Here's the next chapter of my novel in progress. Read the first chapter if you haven't already.
I called Bree on the way over and told her that I needed to check on an old student first, but I’d be home before too late.
“They gotta have a place for you in heaven, babe,” she told me.
Bree Stanford was my girlfriend, on and off, for the past five years. She was a good woman. We had been living together in an apartment since March. She worried about my safety, but understood how serious I was about helping these kids.
As I pulled up to the corner of 19th and Sherwood, I thought that maybe Bree deserved to be with a better, safer guy.
The Parrot was a dive located in the industrial part of the city. Plants that had either closed or downsized years ago surrounded the small bar with the blue siding, red neon sign, and three concrete steps out front. What The Parrot lacked in décor it made up for in personality.
Grace Goulas was the bartender and part-owner of the bar. She was a slight, gray-haired woman with a robust laugh, whose size belied her strength. Grace worked seven days a week. “Until they start showing reruns of Dynasty everyday, I’ll be here,” she answered when I asked why she worked so much. “Plus, y’all are my family.”
It’s not like she needed the money. Grace was from a long line of Greek merchants that came to Pennsylvania from New York City in the early 1960’s. That explained why you could find a gyro stand on almost every corner in the hood. But gyros and feta weren’t all they were selling.
The Greeks had a pizza shop around the corner that was a front for illegal gambling and drugs. Downstairs they served sodas and hoagies by day but on the second floor, they hosted high stakes poker games at night.
They had the Mayor’s protection too. When developers bought up the block about ten years, ago, Christos Pizza & Subs was the only building left standing.
“Now there’s and old face,” Grace howled as she poured a Dewar’s on the rocks.
“Hey there, Gracie! How’s my favorite girl?” I asked.
“Favorite girl,” Grace questioned, “Not from what I hear. Where’s that foxy little girlfriend of yours? Heard y’all were shackin’ up now.”
“How in the hell did you hear that, Grace? I haven’t been in here in like 8 months,” I said in surprise.
“Yeah, you always stop comin’ around when you and her get serious.”
“You know me too well,” I relented.
“So what’s brings ya in here ta’ night?” Grace said with a smile.
I started in about the note on my window and didn’t even have to finish the story. Grace poured a shot of Hennessey, my drink of choice, and made a vodka and cranberry.
“Table in the corner,” she said with a tilt of her head.
Stephonia Scott was a thin, coffee-without-cream colored woman. She had large breasts and a flat nose. Steph, as she preferred, was of average looks, in my opinion, though we had slept together once in a moment of our weakness. She had large hands and feet for a woman and could curse and drink with any man I knew. That it was she who needed my help was not a good thing.
It never was.
“Well it took you long enough, ni**a,” Stephonia greeted me in her usual candor. Usually quite stylish, she looked like she had dressed in a hurry, wearing a lavender topcoat over a greenish blouse. She wore gray sweatpants with white canvas sneakers and pulled nervously on a Newport.
“Happy to see you too, Miss Lady,” I fired back. “What’s up?”
“Weedie gone missin’,” she said, fighting back tears.
I sat down her drink and gulped my cognac.
“What do you mean missing,” I asked, “I thought he was away in a placement?”
Anton Brady was Steph’s sixteen year-old son. “Weedie,” was the nickname he picked up when his mother caught him smoking one of her marijuana cigarettes with some neighborhood boys at the tender age of nine. Trying to do the right thing, Steph called the police with the hopes of teaching her son a lesson. The cops, in turn, charged her with corruption of a minor and filed a report with CYS.
That’s how I entered Stephonia and Weedie’s lives.
The job of Caseworker for the Department of Children & Youth Services was a stop along my road to redemption, and the case of Anton Brady was my first act of penance. I had helped them through some hard times and had often gone beyond my required duties to see that this single mother and young boy would be taken care of. I had been a father, mentor, and protector to Anton – a confidant, lover and provider to his mom. Steph was always careful not to abuse our relationship, but knew I’d come to her aid if she really needed me.
“He been at a group home in York since November,” she started, “he was doin’ good. Good grades, passed all his pee tests and shit. Then he started actin’ funny.”
“What ‘chu mean, funny,” I said.
“Well it’s some York boys in the house. He was actin’ like dem, you know, talkin’ like ‘em, wearin’ his pants all down off his a*s. Silly sh*t like dat,” Stephonia scoffed.
“Still a follower,” I said, “but that don’t sound so bad.”
“I told him if he wanna act all stupid then he ain’t have to come home on his next home pass,” she said. “So when dey was dropping kids off in York, he jumped off the van and ran away. Been gone three days and they cain’t find him,” Steph cried, finally breaking down.
I sat down beside her, rubbing her back supportively.
“Listen,” I said, “you know Weedie can’t stand being away from his mom. He’s just doing this to prove a point. He don’t know his way around the “Hill,” let alone, York. He’ll come callin’ and cryin’ for his mommy in a few. Just try to relax.”
“But you don’t know him no more, Laney. Since you ain’t been around like that he got wild; Cussin’, disrespectful and all that. I just don’t know,” she trailed off.
“I’ll make some calls,” I assured her, “trust me, we’ll find your son.”
“I always could count on you, baby.”
I was pretty certain that Weedie hadn’t gone far. But I didn’t have a clue where he was or whom he had fallen in with. A piece of me still loved the boy, and I was determined to find him.
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