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worry about that,” he said. “I’ve got money. I mean, I couldn’t pay my cab fare but that’s because my wallet—” He swallowed. “Because I lost my wallet. I’ve got a goddamned bank account, stocks, bonds, Christ, you name it. Money’s what I’ve got.”
    â€œHow old are you?”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWe could do this all night.”
    â€œI’m seventeen,” he said bitterly. His tone surprised me. I guess I think when you’re seventeen you should be pleased to admit it. I guess I hope when I’m seventy-nine, I’ll be pleased to admit it.
    I said, “In this state any contract you sign is not binding. You can pull out any time and there I am, looking for Valerie.”
    He offered his hand again, the cold one, and looked me defiantly in the eye. “My name is Jerry Toland. I live at 112 Lilac Palace Drive, Lincoln. I want to hire you. I’m not going to back out of this, and if you won’t do it, tell me the name of somebody who will.”
    I liked the way he said it, but I didn’t let on. I said, “And you’ll wake him up, too?”
    â€œShit. I am sorry about that, really I am. I mean, I apologize and everything.”
    â€œHow’s your mouth?”
    â€œIt’s okay. The ice helps.”
    â€œHow’d it happen?”
    â€œI was stupid.”
    I liked that, too. No excuses. No complaints. So I said, “My office is in the living room. My desk, anyhow. Why don’t you come in there and we’ll talk about it.”
    â€œEven if I’m only seventeen?” he said.
    â€œEven if you’re only sixteen, which I suspect.”
    â€œSixteen and seven months.” He tried out a grin but his lip wouldn’t cooperate.
    I went back into the living room for the second time in twenty-four hours, which probably broke some kind of record. Usually I only go in there to feed Fluffy—I mean, Red Emma—and I only keep her out of respect for my Aunt Bea. The bird cage used to have pride of place in front of the bay window. I moved it to one side so it doesn’t block the view of the magnolia tree on the tiny pocket of front lawn.
    I’ve never redecorated the living room, so it still looks the way it did when Aunt Bea died. Well, almost. Aunt Bea used to work up a real shine on the mahogany. Roz flicks a dust cloth at it when the spirit moves her, which is my kind of cleaning. I suppose I ought to take better care of things, but I still have trouble believing the house is mine. I pay my real estate taxes monthly, into an escrow account. That way it feels like rent, and believe me, the rent’s getting steeper all the time.
    I do most of my work at the kitchen table because I like the view of the refrigerator. But clients seem to prefer Aunt Bea’s decor.
    I led Jerry into the living room and turned on the desk lamp, one of the few not connected to the electric timer. He took one look at the oriental rug and protested that he’d drip on it. Someone had brought the kid up right. It made me think, and after I fetched a dry towel I asked him if he wanted to call his folks. Or somebody. To tell them he was okay.
    â€œI called from the police station,” he said. “They won’t worry.” I wasn’t sure if he was lying or not, but I like to start off believing my clients so I let it ride.
    I pulled a spiral notebook out of the bottom left-hand drawer of the desk and headed the first page with the date, Jerry’s name, and his address. I asked him for a phone number and he gave me one right off. Then he said I should probably have his parents’ number, too.
    â€œYou don’t live together?”
    â€œSure we do. I just gave you the line to my room.”
    I don’t come from the kind of background where kids have their own phones. Paolina’s housing project doesn’t run to private lines for the kiddies.
    â€œOkay,” I said.