Shelter (Book One): A Mickey Bolitar Novel
Shelter: Chapter 8

I WORRIED ABOUT MY MOM all day.

We exchanged a few just-checking-in-type texts. She seemed upbeat. When the final bell rang, I found a quiet corner outside and called her cell phone. She answered on the third ring. “Hi, Mickey.”

I heard a little song in her voice and immediately relaxed. “Where are you?”

“I’m back at the house,” she said, “making you dinner.”

“Everything is okay?”

“Everything is great, honey. I went to the supermarket. I shopped for clothes at the mall. I even had a pretzel at the food court. That might sound boring, but it was a wonderful day.”

“I’m glad.”

“How was school?”

“Good,” I said. “So what do you want to do this afternoon?”

“I have outpatient therapy from four to five, remember?”

“Right.”

“And don’t you normally take the bus to basketball today?”

I had my steady pickup game in Newark. “I usually do.”

“So?”

“So I thought I’d skip it today.”

“Don’t change your plans because of me, Mickey. You go play, and I’ll go to therapy. By the time you get home, I’ll have the spaghetti and meatballs ready. Oh, and I’m making homemade garlic bread too.” Another one of my favorites—my mouth was already watering. “Will you be home by six?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Great. I love you, Mickey.”

I told her I loved her too and then we hung up.

The bus station is on Northvale Avenue, half a mile from the school. Most of the commuters heading back to Newark at this hour are exhausted housekeepers trekking back to their urban dwellings after a day in the wealthier suburbs. They gave me strange looks, wondering what this white boy was doing on the bus with them.

The well-to-do grassy environs of Kasselton were only seven miles from the gritty streets of Newark, but the two cities seemed to be from different planets. I’m told that Newark is on the mend and while I see pockets of it, I mostly see the old decay. Poverty is still prevalent, but I go where the best basketball is and while you could talk prejudice or racial profiling, I’m still one of the very few white guys down here after school.

The two courts were made of cracked asphalt. The rims were rusted with metal rather than nylon nets. The backboard had dints and dings. I started coming down here about a month ago. Naturally I was greeted with skepticism, but that’s the wonderful thing about basketball: you got game or you don’t. At the risk of sounding immodest, I got game. I still get funny looks from the regulars, still get new-guy challenges, but that was something I thrived upon.

We were midway through the fifth game when I was stopped in my tracks by something I saw.

Earlier, we had chosen up sides. We play full court, five-on-five, “winners stay on, losers sit.” That gives the game high stakes. No one wants to sit. The closest thing I have to a friend down here is Tyrell Waters, a junior point guard at nearby Weequahic High School. He’s probably the only guy I’ve met here I feel comfortable with—mainly because we don’t talk all that much. We just play.

Tyrell startled a few of the regulars by picking me first. Our team won the first four games in pretty easy fashion. For the fifth game, some of the guys on the sidelines tried to stack the sides so we would have stiffer competition. I loved the matchup.

But it was during that fifth game that I lost my focus a bit. These pickup games draw a surprisingly large and diverse crowd. Local toughs—Tyrell tells me that many are hardened gang members—hung off in the distance and glared. On the right, there was always a group of homeless men who cheered and jeered like real fans, applauding and booing and betting bottles of booze on the outcome. Closer in, leaning against the fence with stoic faces was a mix of local coaches, involved fathers, skuzzy agent wannabes, scouts from prep schools and even colleges. At least one guy, usually more, filmed the games for the purpose of recruitment.

So for a second, when we were coming back on defense, I glanced over at the crowd behind that fence. On the far right was the scout who recruited for an athletically high-powered parochial school. He approached me the other day, but I wasn’t interested. Next to him was Tyrell’s father, an investigator in the Essex County prosecutor’s office, who loved to talk hoops and sometimes took Tyrell and me for milk shakes after the games. And next to him, third in from the right, standing there with sunglasses and a dark business suit, was the guy with the shaved head I’d seen at Bat Lady’s house.

I froze.

“Mickey?” It was Tyrell. He had the ball and was heading downcourt. He looked at me, puzzled. “Come on, man.”

I jogged after him, moving down to the low post. The score was 5–4, our lead. We play first team to ten by ones. No one calls fouls—you just dealt with the contact and gave it back. I wanted to walk off the court right then and there, but you just didn’t do that in pickup games. I glanced back over by the fence. The man was still wearing the aviator sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes, but I had no doubt where he was looking.

