Someone To Believe In (2 page)

Taking in a deep breath, Clay shook his head.
“No, I’ll call her, like you said. And ask nicely.”

His phone buzzed. Mica crossed to his desk
and pressed the speaker button. “The senator’s son is on line
one.”

Clay’s steps halted. Jon rarely phoned him.
And almost never at the office. He felt the familiar prick of loss
shift through him. “We done? I’d like to take this in private.”

Thorn nodded. “Sure. “

His staff left and Clay tried to calm
his escalated heartbeat.
Fine commentary on
your life, Wainwright, when a simple call from your son affects you
like this.
Dropping down in his chair, he caught sight
of the picture that sat on his desk of him and Jon, taken last year
when Jon went off to college. Same dark blond hair. Same light
brown eyes. Same broad shoulders. But they were as different as
night and day. At least now they were.

Clay picked up the phone. “Hello, Jon. “

“Dad.” The ice was still in the kid’s voice,
though a bit thawed. “How are you?” Pleasantries at least. Better
than the accusations the last time they’d talked...

You know, I may not even vote for you. That
bill you cosponsored shortchanged the environment across the
board.

That bill provided needed funds for shelters
for battered women.

Yeah, the token bone, tacked on to get guys
like you to vote for it.

Pushing away the bad memories, Clay asked,
“How are you, son?”

“Whipped.”

“Anything new?”

“Uh-huh. I’m in charge of the fund-raiser for
our Earth Environment Group.” Jon attended Bard College as an
environmental engineer major. He’d gone up to school in mid-July
with some other students to plan the year’s activities for their
organization. Jon coughed as if he was about to do something
unpleasant. “The dean asked if you could come to the event we’re
sponsoring to kick off our fund drive. He thought maybe you could
give a talk to the students who’ll be here for orientation and
community members who would jump at the chance to hear their
senator speak.”

Ah, so the kid wanted something from him. “If
I can. When is it?”

Jon named a date and time. “I already checked
with Bob, to see if you were free. Congress will be on recess.”

So you didn’t have to ask a favor for
nothing. “Well, then, let’s set it up. Can we do something
together, just you and me, while I’m there?”

A long pause, which cut to the quick. “Like
what?”

“Go into the city. Have dinner. See a
show.”

“I guess.”

At one time, Jon issued the
invitations...
Let’s catch that Knicks
game...I want you there, Dad, at my debate...I need to talk about a
girl ...

When on earth had they lost that? During the
long campaigns when Clay wasn’t home much? After all the school
events and baseball games he’d missed? In the midst of the messy
divorce from Jon’s mother, who, Clay suspected, badmouthed him on
a regular basis?

Because he wanted badly to mend their fences,
he said with enthusiasm, “Okay, then, we’re on. I’m looking forward
to it.”

“Yeah, me, too. It’ll be a great
fund-raiser.”

Not what he meant, and his son knew it. Clay
wondered if Jon distanced him on purpose. Angered by the thought,
he tapped a pencil on his desk, and let the frost creep into his
own voice. “I’ll talk to you before then. “

He put down the phone, thinking of a
time when conversations had ended with
I
love you
. Because the fact that they no longer
automatically said those words hurt, he tried to focus on something
else. Absently, he picked up the paper and stared again at the
editorial page. Now Bailey O’Neil was aligning herself with the man
who was after Clay’s seat in Congress.

Hell, he didn’t want to lock horns with her
again. Grabbing his phone again, he said to his assistant, “Joanie,
get me Bailey O’Neil in New York, would you? I think we have her
work phone on file.” Gripping the receiver before the call was
punched through, he said aloud, “Okay, sweetheart, time for another
round.”

SO, WHO ARE you?
The words scrolled across the screen of Bailey’s computer,
like so many others, typed casually.

You know who I am or you
wouldn’t have come to my site, TazDevil2
. Bailey was
unfamiliar with the screen name.

No response.

So she typed,
I’m the Street Angel. And I can help you.

Yeah, sure.

Why don’t you tell me why
you came to my site. It’s just us two
. She grinned in
the empty office.
And I won’t tell anybody
else
. No matter what the good senator from New York
does to me.

Chill out a minute.

Bailey waited. Kids needed time to take this
big step. As she drummed her fingers on the table, she scanned her
messy office. ESCAPE, her organization, which helped kids find a
way out of gang life, needed more space. They’d grown so much they
had to rent three offices on this floor, and still she shared hers
with a coworker. But she’d rather direct the funds to programs
instead of spending it on overhead. When they moved, as they did
every few years to maintain their anonymity—much like shelters for
battered women—their space probably wouldn’t be much larger.

Her private phone shrilled into the
silence, making her startle. She wondered if she should answer it
while the newest visitor to her interactive website garnered his or
her courage. Or got interrupted. Bailey winced. Once, she’d been on
the phone hotline with a boy and he cut off abruptly. Bailey later
suspected he’d been caught and killed. A body had turned up with
earmarks of the teen she’d been talking to.
Don’t think about the loss
. To avoid it, she
picked up the phone. “Bailey O’Neil.”

