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Show 27 She had already told him the story: how her boss at the warehouse where she worked nights had gotten a little too friendly, with his hands, and she had rashly reacted with a knee to his groin. She had been asked to pick up her check in the morning-and, Fogarty figured, no doubt spent it by noon. "Then borrow," he said. "Borrow from somebody if you have to." "Who?" "How about your parents? Or one of your friends, you seem to have a lot of friends." Lately Fogarty had observed a regular parade of people circulating through the building, her apartment. "My friends don't have any money-and my parents won't even talk to me on the phone right now. I've told you that." "Then your brother." He had seen and met her brother; a large rough-looking kid of maybe twenty-five who often visited her, pulling his big and obviously expensive motorcycle inside the front hall of the Newgate. "He got in an accident." "On his bike?" "With a car." Fogarty pictured the collision. Twisted metal and body parts, blood on the pavement, pain. It made him grimace. "Was he hurt bad?" "Not bad," said Sparkle. "He was arrested." "Arrested? Why?" "It was a stolen car." Now Fogarty was confused. "He ran into a stolen car?" |
