expectantly. "Are we kicking someone's ass or not?"
AS A PI, I'VE LEARNED YOU get better help from people if you make an effort to like them. It's not about making them like you. You have to develop a genuine affection for disagreeable people. With the hard-luck cases I meet, often the best way to like them is to find something about them with which you can empathize.
With Madeleine White, that wasn't easy.
The ass-kicking woman who led us into the mission was as hard to love as the bratty little girl I'd known at Alamo Heights.
The only memory that made me feel any sympathy for her was so unpleasant I'd buried it for years.
My senior year at Heights, I attended my last Howdy Night celebration to kick off the new school term. It was a sultry September evening. Millions of grackles were screeching in the trees. The air was thick with mosquitoes and barbecue smoke and teenage hormones.
The football field had been converted into a carnival ground. Parents and younger siblings milled around everywhere. Teachers worked the standard game booths: the dunking chair, the sponge toss, the cakewalk.
I was supposed to be meeting my girlfriend Lillian, but she was running late, so I fell in with Ralph and Frankie White, who were trying the football toss and drinking Big Red sodas secretly laced with tequila.
Over by the fifty-yard line, Frankie's dad was talking to one of the city councilmen. Guy White wore jeans and loafers and an Izod button-down, like he was one of the common yuppies. His silver hair contrasted starkly with his deep summer tan. His smile radiated good humor. The field was crowded, but he had an open radius ten feet wide around him. Only little children who didn't know any better wandered close to him.
Frankie was getting angry because he couldn't get the football through the tire. He always griped that he should've made quarterback, but he couldn't throw to save his life. He kept giving carnival tickets to our bored English teacher, Mrs. Weems, and kept bouncing footballs off the rim of the tire, or throwing into the midst of screaming drill team girls by mistake.
Ralph was cracking up, which didn't help Frankie's mood.
After a few tosses his little sister, Madeleine, ran up to him. As usual, her clothes were decorated with Magic Marker designs - spirals, mazes, scary faces. She had a fistful of candy canes and her face was painted blue and gold. There was cascaron glitter and confetti in her hair.
"Share your tickets, Frankie," she demanded.
"Get lost, Brat," he growled.
Madeleine held her ground. "Dad said they were for both of us. He told you to share."
Frankie jumped toward her and faked throwing the football at her. She squealed and ducked her head.
Mrs. Weems, normally an innocuous soul, said, "Now, Franklin - "
"I told you to get lost," Frankie yelled at his sister.
"You can't touch me anymore!" Madeleine's chin was trembling. "Dad said - "
She never got to finish her sentence.
Frankie grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and marched her away.
"You want to play more games, Brat?" Frankie's face was bright red. "You want the apple dunk? Huh?"
She tried to fight him off, but he dragged her over to the tin washtub. Then he pushed her head underwater.
"Frankie," Ralph said. "Stop."
Frankie brought Madeleine up again, screaming and sputtering.
Mrs. Weems shouted, "Stop it!"
"You didn't get an apple, Brat?" Frankie said. "Gee, I'm sorry."
He shoved Madeleine under again. That's when Ralph and Mrs. Weems and I all got into the act.
Ralph pulled Madeleine away from Frankie while Mrs. Weems and I tried to restrain him, but Frankie had the weight advantage. He elbowed me in the gut, then pushed poor Mrs. Weems a little too hard. She stumbled backward.
"Stay off me!" he yelled.
"Franklin White!" Mrs. Weems got to her feet, furious, and slapped him hard across the face.
Frankie looked stunned. Then his face blanched. I was pretty sure he was about to kill our English teacher when a deep voice said, "Franklin."
Guy White stood behind us.
Frankie's shoulders hunched. He blinked hard, like a dog who expects a beating.
Madeleine was kneeling in the grass, crying and coughing up water, her face paint smeared. She got to her feet, but she didn't run to Daddy. Instead, she yanked her wrist free of Ralph's hand and took off into the crowd. Her father paid no attention.
His eyes bored into his son.
"Come with me," Mr. White told Frankie.
"I'm with my friends," Frankie mumbled. "I don't want to."
I couldn't