Just seeing the finger-snapping, scheming tease made Minos really mad. Snapper was nineteen now, tall, graceful, and irresistible to men and women. He carried a leather bag, like a purse, on his shoulder. He was one of those people who could get away with things, make them look easy. Dangerous things. Yeah. Because of his looks, he could fool people. Even take advantage of them. As far as Minos was concerned, Snapper was a boil on the Master’s fair skin, a boil that needed lancing.
When he sat beside Minos, Snapper winked. “Hey, ugly buddy.”
Minos just stared. No one could get under his skin like Snapper. He reached inside his leather coat, took out a package, set it on the counter. He watched the slut snap his fingers, check it out.
“You know, I’ve been thinking. El Jefe—” Snapper winked when Minos looked puzzled. “Your boss—he made a mistake. And mistakes, they are sometimes hard to fix. Even for a big cheese. You know?” Snapper tapped the package then put it in his purse. “I’ve been thinking what we have here is a beginning, a good beginning.” He nodded once, slowly. Minos could hear his fingers snapping under the table. “See you soon. Maybe next time, you wear something, you know, not so colorful. Okay?” Another wink, and he was gone.
There it was. When Snapper left, Minos shuffled along behind him, keeping back, watching. His mind was working now too, super fast. He didn’t like it when Snapper called the Master names, like boss, or El Jefe—whatever that was—or big cheese.
At the entrance to Urban Outfitters, Snapper met another boy. He was really good-looking, like the Snapper, only buff with this shoulder-length, red-orange hair. And the boy’s very cool hair had these perfect wavy curls, like in a shampoo commercial. Minos knew this boy, though he couldn’t remember his name, or where he’d met him. Maybe it was in another life, he thought to himself, then he smiled on the inside at his private joke.
The boys went south, down Broadway, past the Greek Restaurant. Minos followed from across the street, shuffling along just fast enough to keep them in sight. He was good at that, moving his feet in quick steps, head angled down to avoid any eye contact. They went past the taco place, past Seattle Central, stopping in at a new trance and techno spot that looked to him more like a man-sized video game, finally turning west on Pine then south toward the Blue City Café. At the café, the redheaded sweetie gave Snapper a hug. Snapper gave him a book from his purse, then the sweet-looking boy went inside. When Snapper turned back down Pine, Minos shuffled after the finger-snapping slut. He was going to talk to him, he decided, and fix this. The Master was always busy, and so kind, so forgiving, he couldn’t take proper care of himself. He needed Minos for that. Okay, he’d make this problem go away, and then he’d have time to play. He had an idea for a new game.
***
Corey was waiting at a Broadway coffee shop, sitting at the window, watching the street. She liked it here: liked the parade of color and style, the wild hair and clothes, the “hot” spots, the fringe. Her work often led to this odd adolescent mecca. Corey found runaways, and for homeless youth, Broadway was a place to hang.
This evening, she waited for Snapper, a runaway and a friend, who wanted to talk with her. As she waited, Corey was thinking, absentmindedly rubbing the back of her neck, taking in the street life. Corey was puzzled about her son Billy, wondering why a child as grounded and gifted as he wasn’t more popular at school. What mattered to these kids? Looks? Money? In some ways, it was simpler on the streets. On the street, kids learned what counted early on.
In private school, she’d seen how the school community formed its own self-contained culture. Each school was a little different. At Olympic, the tone, the norms of this little society, were set by the “popular kids,” a small clique of look-alikes—thin, attractive thoroughbreds—and they ruled. They dictated who was in, what was cool. There was this very specific status hierarchy—everything from grasshoppers to God had its proper rank—and everyone knew exactly where they stood at all times. She thought the administration was way too accepting of this set-up.
It hadn’t been like this “in her day,” as Billy would put it.
It was 1989 when Corey turned seventeen. Her mother died that year, and she lived alone on their boat, the Jenny Ann, supporting herself however she could. After school, while her girlfriends were shopping and talking about boys, Corey was canning fish. Summers, she fished in Alaska on a purse seiner. Still, she’d learned to like who she was, and not think too much about how other people saw it. Maybe it was easier then, she didn’t know.
When Billy was almost thirteen she was framed by a corrupt lawyer. She spent twenty-two months at the Geiger Corrections Center, the Federal Prison in Spokane. When she got out she was sent to Abe for a psychiatric evaluation. The evaluation was a requirement to get her son back from foster care. After a rocky start, she and Abe connected. Together, they brought down that sonofabitch lawyer, Nick Season—who was running for State Attorney General—and she was vindicated. During her time in prison, though, it was that self-acceptance that got her through the unbearable times. The hardest times were at night, worrying about Billy in foster care.
She saw her friend Buzz weaving through the crowd toward the coffee shop. Buzz was African American. His head was shaved. He sagged his baggy pants under a sleeveless red T-shirt. Over his T-shirt Buzz wore his signature silver-studded, black jean vest. As he got closer, she couldn’t miss the tattoos, wrist to shoulder. On Broadway, Buzz was a regular. She stood, flagging him down.
Buzz caught her wave and moved through the small tables, slinking into the seat across from her. “Yo, “ he said.
“Hey.” She smiled. Corey liked Buzz. He’d been on the street a long time, and he kept up with the gossip, or “buzz,” hence his street name. “How you doing?” she asked.
“Excellent, is how I’m doing.” He touched the back of her hand. “And yourself?”
“I’m okay. Yeah.”
He looked around. She patted his arm. “Get something for yourself and tell me what’s doing.”
He gave her a thumbs up, knowing a free meal when it was offered.
When Buzz sat down again, there were three packaged sandwiches on his tray, and a nice grin on his face. He tilted his head toward the cashier, who was watching him like a hawk.
“Snapper’s back,” she said to him, after she’d paid his check.
“Snapper?” Buzz shook his head. “I don’t think so. That boy’s long gone. He split last summer.”
“He called. He wants my help.” She’d been hired to find Snapper by his mother. When she finally found him, almost fifteen months ago, she hid him until she could work it out with his abusive father. Mom paid her fee.
“You sure it was him?” Buzz tapped one of the rings on his right hand against the table.
“Un-huh. We talked on the phone.”
“Must be danger, he asking you to help with it.” Buzz nodded. “The Snapper can dodge a bullet.”
It was true. Snapper was a natural-born scammer, an easy-going street hustler, and it often got him in trouble. “I was supposed to meet him here at five-thirty. He’s half an hour late.”
“You know the Snapper. He come by, ask you to go with him to Portland, say. You say when. He say now. He got something going. You say how long? He say who knows. Long as it take to score. The Snapper does his own thing in his own time.”
Corey and Buzz talked for another ten minutes. Corey waited on after that. She was feeling edgy, up and down.