"I don't know those terms." John was trying not to stare at a stick-thin girl whose older, pregnant companion was lacing a leather thong through the two rows of steel rings pierced at half-inch intervals down the length of her arm. The girls glanced at John through thick rings of black eyeliner. Both might have been thirteen or fourteen.
"Max stay means predetermined length of residence," the shelter manager said. "Most shelters have a max stay of one month before they turn the kid back out on the street. Forced placements mean being shoved into foster-care homes; reunifications are the court-ordered family reunions. Most of these kids run because something's wrong at home. You don't heal a mauling by throwing the baby back to the pit bulls."
As Hurley showed him the infirmary, which was kept under triple dead-bolt lock, he told him of the wide variety of problems the children who came to the Haven brought with them. Many had drug or alcohol dependencies, had suffered physical, mental, and/or sexual abuse, and had moderate to serious health issues. Before being admitted to the Haven, the children were required to have a physical exam.
"About half of the girls are pregnant on admission," Hurley said. "Most can't afford abortions, and we don't fund them, so they go full-term. Suite takes the babies and I don't stop them; they've got a better chance in foster care. The boys are thieves, gangsters, or hustlers; they come in pretty banged up. We fix what we can. Anyone with AIDS goes to a shelter in Kenosha that handles clients with HIV. This is one of the common rooms; we've got one on every floor."
The area was set up like a family living room, with several couches, chairs, and lamps. Everything had a Salvation Army-reject air about it. Most of the sitting spaces were taken up by motionless teens. A decrepit television crackled as it showed a snowy rerun of The Honeymooners. Despite clearly posted no smoking signs on every wall, the smell of cigarette smoke lingered.
John noticed one boy sitting beside a girl with white-bleached hair with black roots. They were squashed together by the confines of the love seat they shared, and the boy was dozing. "Brian?"
Brian Calloway's eyelids lifted and then closed. "Decree."
"Brian, it's John Keller." He wouldn't have recognized Christopher's brother, except for the diagonal scar on his forehead. Brian had received it during a street hockey game, when he'd taken a stick to the head. "Do you remember me? I came to see you in the hospital. Your brother Chris was one of my altar boys."
"Decree is his name," the girl sitting beside Brian told John. She had a voice to match her sweet smile. "Mine's Pure."
"It's a pleasure to meet you." John was intent on Brian, who appeared to be falling asleep again. "Brian—Decree—do your parents know that you're here?"
Brian Calloway got to his feet, stretched, and yawned. "Fuck off." He bent over to kiss Pure before he strolled out of the room.
"Decree's folks kicked him out," Pure told John as she rose. She was taller than Brian and wore clothes so washed-out and tattered that John blinked. A silver belly ring winked back at him from her navel. "You working here now, John?"
"Yes." He wasn't used to being addressed by his first name, especially by a young person. Stop thinking like a priest. "Where is Brian's room? I'd like to go and talk with him."
"'Fuck off' doesn't sound like an invitation," Hurley advised him, "but you can't. He doesn't live here."
"Decree has his own place." Pure bent down to pick up a plastic grocery bag that appeared to be filled with bananas, oranges, and plums. "He just comes to the Haven to visit me."
"Visit." Hurley's dreadlocks swayed. "There's a new word for it. Like minks, they are."
"Haven't caught us yet." Pure's round cheeks dimpled. "See you around, John." She left the room.
John stared after her. "That girl is how old?"
"Fifteen, she thinks. She was born in the projects, but her mother never got around to filing her birth with the state, or celebrating her birthday." Hurley walked over to one of the other teens and held out his hand. "Open a window next time, pin-head."
The boy's features soured as he produced a crumpled pack of cigarettes, which Hurley pocketed.
"You're telling them how to break the rules," John said as they left the common room.
"They already know," the shelter manager assured him. "I only remind them." He took out the cigarettes he had confiscated and shook one out. "Menthol." He grimaced as he took it out and lit it before offering the pack to John. "You?"
"I don't smoke."
"You don't drink, you' don't smoke, what do you do?" Hurley sang as he trotted up the next flight of stairs.
John had a feeling the shelter manager would need more counseling than his clients. After weaving in and out of more clustered teens, he asked, "How many kids have you got here?"
