Thursday, late afternoon
THE TURNOUT FOR THE ASSEMBLY THAT MORNING HAD BEEN PATHETIC—not even two rows in the auditorium were filled. A couple of teachers talked, and Katie Spielkopf got up and started crying, saying how Ms. Hollins had opened her eyes to the beauty of poetry. But when Mr. Marshall asked if anybody else wanted to say something, everybody just looked at the floor.
School closed at one. No sign of Olivia. Ben was at Columbia for his interview, and Nate’s sister, who was still home, was working on a paper and wouldn’t go to a movie.
“No, I won’t come home so you can see how my hair swirls!” Nate told her. Instead, he ended up going to Central Park with a bunch of kids, walking all the way down to the Bethesda Fountain where stoners always hung out with their skateboards. A couple of kids went over to buy joints from them, but Nate decided to head out of the park. When he reached Strawberry Fields, he called Ben. Dry leaves blew around the candles and bunches of flowers left on the mosaic circle that said “Imagine.”
“How’d it go?” Nate asked.
“I just got out. Pretty good, I think.”
“Want to meet up? Or you planning to go slobber over Katie somewhere?”
“Meet me at the Beasty Burger.”
The place served crap food, but Nate said, “Half an hour,” and caught the uptown local at Broadway. When he got out of the subway at 116th Street, he saw someone on the other side of Broadway coming out of a deli with a can of Coke and a Twix. At first Nate thought his eyes were playing tricks on him.
“Grant! Yo!” he shouted, crossing the street.
Grant turned. The instant a flicker of recognition crossed his face, he took off down Broadway.
Nate started running. He had to weave around an old man with a grocery cart and a nanny pushing a stroller, but a truck turning in to 114th Street blocked Grant for a second.
A second was all Nate needed. He caught up and lunged, sending them both sprawling to the sidewalk. “You fucking prick! You come near my sister again, I swear I’ll kill you!” They rolled around on the ground, on top of each other, Grant gasping, “Take it easy, man!” while trying to plant a fist in Nate’s gut.
Nate’s arms were clamped around Grant when he felt someone else yanking them apart. Panting, Nate lay on his back, gazing up at a dark blue uniform.
“Awright, awright, break it up, guys.” The cop was young—there were major zits on his forehead. A patrol car was at the curb. Grant scrambled to his knees, ready to make a break for it.
“Uh, uh, buddy. You’re not going anywhere. I want to see identification. From both of you.”
Grant started to say something, then stopped, dug his wallet out of his back pocket, and handed over his driver’s license.
The cop looked at it briefly, then said, “Now you,” to Nate.
Nate stood up. Except for a fake license for twenty-six-year-old Alan Mandel from Syosset, all Nate had was Chaps I.D.
The school name registered with the cop instantly. “Chapel School, huh. This is suddenly getting more interesting. So what’s going on here? You first.” The remark was directed at Grant.
“I wasn’t doing anything. I came out of a deli when suddenly he starts running after me and jumps me.”
Nate faced the cop. “He’s a miserable sack-of-shit junkie. He hurt my sister.”
“That true?” the cop said.
Grant said nothing.
“He also stole forty bucks from her.”
“You shut the fuck up now,” the cop told Nate. “Both of you. Don’t move.” He handed Grant’s license along with Nate’s I.D. to the cop in the patrol car who got on his walkie-talkie and said a minute later, “They want us to take the Werner kid home.”
“Home!” Grant look scared. “I didn’t do anything. He started this.”
“Apparently his folks have a friend down at One Police Plaza,” the cop in the car told the cop with zits. “There’s a bulletin out.”
The young cop grabbed Grant’s arm and pushed him toward the car. “Get in the backseat. We’re taking a ride.” His neck twisted toward Nate. “You. Beat it.”
Right across the street, Ben was waiting outside the Beasty Burger.
“I saw!” Ben said to Nate. “Man, what is it with you and the cops! You just can’t stay away from ’em!”