Read Sendoff for a Snitch for Free Online Page A

come in here, you look like you’ve gotten the worse end of a fight?”
    I touched my swollen lip. “Not every time,” I protested.
    “Often enough.” He sat up straighter. “And somehow, I get the impression you really don’t get the worst of it in most of your fights.” Shaking his head, he said, “You gonna tell me about how you ended up with a busted lip this time?”
    I’d tried to figure out how to tell him about this morning, but I hadn’t come up with a way to say it that didn’t sound like I was whining. I said, “I got stopped.”
    He shook his head again. “By the cops, I take it?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Doing what?”
    No matter how I said this, it was going to strain credibility. “I was moving this pickup truck off the railroad tracks.”
    “I didn’t know you had a driver’s license.”
    “I don’t.”
    “So is that what you got stopped for?”
    “Sort of.” It occurred to me that I probably sounded just about as evasive as Benji had. If I’d found that annoying, I could just imagine how Mr. Ramirez felt. But I was struggling with how to explain it.
    “What the hell do you mean by ‘sort of?’”
    “Well, there was this truck, see, and it was caught on the railroad tracks.”
    Mr. Ramirez closed his eyes and sighed. “And how did it get caught on the railroad tracks?”
    “This kid—he’s maybe ten or so—he was trying to get home. When he tried to drive across the tracks, the tires got stuck between the ties and the edge of the road.”
    “I suppose this kid couldn’t have had a license, either?”
    One thing at least I could say that was believable. “No, sir.”
    “So what was he doing driving a pickup truck?”
    “His brother had left him in it. Told him he’d be right back.”
    “How do you come into this?”
    “Well, the kid, Benji’s his name, came to my apartment, looking for help.”
    “And this Benji knows you how?”
    “He don’t, really. But I work with his brother.”
    “The brother who told him to wait in the truck?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The desk chair squeaked as Mr. Ramirez stirred his impressive bulk. “Even if I took all that as gospel—which I don’t necessarily, by the way—how did it end up with you getting all beaten up?”
    “Not really beaten up. Just hitting the ground hard.”
    “When you were stopped by the police?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Did you resist or something?”
    “No. They’d run my ID.” I didn’t think it needed much more explanation than that.
    “So they handled it as a felony traffic stop?”
    “Seems like it.”
    “And you didn’t get down on the ground when they told you to?”
    “They didn’t say to. They just took me down.”
    He nodded. “But they didn’t hold you.”
    “No, sir.”
    “You get a ticket for driving without a license?”
    “Nope.”
    “Where’s the truck?”
    “I dunno. I left it parked by the side of the street.”
    “What happened to the kid?”
    I shrugged. “They kept him.”
    Mr. Ramirez grinned. “Didn’t think you were a good candidate for custody of a kid, huh?”
    “I guess not.”
    “I can’t imagine why.” He pushed his chair back from his desk and stood up. “There gonna be a report filed?”
    I remained in the chair. At just about six feet, I would tower over Mr. Ramirez’s five foot one or two inches. But he still outweighed me by fifty pounds. I said, “The sergeant said there would be.”
    “Then I’ll request a copy. For the file.” He shuffled some papers on his desk. “Did you give your fee to the receptionist when you came in?”
    “There was nobody at the desk.”
    “You got the money?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The expenses of parole ate into my income fairly considerably. Thank goodness I’d landed a pretty good job. Quality Steel Fabrications participated in a program that gave them tax breaks for hiring convicts about to be paroled. They’d hired me right out of prison, and I was determined not to blow this one chance I had at a decent job. I’d