“We probably don’t have goldfinches,” she replied, because there was no room in her budget for the special seed that constituted the best finch feed. It was outrageously expensive.
“You could cook some bread for them,” he said. “You cook real good.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” she said, and bent to kiss his thick black hair.
“I like pancakes. Couldn’t we have pancakes?”
She looked at his rosy cheeks, his big eyes, his sweet expression. He was her whole life. Amazing how he’d changed it, from the first time she looked at him. “Yes,” she said, indulging him as she always did, probably too often. “Bacon and pancakes and syrup. But only because I’m so tired,” she added.
He smiled. “Thanks, Mom!”
“You’re welcome.”
The other drawings were also of birds. Just sketches, but they showed great promise of a talent that could be developed. She needed to find him an art teacher if he continued to have interest in the subject.
But that would cost money and she had nothing left over at the end of the week. She sighed. At least she had Markie, she reminded herself. The rest was just superfluous.
CHAPTER THREE
THE PUBLIC DEFENDER, Harris, was trying to get his client a job. It wasn’t really his concern, but the young man in question was just twenty years old and already had a wife and a small child. He’d been prosecuted on a bank robbery charge, which put him in the crosshairs of the FBI. He was arrested, charged, jailed, prosecuted and convicted. Now he was out on parole for good behavior after some spectacular legal footwork by this attorney. It had been one of Jon’s cases.
“He got drunk one night with some friends, who knocked over a branch bank when it opened early one morning,” Harris said. He toyed with his napkin in the restaurant where he’d invited Jon Blackhawk for dinner. “He drew five to ten, even though he was asleep in the backseat the whole time.”
“Rough,” Jon said.
“It’s my first real case,” the younger man said. “I want to do a good job.” He glowered. “Substance abuse is responsible for so many problems in our society.”
“They did try to ban alcohol once,” Jon remarked.
Harris chuckled. “Yes, with interesting results. The only people who got rich during Prohibition were the gangsters.”
“That’s usually what happens when you declare something illegal. Is it a first offense for your client?”
Harris nodded. “He taught Sunday School, actually.”
“I know a minister who was involved in a murder,” Jon said, tongue-in-cheek.
Harris laughed. “I know what you mean. But this kid was straight from the time he was old enough to walk. I talked to every relative he had and several friends, not to mention educators who taught him, vouched for him.”
“That’s a lot of legwork.”
“Yes, it is, and I did it on my own time. I believe in this kid. I want to help him. If I can get him a job, and make him understand that he has to stay away from his so-called friends, who are also out on parole, he might have a chance. He’s got a three-year-old kid,” he added heavily. “And a sweet young wife who adores him.”
“Sad case.” Jon was noncommittal. He’d heard this story so many times it was grating. It usually ended badly. But he wasn’t going to tell this naive but passionate new attorney that. Ideals should be worth something.
“The boy lives in Jacobsville. I thought, since your brother worked in Jacobsville with Cash Grier he might be willing to talk to the local parole officer and put in a good word for him, mention the bad crowd that he got in with and see if there’s some way he can be kept away from it,” the public defender said hopefully. “A good talking-to at the outset of his parole might do some good.”
Jon laughed. “It might at that. Okay. I’ll ask him.”
Harris brightened like a lightbulb turning on. “Thanks! I owe you one.”
“None of us in law enforcement want to see a man fail for one mistake. However,” he added solemnly, “if he steps out of line again, you’ll be talking to a brick wall if you ask for help.”
“I know that.”
Jon smiled. He’d talk to Mac. But he knew how this was going to go down, all the same.
“The guy’s a born loser,” Mac said predictably when Jon phoned him. “If he’s stupid enough to be led into crime, he’ll stay there. He’s a follower with no sense of judgment about other people.”
“I don’t doubt it. But I promised Harris I’d ask you to intervene. If the kid can be kept away from his old associates, it might help. You can say no. It’s not my problem.”
Mac sighed. “I suppose I could talk to Grier,” he said grudgingly. “But if Harris’s client gets into any more trouble, ever, I’ll be his worst nightmare.”
“I’ll be his second worst. Thanks.”
“Why are you making your own phone calls?” Kilraven asked suddenly. “Doesn’t your AA do that for you?”
“She didn’t come in this morning,” Jon said, and the worry he felt was reflected in his tone. “Didn’t call, either. That’s not like her.”
“Did you phone her apartment?”
“Yes. No answer.”
“Curious. Does she have enemies?”
Jon laughed in spite of himself. “I’m not likely to find her in a sack in the river, if that’s what you mean.”
“Sorry. I guess I’ve been in law enforcement too long.”
“Join the club. You and Winnie coming to dinner Friday night?”
“Yes, if Cammy isn’t going to be there.”
“Winnie likes Cammy!”
“I know, but we’ve both had the tirade from Cammy about her new candidate for your affections. She’ll be on a roll and we don’t want to spoil a perfect dinner with a lot of argument. If you get what I mean.”
Jon chuckled. “I haven’t invited her, if that’s a help.”
“Then you can expect us. Winnie will bring homemade rolls. I didn’t ask. She offered.”
“I’m amazed she can still manage to bend over the oven with her belly sticking out that far,” Jon remarked. “Cammy’s sure it’s going to be a boy because she’s big in front like that.”
“Childbirth is a mystery to most people. Not to Cammy. We’ll be over about six.”
“See you then.”
Jon hung up. He hadn’t let it show in his tone, but he was worried about Joceline. It was the first time she’d ever missed work without calling first. Something big must be up. He immediately thought of her son.
He picked up the phone and started calling hospitals.
JOCELINE was pacing the waiting room floor. She’d brought her knitting bag with her, but even that chore hadn’t diverted her. This had been a bad attack, the worst one yet. She’d tried to go into the cubicle with Markie, but the attending physician and a nurse had shooed her out in the kindest way possible. They needed to run tests, they explained.