to cross First Avenue South. After that we ran to Utah Street, where Mom had parked the Corolla.
Horns blared as she shot out into traffic. She blew through a red light and raced toward Western Avenue and Ballard.
“Explain,” she said as she wove in and out of lanes.
“Some g-guys he’s meeting. They’re g-going to hurt him. Or they m-might.”
“What guys, Laz? What are you talking about? Why would anyone want to hurt Antonio?”
“That Garrett kid g-got him m-mixed up with drugs. “
She looked over at me, her eyes blazing. I felt the car accelerate. Then she peppered me with questions.
How long?
Where?
When?
Why hadn’t I said anything to her?
That was the hardest question. I remembered Antonio telling me last year that he was sixteen, not six, and the days of running to Mom were over. That had sounded right back then, but now it sounded all wrong.
Where Western Avenue turns into Elliott, a group of Chinese tourists, shopping bags over their arms, were crossing the street. “Come on, come on,” she shouted, pounding the steering wheel. Then she turned to me. “My phone,” she said. “It’s in my purse. Give it to me.”
She punched a number on speed dial. The last tourist cleared the street, and she took off. “Curtis, did Antonio show up?” Pause. “Listen, Laz says he’s in trouble. Gangs. drugs—I don’t understand it all, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that some guys are waiting for him by the Ballard Bridge, and he has no clue.” Pause. “It goes to voice mail.” Pause. “We’re headed there right now.” Pause. “No. You call them.”
She disconnected.
For a while we were lucky—green light after green light. But the light by Whole Foods turned yellow when we were still a couple hundred yards away. Instead of stopping, Mom floored it and roared through. The animal shelter flew by, and after that, Interbay Golf Center.
The Ballard Bridge was finally in sight.
“What side?” Mom asked.
My body seized up. “I d-don’t know.”
She bit her lip. “It’ll be the other side. More places to hide over there.”
She handed me her cell. “Try him again.”
I punched in the number.
Voice mail again.
The Ballard Bridge is a drawbridge that opens about a dozen times a day. Cars have to sit and wait while sailboats and fishing boats pass under. As Mom reached the south end of the bridge, I was sure the red lights would flash, the bridge would open, and we’d be stuck for five minutes. I didn’t want to think about what would happen to Antonio in those minutes. But then I felt the pavement change to metal grating, and seconds later we were on the Ballard side. A thought flashed into my head.
“Nine-one-one,” I said. “We sh—”
“Curtis called,” Mom said as she took the off-ramp. She pulled to a stop in front of Mike’s Chili.
“Shouldn’t we c-circle around?” I asked. “A bunch of streets g-go under the b-bridge. The m-meeting could be at any of them.”
She shook her head as she threw open her door. “It’s faster on foot.”