Thread Of Deceit. Catherine Palmer

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СКАЧАТЬ thighs, expanding her lungs to take in air. Earlier that morning she had run five miles from her apartment to the Gateway Arch and back. This was barely a skip, but the exercise filled her with confidence as she burst out into the parking garage and jogged toward her car.

      By the end of this year, she planned to run her first marathon. Within five years, she had to claim a Pulitzer. But first she needed to pull three great stories off a wall of crumbling lead paint. She had two weeks. No problem.

      “Please sign your name on this list, ma’am.” The teenage boy standing under a tattered green canvas awning held out a clipboard. “And write down your reason for visiting Haven.”

      Despite her best intentions, Ana felt a jolt of trepidation as he took a step toward her. Tall and brawny, with deep chocolate skin and shoulder-length dreadlocks, he wore a plain white T-shirt, baggy denim shorts and new Nike high-tops with the laces hanging loose. She often saw such apparel on young men loitering near the Post-Dispatch building or playing basketball in the parks. Tattoos, graffiti, even the color of a baseball cap could be signs of gang affiliation. Though she had taught herself to walk the streets of downtown St. Louis without constantly looking over her shoulder, Ana knew enough to be careful.

      As she handed back the clipboard, the youth smiled broadly. Amid a row of straight white teeth, a single gold one glinted in the July sun.

      “Thank you, Miss Burns. My name is Raydell Watson. Welcome to Haven. You can walk through now. If you got anything metal in your bag, hand it to me.”

      Masking her surprise, Ana glanced at the club’s door. A metal detector blocked the entrance. “Tape recorder?”

      He nodded, and she handed him the device, stepped through into the cool building and blinked in the dim light. Laughter, balls bouncing, a referee’s shrill whistle, the smells of perspiration and popcorn assailed her.

      “Good afternoon, ma’am.” A girl’s voice drifted up from the gloom. She handed Ana the tape recorder. Petite, with elaborate braids swirling around her scalp, the teen flashed a bright smile. “This is Duke. He won’t bite.”

      A German shepherd padded forward from the darkness. Ana gave an involuntary gasp as the animal circled her. She went rigid, elbows high, shoulders scrunched, clutching her bag to her chest.

      The girl giggled. “He sniffs for drugs, but you clean. C’mon, Duke. Heel, boy!” The dog trotted to her side and sat down, tail swishing the floor. “You gotta put on this T-shirt, Miss…um…” She glanced at the clipboard, which had somehow materialized in her hands. “Miss Burns. You got on a red blouse, and we don’t allow no gang colors at Haven. Here you go. And don’t roll up the sleeves. That’s a gang sign, too.”

      Unaccustomed to taking orders from teenagers, Ana couldn’t summon the will to protest. She set down her bag, glad her khaki skirt had passed muster, and tugged the T-shirt over her blouse.

      A drug-sniffing dog. A metal detector. What was going on here?

      “I’ve come to see—”

      “You gotta talk to Mr. Hawke or Mr. Roberts,” the girl cut in. “That’s the rule.” She spotted another teen dribbling a ball in their direction. “Hey, Antwone, go get Uncle Sam or T-Rex!”

      The boy swung around and headed off toward a group of youngsters shooting basketballs at a backboard that hung from the ceiling of the large room. Ana eyed the dog and let out a breath. “This is quite a place. Haven. Wow.”

      “Yes, ma’am. I’m on Duke today.” The girl’s chin rose with pride. “You only get to be on Duke after you earn fifty points. And you get trained at the police station.”

      “So Duke is the…uh…dog. Well, I’m sure that’s quite a responsibility. How did you earn fifty points?”

      “Volunteered for stuff like latrine or KP or laundry. And good behavior. You gotta have that or you get your name put on the list, and then you can’t come back.” She straightened as someone signaled to her from a distance. “Okay, you can go over to the offices, Miss Burns. See that door right there with the glass window?”

      “With the duct tape?”

      “Yes, ma’am. Go on inside and sit down. Somebody be there in a little bit.”

      “Thanks.” Ana took her time crossing the room. The building must have been a warehouse at one time. Or maybe a department store. The ceiling wasn’t high enough for regulation basketball, but the kids seemed to have devised a new set of rules to deal with that. They played hard, shouting, scuffling, pressing, forming and reforming as the ball slammed against the concrete floor. Athletic shoes squealed. A whistle pierced the air. The smell of sweat hung like a heavy cloud over the players.

      Ana reached the office and noted the silver tape holding the glass together in a broken windowpane. Poor lighting, bare floors and walls, inadequate ventilation. How had this place met municipal codes and been permitted to open in the first place? She could hardly blame the health department for seeking a reason to shut it down.

      Stepping into the office, she noticed a boy with brown curly hair and the requisite white T-shirt. He sat hunched over a computer.

      “Excuse me?”

      He didn’t look up.

      “I’m from the Post-Dispatch. I’d like to speak to the director of Haven.”

      “Sec,” the youth muttered, peering into the screen as if he could see through it to the inner workings. Ana gingerly took a place on an old red vinyl restaurant booth that served as seating.

      The office was a wreck—motivational posters peeling off the walls like dried onion skins, balls of every type scattered on the floor, damp white towels piled high in a corner, a desk covered with broken trophies. Bowling? Archery? The old statuettes had names and dates engraved on the front, and several bore the ignominy of missing arms or broken tennis racquets. What good was a beat-up tennis trophy in a place like this?

      “Rats!” the boy said suddenly, slamming his palms down on the card table and pushing away his chair. He rolled backward five feet, his fingers knotted in his curls. “Rats and double rats! This computer is a piece of junk!”

      “What kind is it?” Ana asked. She had taken out her reporter’s notebook and was testing her pen.

      “An old geezer. Take a look at the size of that screen. Have you ever seen one so small?”

      Ana stood and leaned toward the grimy tan computer. “Were you even born when this thing came out?”

      “No way. But I can fix it. It’s just going to take some time.”

      “You have a lot of confidence. I guess that’s par around here.”

      He looked at her for the first time. “Oh, I’m not from here. I’m a summer volunteer. My church sent seven of us from our youth group to work in the inner city for two months. I’m setting up Haven’s computer system.”

      “With that old thing?”

      He shrugged. “You use what gets donated. My name is Caleb.”

      She shook his hand. “Ana Burns. Nice to meet you, Caleb. Any idea where I can find the club’s director?”

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