The Child Thief

“JUST WHERE THE fuck you been?”
Recalled to the present, the child thief started. He glanced over his
shoulder into the apartment. There was a light on now and through the thin,
sagging curtain he saw a grotesquely large woman standing in her bra and
panties, hands on hips. She was addressing the man leaning against the
open front door.
It was raining, a light drizzle that turned the gray public housing to the
color of mud.
“I asked you a question,” the woman continued, her voice rising. “I
said, just where da fuck has your ass been all night?”
The man shrugged. He didn’t come in.
“How come your shirt’s inside out, Germaine? Huh? How come?”
Germaine looked down at his shirt, then back up at the woman and
shrugged again.
“You been with that bitch again. Ain’t you?”
The man didn’t answer.
“Don’t give me that look,” she shrieked. “You know who I’m talking
about!” The woman snatched a bottle off a TV tray and pointed it at the
man.
“Woman,” the man said, his speech slurred. “You need to calm down. It
ain’t like—”
“Goddamn you, Germaine! GODDAMN YOU!” She threw the bottle. It
exploded against the door right next to the man’s head. Then she was
slapping him.
The man shoved her away. “You need to back off, bitch! You need to
just back—”
She came at him again and this time he punched her hard in the
stomach, hard enough to knock her into the living room and onto the floor.
The woman lay there, making a dreadful sound, like someone choking to
death.
“CRAZY BITCH!” the man shouted. “CRAZY FUCKING BITCH!” He
slammed the door and was gone.

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The woman didn’t get up. She just lay there clutching her stomach and
bawling.
Peter had had enough. He hopped down from the balcony; keeping his
head low, he walked the buildings, his golden eyes peeping out from
beneath his hood, scanning the courtyards, the playgrounds. His thoughts
kept returning to the Captain, the barrels. Time was running out; he had to
find a child today.

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