“But why the number five?” Brazil persisted. “You picked it for a reason.”

Weed was beginning to shake. If the cop figured out that 5 was Weed’s slave number, one thing might lead to another.

“It’s my lucky number,” Weed said as sweat trickled from his armpits, down his sides, beneath his Bulls colors.

Brazil fiddled with the CD player, jumping around from Mike & The Mechanics to Elton John before deciding on Enya.

“Man, how you listen to that?” Weed finally said.

“What about it?”

“It ain’t got nothing to it. No good drums or cymbals or words that mean something.”

“Maybe the words mean something to me,” Brazil answered him. “Maybe I don’t care about drums or cymbals.”

“Oh yeah?” Weed got mad. “You’re just saying that because I play cymbals and pretty soon gonna learn drums.”

“You mind telling me where we’re going?” Brazil said. “Or is it a secret.”

“I bet you don’t know nothing about cymbals.” Weed’s logic was fading in and out, the dark smooth ride sedating him further. “We’re in the Azalea Parade, too.”

“I know you have to live somewhere near Godwin or you couldn’t go to school there.” Brazil was getting increasingly frustrated.

Weed was falling asleep. He smelled bad and Brazil still didn’t know why the kid had been out on the street drunk and running as if Jack the Ripper were after him. Brazil reached over and gently shook him. Weed practically jumped through the roof.

“No!” he screamed.

Brazil turned on the light above the visor and took a long hard look at Weed. Brazil noticed that the number 5 on his right index finger was crude and puffy.

“Tell me where you live,” Brazil said firmly. “Wake up, Weed, and tell me.”

“Henrico Doctor.”

“The hospital?”

“Uh huh.”

“You live near Henrico Doctors’ Hospital?”

“Uh huh. My head hurts so bad.”

“That’s not in Godwin’s district.”

“My daddy live in the district. My mama don’t.”

“Well, who are you going home to, Weed? Your mother or your dad?”

“I don’t hardly ever go near him. Just now and then, maybe a weekend every two months so he can go out and leave me alone, which is all right by me.”

“What street does your mother live on?”

“Forest and Skipwith. I can show you.” Weed’s tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth.

Brazil plucked Weed’s right hand out of his lap.

“What’d you go and get a tattoo for?” he said again. “Somebody talk you into that?”

“A lotta people get ’em.” Weed pulled his hand away.

“Looks to me like you just got it,” Brazil said. “Maybe even today.”

14

APPARENTLY GOVERNOR FEUER and his party had gone on to other courses and conversations. They had yet to emerge from La Petite France, and Roop was tired of waiting. He decided he might as well gather a little intelligence on the fish problem and dialed Hammer’s home number, thanks to Fling, who had stupidly given it to Roop.