Directly at me.

I set up on the post and called for the ball. The guy covering me was six-eight and burly. We jockeyed for position, but I knew I had to end this game quickly, before the man from Bat Lady’s house disappeared. I became a man possessed. I got the ball and drove down the middle, tossing up a baby hook over the front rim and in.

The man from Bat Lady’s house watched in silence.

I turned it up a gear, scoring the next three baskets. Three minutes later, with my team up 9–4 now, Tyrell hit me on the left block. I pump-faked, spun to my left, and nailed a fade-away banker over the outstretched hand of a guy who was nearly seven feet tall. The crowd went “ooo” when the ball fell through the hoop. Game over. Tyrell offered me a fist bump and I took it on the run.

“Some shot,” Tyrell said.

“Some pass,” I countered, heading off the court.

“Hey,” Tyrell said, “where you going?”

“I got to sit this one out,” I said.

“You kidding? It’s last game. We got a chance of sweeping.”

He knew something had to be wrong. I never sat out.

The man from Bat Lady’s house stood with the crowd behind the fence. When he saw me coming, he started to slide back and away. I didn’t want to call out, not yet anyway, so I picked up my pace. Because of the fence, I had to circle around to get to him.

Tyrell came running up behind me. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’ll be right back.”

I didn’t want to break into a sprint. That would look too weird, so instead I did one of those fast-walk things. When I got around the fence, the homeless guys surrounded me, offering me high fives, encouragement, and of course, advice:

“You need to work on your left, man . . .”

“The drop step. Use that, see, and go baseline . . .”

“You gotta stick your butt out more on the box out. Like this . . .”

It was hard to rush through without being overtly rude, but now the man from Bat Lady’s house was almost to the street corner, moving unhurriedly but somehow fast.

I didn’t want to lose him.

“Wait!” I shouted.

He kept walking. I called out to him again. He stopped, turned, and for a second, I thought I saw the hint of a smile on his face. The heck with it. I pulled away from my wino fan base and dashed toward him. Heads turned from the suddenness of my movement. In the corner of my eye, I saw Tyrell’s father notice what was going on and follow me.

The man from Bat Lady’s house was across the street now, but I was closing the gap pretty quickly. I was maybe thirty, forty yards away from him when the black car with the tinted windows pulled up next to him.

“Stop!”

But I wasn’t going to make it. The man paused and gave me half a nod, as if to say, Nice try. Then he slid into the passenger seat and before I could do anything, the car sped out of sight.

I didn’t bother to take down the license plate. I already had it.

Tyrell’s father, Mr. Waters, caught up. He looked at me with concern. “You okay, Mickey?”

“I’m fine,” I said.

He wasn’t buying it. “Do you want to tell me what that was about, son?”

Tyrell was there too now, standing next to his father. The two of them looked at me, together, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, and I hated myself for feeling such envy. I was grateful to this man for worrying about me, but I couldn’t help but wish it were my own father standing here, concerned about my welfare.

“I just thought I recognized him, that’s all,” I said.

Tyrell’s father still wasn’t buying.

Tyrell said, “We still got one more game to play.”

I thought about my mother heading back home after therapy, making the spaghetti and meatballs. I could almost smell the garlic bread. “It’s getting late,” I said. “I have to catch the bus back.”

“I can drive you,” Tyrell’s father said.

“Thank you, Mr. Waters, but I can’t ask you to go out of your way like that.”

“It’s no trouble. I got a case in Kasselton anyway. It’ll be nice to have the company.”

We lost the last game, in part because I was so distracted. When it was over, we all high-fived or fist-bumped good game. Mr. Waters waited for us. I took the backseat, Tyrell sat up front. He dropped Tyrell off at the two-family house they shared with Mr. Waters’s sister and her two sons on Pomona Avenue, a tree-lined street in Newark’s Weequahic section.

“You going to come down tomorrow?” Tyrell asked me.

I had been blocking on it, but now I remembered that Mom, Myron, and I were flying out in the morning to visit my father’s grave in Los Angeles. It was a trip I didn’t want to make; it was a trip I really needed to make.

“Not tomorrow, no,” I said.

“Too bad,” Tyrell said. “Fun games today.”

“Yeah. Thanks for picking me.”

“I just pick to win,” he said with a smile.

Before he got out, Tyrell leaned over and kissed his father good-bye on the cheek. I felt another pang. Mr. Waters told his son to make sure he did his homework. Tyrell said, “Yes, Dad,” in an exasperated tone I remember using myself in better days. I moved up to the front passenger seat.

