Thieves Get Rich, Saints Get Shot - By Jodi Compton Page 0,12

off. It’s like, ‘Hey, I can’t pass that up.’ ”

His face had been inscrutable, with the dark glasses adding to that impression. When he didn’t respond right away, I’d said, “I’ve offended you, right?”

“No,” he’d said. “You might have, but then the analogy, the half-off discount, really redeemed it.” A small, sardonic smile had lightened his expression, and then he’d said, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You’re young, female, apparently alone, and, from the sound of your voice, white. How much are you discounted for those guys?”

I’d smiled privately, wanting to say, A piece of me is gonna cost them, but I hadn’t. Instead I’d said, “You have a good ear. I am white. Blond, even.”

“Oh, good. I like blondes.”

“But you’re blind!”

“Just on principle.”

I’d laughed, even though my act of Good Samaritan-hood was going very differently from how I’d expected it to. “Well, great,” I’d said. “The world can always use another man of principles. By the way, you personally? Very much red-haired.”

“I’m a redhead? Jesus, nobody tells me anything.”

I’d taken a seat and stayed awhile, long enough for him to tell me that he had an elderly, chronically ill uncle in the area whom he came around to care for, and that he liked to walk out and get a little sun while the old guy was napping.

He’d asked me how much I knew about the gangs in the area—did I have friends in the life?—and so on. I’d evaded his questions, just telling him that I came around to visit an old friend from junior high, not elaborating. I’d had a suspicion that he was leading up to asking me for a source to buy marijuana from, but then he never did.

The second time I’d seen him, I’d asked him if he was a student—he dressed very casually—but he’d said, “I’m done with school,” somewhat flatly, so I hadn’t pursued it. Nor did I ask him what he did for a living. He was clearly able-bodied, and I heard both intelligence and a certain amount of education in the way he talked. Yet he seemed to have a lot of free time, and I wondered if he was on disability. But again I didn’t ask, afraid again of offending him.

When I arrived at the park today, I saw the Blind Guy from a distance, red hair like a flag, eyes hidden as always behind the shades, his face tipped up toward the sun. His skin was pale; he didn’t freckle, like a lot of redheads would have.

When I was close enough that I knew he could hear my footsteps, I said, “Hey, it’s Hailey.”

“Morning,” he said. “Have a seat.”

I maneuvered around his outstretched legs to get to the open space on the bench. He had long legs; I figured him for about six-three, standing. “Have you eaten?”

“Yeah, but I can always eat. What’ve you got?”

“Something from the bakery,” I said, opening the bag. “You like cinnamon rolls?”

“Because you want the chocolate for yourself?” he said. “You thought I wasn’t going to smell that, did you?”

“You want the chocolate one instead?”

“No, it’s fine, whichever.” He held his hand out in my general direction.

I reached into the bag and drew out the cinnamon roll but then stopped, distracted. On the back of the bench, just between us, someone had scratched the message INSULA 187. The exposed wood looked pale and splintery, therefore fresh. It was new.

I had seen threats against the sucias in general and Serena in particular, but never against me personally. This was Trippy’s handiwork, made all the more striking because the park was dead center in the middle of Trece territory, where a member of Tenth Street shouldn’t have dared to go. Serena was right. This was a sign of true dedication to a grudge.

“Hailey?” Joe prompted me.

“Sorry,” I said. “Distracted.”

I took the cinnamon roll out of its wrapper and gave it to him.

“Thanks,” he said, tearing off a small piece. “I thought maybe I hurt your feelings, teasing you like that.”

“No, it was funny,” I said. “How’s your uncle?”

“About the same,” he said.

He’d never been talkative about his uncle’s illness, and I’d never pressed him on it. So we sat for a moment, eating in silence. The breeze played with his hair, and he brushed it back. His hair was redder than CJ’s; my cousin could almost be called a strawberry blond.

“Joe,” I said, curious, “what color are your eyes?”

Immediately, he put up a hand, palm outward and fingers spread in front of his face. “Hey, you’re