The kid seemed all hepped-up at first, but now he was all quiet and mopey. What Hank didn’t need was someone draggin’ down his spirits. Enough talk. There was work to be done. The kid better snap out of it or there was gonna be some serious problems. There musta been at least three boys back home who worshiped him and he’d only hooked up with Nick-O ’cause he was the biggest and the first one he saw standin’ outside shul. Nick-O was all pissed off at havin’ to wear a suit. When he offered to take him away, he thought the kid was gonna kiss his ass. First thing the kid did was throw away the suit and wear that dumbass T-shirt with the faggy-lookin’ rock group on it.

Now Hank was wonderin’ if Nick-O was the right one for the job. The kid seemed pretty together at first. Didn’t get all squirrely when Hank played with his knives. Nick-O didn’t flip over them though, and that showed a definite lack of taste. Thinking about it, that wasn’t good.

No, not good at all.

It was real smart to only give him enough money for laundry. Not that he was really worried that the kid was gonna flake out and call his parents, but there was always that possibility.

Nick-O had begged to come along, callin’ them brothers in spirit. Tellin’ him that his buddy Hank was the only one he could really talk to. Yeah, he understood it all ’cause he’d been there. But enough of the yap, yap, yap. It was time to get past all that religion crap and move on. Nick-O was real good about talkin’ about movin’ on, but he weren’t so good at the real movin’ on.

Hank didn’t like the way the kid was acting. He’d warned him what he’d do if the kid tried anything dumb. He thought he made the message pretty damn clear.

Nick-O, you call home, go to the police or do anything stupid, you’re dead meat.

Hey, can’t get any clearer than that.

Hank scratched his crotch and picked up a Styrofoam container half full of chow mein. He sniffed it, then found a plastic fork somewhere within the rolled up bedcover.

He took the fork to the bathroom, washed it off with soap and water, then plopped down on the bed. The stuff wasn’t bad cold, although all the sauce had congealed to a brown goop that looked like somethin’ found in the crapper.

How the hell did he wind up in this dump? He shoulda knowed the area was for shit when he saw all the XXX on the hotel signs, but he was thrown off-track by the name.

Englewood, New Jersey, was a classy place. How the hell was he supposed to figure out that Inglewood, California, was a dump with the names soundin’ practically the same?