Read Online Suitable for Framing by Edna Buchanan - Free Book Online Page B

clean and neat. Somebody’s son. Why is nothing ever simple? He took my empty paper cup, dropped it in a trash can, and returned with two ice-filled soft drinks, plastic straws protruding from the top. This time he sat rigid in his chair, like a child in the principal’s office, a child in trouble.
    He spoke softly now, voice worried. “Peanut—FMJ—he bad news, he crazy, man; the dude is dangerous. I got nothing to do with him. Never should’ve.”
    â€œWhy did he take the name FMJ?”
    His twisted smile was ironic. “Full metal jacket, the bullet he like to use. Hits hard, punch a hole right through a car. Don’t mushroom out.”
    I stirred my icy drink with the straw. “Why does he shoot people in the leg?”
    â€œHe say he likes it. Nobody he shoots can chase him on one leg. He want everybody to remember his name. Bullet in the leg, it take a long time to heal, makes them remember him, and they don’t die.” His eyes inched up toward mine with a cynical expression. “He didn’t want no murder rap.”
    â€œI’d like to talk to him. Would you give him my number?”
    â€œI tol’ you, I ain’t gonna be seeing him. Count on that. And you don’t want to find him either. He’s cold. He likes to put a hurt on people.”
    â€œThere was another passenger, in the backseat.”
    His stare was steady.
    â€œThe police say there were three people in the car.”
    â€œShouldn’t have happened, man. Shouldn’t never have happened. You don’t have to hurt nobody to take a car. Nobody has to get hurt. He don’t care, he’ll do anything.”
    â€œWas it you in the backseat?”
    His eyes darted around the mall. “Somebody say it was? I never said that.”
    Afraid he would bolt, I backed off. “Think FMJ is worried about Jennifer Carey, sorry about her little boy?”
    â€œNaw, shit! He think he cool. That’s why he FMJ now. Thinks he really bad. I told you, he’s cold. He’s cold.” He rubbed his hands together vigorously as though they, too, were cold. “Ain’t no need to take cars away from people,” he muttered. “You wait till they park it and gone. No muss, no fuss. No need to hurt nobody. But FMJ, he don’t care. He got nothing to lose now.”
    â€œHow do you know it’s so easy to steal somebody’s car?”
    â€œExperience.” He puffed up a bit. “I can take me any car in no time—sixty seconds, less.”
    â€œCongratulations,” I said, unimpressed by his braggadocio. “What do they do with all these cars?”
    â€œMust have somebody somewhere who wants ’em for something,” he said vaguely, his expression suddenly that of a person late for an appointment. “Got to get going now.”
    â€œIsn’t your mom worried that you know FMJ?”
    He snorted a derisive laugh, stood as if to go, and I got up with him.
    â€œSo how do I reach you?”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œI’d like to talk some more about what happened.”
    â€œLet me think about it. I still gotcher card, I’ll establish communication,” he said, hands jammed into his pockets as we rode the elevator.
    We had reached the pink parking level. “One more thing,” I said, as he turned to go.
    He stopped, apprehension in his eyes. “What’s that?”
    â€œYou just don’t look like a Cornflake to me. What’s your real name?”
    â€œHoward,” he said. “You can call me Howie.”
    â€œThat’s better. Thanks for the soda, Howie. Let’s stay in touch.” We shook hands. His felt moist and the motion was awkward. I went to my T-Bird without looking back, hoping he wasn’t still watching and wouldn’t see its new-car finish. Why am I so paranoid? I thought. He didn’t seem like such a bad kid.
    Back at the office there was news, and I quickly dialed