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around shooting your ex-partners, you're bound to pick up a little grief."
    "Lemme file that under 'shit to remember.' "
    He stabbed hard at the elevator button, missed, and stabbed again. Thankfully, it opened almost immediately and he got on, stepping out of her black-eyed stare. It whisked him mercifully away, down to the traffic-jammed reality of downtown Los Angeles and Arnold Schwarzenegger.

    Chapter 9

the Tin Collector (2000)

TOKING
    AFTER PICKING UP his Acura at the Spring Street Tire Center, Shane got back to the Harvard Westlake School at three-thirty to retrieve Chooch. He waited in a long line of British and German cars driven by Beverly Hills soccer moms. When he finally pulled to the curb where the students waited to be picked up, there was no Chooch. Then he saw him, off to the side of the crowd, sitting on a curb by himself. His CD player was hooked in his ears; he was lost in the music. Shane tapped on the horn to get his attention. Chooch picked up his book bag and ambled over to the newly shod black Acura now sporting four Michelin radials that Shane couldn't afford at a hundred dollars a tire.
    As Chooch was sliding into the front seat, a tall, reed-thin man with a lipless mouth, curly hair, and heavy, dark-rimmed glasses stuck his head into the car. "Mr. Sandoval, I'm Brad Thackery, head of the Latin department and high-school assistant dean of admissions."
    "I'm not his father," Shane said.
    "Oh . . . uh, well, I'm sorry. I just got the job two months ago, and I'm still trying to get all the names and faces straight. Will you be talking to Chooch's parents today?"
    "Whatta you need, Mr. Thackery?"
    "We need to schedule a teacher's conference immediately. Chooch has some severe problems that need to be addressed, ad summum bonum."
    Off Shane's puzzled expression, he translated, "For everyone's good."
    Shane looked at Chooch, who seemed not to be hearing any of it as he bobbed his head to the beat of some alternative rock leaking at high decibels from his earphones.
    "I'll call his mother. Thanks."
    Parents behind him were beginning to tap their horns impatiently, so Shane put the car in gear and pulled out onto Coldwater.
    Shane said nothing until they were on the Ventura Freeway. "Hey, Chooch," he said, looking over at the boy slumped down in the seat beside him. "Chooch, you wanna take off the headset for a minute!? We need to talk."
    Chooch paid no attention. He was bobbing his head to the music, oblivious.
    Shane suddenly reached over and ripped the jack out of the CD.
    That got his attention. Chooch spun around and glared. "What!" he said angrily.
    "They want a teacher's meeting."
    "I heard him. Thackery's a dick. Who the fuck cares? I hope they kick me out."
    "Whatta they wanna talk about?" Shane asked. "I've gotta call and tell your mother."
    "Whatta they wanna talk about? They wanna accuse me of dealin' drugs at school."
    "Of what!?"
    "You heard me. They think I'm dealin' drugs."
    "Are you?"
    Chooch didn't say anything, he just shrugged.
    "You're not gonna tell me?"
    "You're a fuckin' cop. Don't I get a lawyer and my Miranda rights first?"
    Shane pulled the car off the freeway,, down the Sepulveda ramp, and parked on the busy cross street. Then he turned to face Chooch. "Listen, Chooch, I'm not a cop where you're concerned. I'm your ..." Shane couldn't think of the right word. What was he?
    "My what?" Chooch challenged. "My fuckin' guardian? My baby-sitter? My spiritual coach? What the fuck are you?"
    "How 'bout your friend," Shane finally said.
    "You're not my friend. I don't have any friends. Not one."
    "Chooch, if you're selling drugs to kids at school, we've got a big problem. They could go to the LAPD. They could file criminal charges against you."
    Chooch leaned back in the seat, not sure what to do.
    "I'm not gonna bust you," Shane continued, "but I've gotta know what the deal is if I'm going to help."
    "Not gonna bust me, huh? Where'd I hear that before?"
    "Tell me. Were you selling