"Hello, young man," Auntie Lil called out cheerfully. "I'm the old lady Bob Fleming told you about. My goodness, I've been waiting for hours. I'm starving. Will you join me for dinner?"
Keeping one eye on Billy, Little Pete inched sideways toward Auntie Lil's table. Reluctantly giving up his scrutiny of Billy—who had resumed his stance behind the counter—Little Pete silently gripped the back of a wrought-iron chair at Auntie Lil's table while he looked her over closely.
"You buying me dinner? What for?" he asked in a high voice that tried hard to be gruff, but failed.
Heavens, she realized, his voice had not even changed yet. What kind of family would just let him wander away? And what kind of family was so horrible that the streets of New York seemed a preferable environment? But she could not afford to think about such things now. What she needed was information. And treating him like a child was not the way to go about it.
"I want to ask you some questions," she explained evenly. "That takes up your time. I thought dinner would be a fair payment." She pointed toward the chair he gripped and, slowly, Little Pete pulled it out and perched on the edge of the seat, still half-turned to the door as if he might bolt at any moment.
"Questions about who?" he asked sullenly. His pronunciation was extremely precise, especially for a child who lived on the streets. It told Auntie Lil that he had gone to school at one time, and probably studied hard. And that someone at home had once cared enough about him to provide a good example.
"A friend of yours. Her name was Emily." Auntie Lil answered. "She was an old lady who lived on Forty-Sixth Street. She died just a few days ago." Auntie Lil spoke gently but firmly, having decided that the prim schoolteacher mode might serve her best in this situation, so long as she made it clear that she was no sucker and that Little Pete was wasting his time if he thought he could con her.
"Don't know no old lady," he said sullenly. His eyes inched back toward the steam table of hot food at the far end of the deli counter. Billy stood near it, watching his two customers carefully.
"Don't know any old lady," she corrected the boy. "And I know that you do." She wagged a playful finger at him. "But why don't we eat first?"
If some sugar daddy was taking care of Little Pete on the streets, he wasn't doing a very good job of feeding him. The child ate two large double cheeseburgers, a mountain of french fries and even a bowl of overcooked green beans when Auntie Lil insisted. To her surprise, while Little Pete was obviously hungry, he did not gobble. In fact, he had nice table manners and kept his napkin nearby so he could frequently scrub his mouth. He even ordered milk, which amused Auntie Lil. That hard outer crust concealed a little gentleman inside.
By the time his plate was empty, some of the hard angles of Little Pete's face had smoothed and he no longer perched on the edge of his chair. He sat back in contentment and the slightly sleepy look that crossed his face made him seem, for just a moment, like the little boy that he was.
"Why you think I know this lady?" he asked Auntie Lil slowly. "I never seen you before. You her sister or something?"
"You've never seen me, but I've seen you," Auntie Lil lied, not answering his other question. Let him think she was Emily's sister. Perhaps he would talk more. "I saw you one night near the twenty-four-hour photo store," she lied. "You were running away. I know why you ran. It was the photos of Emily, wasn't it? The photos of her dead that upset you."
"She was nice lady," he protested. For the briefest of seconds, his lower lip trembled. "I ran because I had to find Timmy. I knew he'd want to know."
"Is Timmy your friend?' she asked gently. "Was Emily a friend of Timmy's, too?"
"Sure, Timmy's my friend. We're buddies." He stared at her defiantly, as if he expected her to challenge his contention that he had a friend. "And that lady was his grandma."
"His grandmother?" Auntie Lil repeated. "You mean, they were related?"
"Don't know about that." He stared down at his hands, saw they were fists, and self-consciously uncurled them. His fingers began to drum nervously