“So,” Mr. Waters said to me as we hit Interstate 80, “what was with that bald guy in the black car?”

I didn’t even know where to start. I didn’t want to lie, but didn’t know how to explain it. I couldn’t tell him I’d broken into a house or any of that.

Finally I said, “He may be following me.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“No idea at all?”

“None,” I said.

Mr. Waters mulled that over. “You know that I’m a county investigator, right, Mickey?”

“Yes, sir. Is that like a cop?”

“That’s exactly what it’s like,” he said. “And I was standing next to that guy the whole time you were playing. I’d never seen him down here before. He barely moved, you know? The whole time, he just stood there in that suit. Didn’t cheer. Didn’t call out. He never said a word. And he never took his eyes off you.”

I wondered how he could tell that, what with the sunglasses and all, but I knew what he meant. We fell into silence for a moment or two. Then he said something that surprised me. “So while you guys played that last game, I took the liberty of running the guy’s license plate.”

“You mean on that black car?”

“Yes.”

I sat perfectly still.

“It didn’t come up in the system,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“It’s classified.”

“You mean like it’s diplomatic or something?”

“Or something,” he said.

I tried to put it together but nothing was coming to me. “So what does that mean exactly?”

We pulled up to Myron’s house. He coasted to a stop and then turned to me. “The truth? I don’t know, Mickey. But it doesn’t sound good. Just please be careful, okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

Mr. Waters reached into his wallet. “If you see that bald guy again, don’t go chasing him. You call me, understand?”

He handed me his card. It read JOSHUA WATERS, ESSEX COUNTY INVESTIGATOR. There was a phone number on the bottom. I thanked him and got out of the car. He pulled out and I waved good-bye. As I trudged up the walk, I thought maybe I smelled garlic but that could have been my imagination.

I used my key to get inside. “Mom?”

There was no reply.

“I’m home,” I called out, louder this time. “Mom?”

Still no reply.

I headed into the kitchen. There was nothing on the stove. There was no smell of garlic. I checked the time. Six P.M. Mom probably wasn’t home from therapy yet. That was it. I opened up the refrigerator to grab a drink, but when I did, I saw immediately that there was no new food in it.

Hadn’t Mom said she went food shopping?

My breathing got a little funny. I called her cell phone. No answer. I hung up after the fifth ring.

Okay, Mickey, stay calm.

But I couldn’t. My hand started shaking. When my phone buzzed, I felt a sense of relief. It had to be Mom. I looked at the caller ID. It was Spoon. I started freaking out. I hit Ignore and dialed the Coddington Rehab Center. I asked for Christine Shippee. When she got on the line, I asked, “Is my mother still there?”

“What are you talking about? Why would your mother be here?”

My heart sank. “She didn’t have outpatient therapy today?”

“No.” Then: “Oh no. What happened, Mickey? Where is she?”

Here is how stupid I am: I actually went outside and expected to see my mother pull up. So many emotions ricocheted through my brain. I just wanted them to stop. I just wanted to be numb. I longed for that, for feeling absolutely nothing, and then I realized that was what my mom craved too. Look where that led her.

I called Mom’s cell phone again. This time, I waited until the voice mail picked up.

“Hi, it’s Kitty. Leave me a message at the beep.”

I swallowed hard and tried unsuccessfully to keep the pleading from my voice. “Mom? Please call me, okay? Please?”

I didn’t cry. But I came close. When I hung up, I wondered what to do. For a little while I just stared at the phone, willing it to ring. But I was done willing and hoping. I had to start getting real.

I thought about how my mom’s face had beamed this morning. I thought about how the poison had been out of her system for the past six weeks and how much hope we both had. I didn’t want to do this, but I had no choice.

The phone was in my hand. I dialed the number for the first time.

Uncle Myron answered immediately. “Mickey?”

“I can’t replace Mom.”

“Okay,” he said. It was almost as though he’d been expecting my call. “I’ll handle it.”

“What do you mean, you’ll handle it? Do you know where she is?”

“I can replace out in a few minutes.”

I was going to ask how, but there was no time to waste. “I want to go with you,” I said.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Let me handle—”

“Myron?” I cut him off. “Please don’t play those patronizing games with me. Not now. Not with my mother.”

There was a brief silence. Then he said, “I’ll pick you up on the way.”