchay at risk.”
    “I’ll
make a note of that.”
    I
asked to talk to Rand.
    “Personal
phone calls are limited to blood relatives and people on the approved list.”
    “How
do I get on the list?”
    “Apply.”
    “How
do I do that?”
    “Fill
out forms.”
    “Could
you please send them to me?”
    He
took my name and address but the application never arrived. I considered
pursuing it, rationalized not doing so: I lacked the time— and the desire— for
long-term commitment, so what use could I be to Rand?
    For
the next few weeks, I scanned the papers for bad news about him. When nothing
appeared I convinced myself he was where he should be.
    Counseled
and tutored and taken care of for the next twelve years.
    Now,
he was out in eight.
    Wanted
to talk to me.
    I
supposed I was ready to listen.

CHAPTER 11
    I left the house and set out for Westwood.
    The
restaurant was called Newark Pizza. A sign underneath the tricolor boot
promised Authentic New Jersey Pasta and Sicilian Delicacies Too!
    Lights
on behind pink-and-white-checked drapes, the faint outlines of patrons.
    No
one waiting outside.
    I
walked in, got a headful of garlic and overripe cheese. Bad murals covered the
sidewalls— walleyed grape pickers bringing in the Chianti crop under a bilious
sun. Five round tables rested on a red linoleum floor, covered in the same
checked gingham as the curtains. The rear wall was a takeout counter backed by
a brick pizza oven that gave off yeasty fumes.
    Two
Hispanic men in stained white aprons worked the dinner crowd, which was three
parties. The cooks had Aztec faces and took their work seriously.
    The
customers were a Japanese couple sharing a petite pepperoni pie, a young
bespectacled couple trying to control a pair of wild-eyed, tomato-sauced
preschoolers, and three black guys in their twenties wearing Fila sweats and
enjoying salad and lasagna.
    One
of the countermen said, “Help you?”
    “I’m waiting
for someone. Young guy, around twenty?”
    He
shrugged and flipped a limp white disk of dough, sprinkled it with flour,
repeated the move.
    I
said, “Has anyone like that been around?”
    Sprinkle.
Flip. “No, amigo.”
    I
left and waited out in front. The