"Officially? One hundred and fifty, our state-approved capacity." Hurley took the cigarette out of the corner of his mouth, sniffed the air, muttered, "Fuck me," and went to unlock a supply closet. "Unofficially, about three hundred or so. Always doubles up after the first snow, when the little darlings discover they can freeze to death sleeping out there. We roll out blankets and sleeping bags in the common rooms for the extra bodies."
"Isn't there somewhere else they can go?"
"There's the state-funded shelter, but they don't take druggies, sex offenders, or fire setters unless they undergo psych treatment and have a spotless sheet for one year prior to admission." He rummaged through the closet, looking for things. "A couple of halfway houses will take knocked-up girls, but no boys. The adult homeless shelters will take anyone willing to take a beating and rape after lights-out."
Hurley took out a mop and bucket and handed the mop to John. In the bucket he put a large bottle of commercial floor cleaner.
"What's this for?"
"Your first counseling job." Hurley dropped his cigarette and ground it out under the toe of his grime-grayed sneaker. "Very sensitive one. One of our more artistic souls. Follow the smell."
John followed Hurley down to one of the bathrooms, where the door was propped open. He smelled the odor four feet from the bathroom. "You have septic problems?"
"Nope," Hurley said, gesturing for John to precede him.
John stopped just inside the bathroom door, where a pile of clothes had been dropped. A heavy young woman occupied the center of the room. She was naked, on all fours, and carefully coloring a line of grout between two tiles. If not for the smell, John would have thought she was doing so with a large Tootsie Roll. About half the tile had already received similar treatment.
Hurley came to stand beside him. "John, meet Beanie. Beanie, sweetheart, this is John."
The girl turned her large head, showing a face rounded and distorted by Down syndrome. "Hi, John," she said, her voice loud and hearty. "How are you? I'm fine." She went back to her art.
"Beanie?"
"She picks out the names herself and uses them until she gets tired of them," Hurley said as he retrieved the girl's clothes and handed them to John. "Last summer she was SpongeBob. Tell John what you're doing, Beanie."
"I'm making writing," the girl said. She moved back to sit on her haunches and admired the floor. "See? Just like Doogie." She frowned and reached over to brush at one side of the line.
"She thinks I have pretty handwriting. Why are you using shit for your art, Beanie?" Another, stronger odor permeated the air as Hurley emptied half the bottle of cleaner into the bucket and took it over to the sink to fill it with water.
"Warm and squishy. Make my own paint." The girl eyed John. "You know what it says?"
"No, I'm sorry," he said, not knowing whether to vomit or weep. "I don't."
She smiled, showing badly decayed teeth with several gaps between them. "It says, 'Beanie is beautiful. Beanie is great. Beanie is… Beanie.'" She went to work again.
This child had no business living in a runaway shelter. "Hurley."
"Don't waste the breath." He thumped the bucket down in front of John. "Beanie baby here showed up about two years ago, looking for food and a place to write her shit in peace. We ID'ed her through fingerprints. The kiddie nuthouse she grew up in kicked her out soon as she turned eighteen. She's too old now to go anywhere but the state hospital, and they've got a retard waiting list." He put on a pair of yellow gloves. "So Beanie lives here with us. We try to guess when she's due for a number two, but it's a bitch. She can hold it for days."
"What's her real name?" John asked as he immersed the mop in the bucket.
"She doesn't have one." Hurley went over to the girl. "Her birth certificate is blank. Her mom and dad probably argued over it. You know how brothers and sisters fight." He bent down and put a hand on her arm. "Time to clean up now, Beanie girl. After your bath, you can have a nice long talk with John here about all your shit."
The girl beamed up at him. "Beanies don't stink."
"This is a waste of time," Alexandra told Cyprien as she climbed out of the car that had brought them from the airport to Derabend Hall. "What can this Jaus guy do that we can't?"
"Valentin Jaus is suzerain of this region." Michael noted the heavy guards present around the car and in front of Jaus's house. Something had his old friend worried, and he hoped it wasn't his arrival. "He has controlled the city of Chicago since World War Two."
"So he's the Darkyn Al Capone." Alexandra checked the horizon, saw the sun had set, and removed the dark sunglasses protecting her eyes. "I still think we should take your guys and hit the streets."
"That is why I am in charge, and you are not." Before she-could reply, he rested two fingertips against her lips. "We agreed that Kyn business is my baby. We will be safe here, ma belle."
