Page 5 of Foxed Up

It was hard enough taking care of my son when I knew I could provide for him. Quinn had no such comfort for his kid. I tapped my pen on the paper. "I can look into your firing," I offered.

The man hesitated. I could see his pride warring with his desperation.

At last, he gave a tight nod. "Do that. And if you want to come around again, give me a warning call. The phone still works — for this month," he added darkly, looking like a man who regretted paying the phone bill when there would be others he might not be able to pay now.

"You want to give the number to me?" I said, and he rattled off some numbers that I quickly jotted down. "Thank you. I'll show myself out."

The little black kid gave me a scared look over his shoulder, then quickly buried his face again. His father made a soothing noise, stroking his head. "You're okay, buddy," he said.

I knew that voice. My throat hurt. I wondered how my kid was doing at school, if he was afraid once again that I was going to leave him or send him away.

I drove to the quarry. That's what he'd meant by the gravel pit. It sold all kinds of stone in all kinds of shapes, but the largest amount by far was what they mined here. People bought a truckload for their driveways sometimes. The quarry also sold various stones around the country. The air was always thick with dust here, stone dust that got on everything. I grimaced as I parked, knowing my windows and paintwork would all be coated by the thin white dust by the time I left, even if I was quick.

A truck was backing up, beeping. Another long-haul truck went rumbling by, filled to the brim with stone. I gave it a hard look, wondering if it was over the weight limit. Still, I had to prioritize right now — especially if I wanted to make it home in time to cook supper for Eli.

That was our thing. Since he'd been malnourished and underweight when he came to live with me, because of that no-account harridan of a mother of his neglecting him, I'd needed to establish some rules about food right away. I didn't want him getting any complexes about food, but I needed him to eat. So the rules were simple. Three meals a day (and healthy snacks if he wanted them). We ate at least one together. I'd make him anything he wanted as long as he ate at least four servings of fruit or vegetables a day, and tried one new food a week. Desserts were also limited.

It had come to be a special time for both of us, working in the kitchen to make supper. He had a child's taste in food most of the time, heavy on the macaroni products, chicken nuggets shaped like dinosaurs, that kind of thing. But he'd surprised me with his willingness and excitement about trying new things.

He loved papaya; asparagus was his favorite vegetable in the world. And he'd recently developed an obsession with mangos and kiwis. He thought mangoes looked like weird footballs, and he liked the slightly slimy, bright orange flesh from ripe ones. He adored fuzzy kiwis and would sometimes cup one in his hands like a newborn chick before rushing to hand it to me, eager for me to peel and let him eat it.

He hadn't yet learned to not talk with his mouth full, so sometimes there were green juices and seeds all over his face that I had to wipe off him. He thought that was hilarious, of course, with his nine-year-old's sense of humor.

Well, at least the kid was eating. He didn't have any weird food issues, and there was nothing he wasn't at least willing to try. I still let him pick supper every night and help me make it. Even when that meant angel hair pasta with spaghetti sauce, banana bread, and asparagus suppers all week long.

I couldn't help thinking of Quinn and his hungry kid. Kids, he'd said. So there were more somewhere, probably too afraid to come out with me there, or else a bit older and in school.

I headed to the main office. I'd gone here a couple of times before: once when we were looking for a body, once to investigate a suspicious death on the premises, and once when I needed to buy some stone for the driveway.

The manager looked less than eager to see me. His face kind of closed down when he recognized me, an expression I'm very familiar with.

"I'm here to speak with you about Quinn Green," I told him.

"Hey, I don't want any trouble with the cops. I fired his ass this morning. If he's in trouble, I know nothing about it." He spread his hands, trying to look innocent. He had a hard face, almost like rock itself, with big lines in it like cracks and the gray, hard, rough countenance of a man who's lived a long time and seen too much and gotten jaded to it all.

"That's what I'm here about," I told him. "We had to question him, but he's not a suspect or under arrest. You firing him, however, could be an issue. He could file against you for that. Undue discrimination. He might have a case, you know. He's not in jail, not in lockup — it was just some routine questioning."

The manager snorted. "Please. Like that asshole can afford a lawyer."

"He's a shifter, you know," I said. "He could go to one of those legal protection organizations."

The manager paused, clearly worried for the first time. "Huh."

"It would be bad publicity if it ended up in the papers, much less in court," I added, tapping my pen against my tablet, and then realizing I was doing it and stopping myself. "And he's got kids, so you'd just look like an asshole no matter how it turned out."

"Man, I don't got the money for some shitty lawsuit." He scowled harder.

"Well, maybe it doesn't have to come to that," I said. "Just give him his job back, and let him know if he's in trouble with the cops for real he loses it, no questions asked. Like, a warning."

Yeah, I thought.That lets you feel like a big shot, and it's a motivation for Quinn to stay out of trouble so we really don't have to bring him in for drug trade. I still wasn't totally convinced he knew nothing; the captain had had some reason to question him. But if he kept his nose clean, I didn't want to know about it, either.

The manager seemed unconvinced, but he was giving it some thought. "You sure he's not in trouble?" He narrowed his eyes at me.

"Far as I can tell, he's just a poor schmuck with kids trying to make ends meet. No crime involved."

The manager gave a soft grunt and a nod. "Yeah, why'd he be working here if he was making better money elsewhere?"

Then he seemed to realize what he'd admitted — that his workplace was terrible with shitty pay — and gave me a hard look. "That all, officer?"