The Killing Room (Richard Montanari) - By Richard Montanari Page 0,3

them one each anyway, instantly regretting it, acknowledging that he was trying to show off.

The kid’s eyes got wide when he saw that the huge sandwich was all for him – not to mention the additional bag of chips and a soda – but he went back to his pre-teen too cool for school posturing just as quickly.

They found a table, sat down, spread out, dug in.

As they ate in silence, Byrne tried to think of some kind of conversation with which to engage the kid. He imagined sports would be a safe topic. Both the Flyers and the Sixers were playing. Instead, he remained silent.

Ten minutes later he looked at Gabriel, who was already more than half done. Byrne had to wonder when was the last time the kid had eaten.

‘Good sandwich, huh?’ he asked.

The kid shrugged. Byrne figured he was at that stage. Byrne had been a shrugger at around thirteen or fourteen, everything posed to him a conundrum, every question an interrogation. Instead of exposing his ignorance on a subject, like most young teenagers and pre-teens, he’d simply feign indifference with a shrug. Times were different now. Eleven, it seemed, was the new fourteen. Hell, eleven was probably the new eighteen.

As they finished their sandwiches Gabriel pushed up the sleeves on his hoodie. Despite Byrne’s best intentions he scanned the kid’s arms, hands, neck, looking for tattoos or burn marks or wounds that might have meant an initiation into a gang. If ever there was a kid ripe for recruitment, it was Gabriel Hightower.

Byrne saw nothing. He couldn’t decide if this meant the kid didn’t need someone like him in his life, or just the opposite: that this was a pivotal time, a time when Gabriel might need him the most.

When they finished they sat in a fresh silence, one that preceded the end of their visit. Byrne looked down at the table, and there saw a small, beautifully folded paper boat. Gabriel had idly crafted it out of the paper in which the sandwiches were wrapped.

‘Can I take a look at that?’ Byrne asked.

The kid nudged it closer with a forefinger.

Byrne picked it up. The folds were precise and elegant. It was clearly not the first time Gabriel had made something like this. ‘This is pretty cool.’

‘Called origami,’ Gabriel said. ‘Chinese or something.’

‘You have a real talent,’ Byrne said. ‘I mean, this is really good.’

One more shrug. Byrne wondered what the world record was.

When they stepped out onto the street the lunchtime crowd had thinned. Byrne had the rest of the day off, and was going to suggest doing something else – a trip to the mall maybe, or a tour of the Roundhouse – but he figured the kid had probably had enough of him for a first date.

‘Come on,’ Byrne said. ‘I’ll give you a ride home.’

The kid took a half-step away. ‘I got bus money.’

‘I’m going that way anyway,’ Byrne lied. ‘It’s really no big deal.’

The kid started rooting around in his pocket for coins.

‘I don’t drive a police car, you know,’ Byrne said. ‘It’s just a shitty old Taurus with bad shocks and a worse radio.’

The kid smiled at the word shitty. Byrne took out his keys.

‘Come on. Save the bus money.’

Byrne grabbed the lead, walked across the street, willing himself not to turn around to see if Gabriel was following.

About a block up Filbert he caught sight of a small shadow coming up next to him.

The group home where Gabriel Hightower lived was on Indiana Avenue between Third and Fourth Streets, deep into a blighted area of North Philly called the Badlands. Byrne took Third Street north and, during the entire ride, neither of them said a word. When Byrne turned onto Indiana Gabriel said, ‘This is cool right here.’

The group home was nearly a block away.

‘I’ll take you all the way. It’s not a problem.’

The kid didn’t say anything. Byrne acquiesced and pulled over. They were now a half block from one of the most infamous drug corners in the city. It didn’t take Byrne long to spot two young men scouting the area for 5-0. He caught the eye of one hard-looking kid of about eighteen, trying his best to look inconspicuous. Byrne threw the look back until the kid looked away. The spotter took out a cell and sauntered in the other direction. Byrne had clearly been made. He put the Taurus in park, kept the engine running.

‘Okay, G-Flash,’ he said. As he said this he looked over,