“Ms. O’Neil, this is Clayton Wainwright.”

Oh, shit. “Senator, this is a surprise.”

“Is it?”

Ah, he had seen the letter in
the
Sun
. “Hmm.”

“I was wondering if you’d make some time for
me on Thursday of next week. I’ll be in New York.” His voice was
deeper, huskier than she remembered.

“Um, I’m pretty busy.”

“You have to eat. How about breakfast?”

Okay, enough dancing. Not only did they have
a history together, but she despised his politics and the damage
he’d done to social agencies like hers. No way was she going to see
him in person. “Look, Senator, we don’t have much to say to each
other. You disagree with how I choose to help kids, and I think
you’re conservative and backward and that you’ve copped out on the
potential you showed early in your career. We’re never going to see
eye to eye.”

“Humor me.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’m afraid I have to insist.”

“Are you for real?”

“What does that mean?”

“That you can insist all you want. It has no
effect on me.” Time to take the gloves off. “I’m furious with you
for your two latest tricks.”

“Tricks?”

“Blocking my funding for Guardian at the
federal level. At least so far. And then for writing memos to the
state officials about ESCAPE.”

“They weren’t—”

The instant message chimed, indicating
someone had posted. “Look, I’ve got to go. Thanks for the
invitation, but no.” She hung up before he could respond, and read
the message.

TazDevi12 was back on.
Maybe I’m thinkin’ this is jackshit.

You don’t have to be tough with me. Tell me
about your situation.

A pause.
I got
me a set. The Good Girls
.

Bailey froze. The Good Girls had been
the worst girl gang in New York City in the eighties. Swallowing
her reaction, she typed,
That gang doesn’t
exist anymore
.

Yeah, dude, they do. We been calling
ourselves that for a few months. Used to be the Shags. Decided to
reincarnate that other gang ’cuz they was so tough.

Uncomfortable, Bailey toyed with the
picture of Rory on her desk.
I
know.

How?

I was close to somebody in the GGs.

Hey, you got the tag right.

Yeah.

Who was it?

My sister. She was one of the original
members.

Fucking A! You kiddin’ me?

I wish I was. I saw firsthand what the GGs
did to girls.

No comment.

How old are you?

Seventeen.

How old were you when you got in?

Fourteen.

The same age as
Moira
. Beautiful, troubled Moira, whom Bailey had
loved unconditionally, despite the problems her half sister had
caused in her family.

That her name?

Yeah. Did you jump or train in?

Jumped. I ain’t no boy’s
slave.
Bailey knew that “training” into a gang—fucking
several guys fast and in a row like train cars—was the preferred
method of gang initiation over “jumping” in, which consisted of
being brutally beaten by the members. Except if you trained in, you
were treated like scum afterward.

What happened to her?

Moira? She died.

No answer.

Again, Bailey glanced at the phone. Moira had
died in prison, where a young D.A., much like Clayton Wainwright,
had put her. Bailey herself had been partly responsible, too.

You sad about it still?

Every day of my life.

You got more family?

I do. Four brothers. Me, my mom, and dad.

How come she join a gang if she got family
like you?

Because Dad slipped up, and had a kid
with another woman.
Long story.
Since the girl seemed to want to talk, she asked,
What’s your name?

Tazmania. I go by Taz.

Tell me about yourself.

A pause.
Maybe
later. Gotta jet now, Angel. Ciao.

Ciao.
And then
Bailey added,
Stay in touch. Please. I’m on
tomorrow night.

No answer.

For a moment, Bailey just watched the blank
computer screen. Sighing, she leaned back in her rickety chair,
eased off her scuffed loafers, and propped her feet up on the desk.
Idly, she noted that her jeans were threadbare and almost white at
the knees. She plucked at the frayed cuffs of the oxford cloth
blouse she wore. Geez, she needed new clothes. But hell, who had
the time or inclination for shopping?

Shutting her eyes and linking her hands
behind her neck, she tried to center herself. She became aware of
the quiet. It had gotten late, and the day-shift workers had left
the office. The hotline and website night crew would be in soon.
But for now she was alone with her memories of Moira. With the pain
that twisted her heart like an emotional vise whenever she thought
about her half sister. The pain had dulled, but never really gone
away. She was alone with her now-rabid zeal to save kids, which she
knew was obsessive. That quest had taken over her life until her
son, Rory, came along. And it was still too important to her. But
she couldn’t help it. She was going to make a difference.

She thought of Clayton Wainwright—her nemesis
since his district attorney days. Though she didn’t blame him for
prosecuting her—she had been guilty, after all, of harboring the
kid when he’d told her he’d committed a crime—she did hold
Wainwright in contempt for his continual vigilance over her
organization, and his attempts to keep her funding at bay. Her
efforts had been stalled considerably, more than once, just
because of him. Now, however, a new battle would ensue; there was
money available from the government in a bill initiated by a
senator from Massachusetts and passed by Congress for both social
agencies and law enforcement. Bailey wanted some of the funds.
Wainwright was just as determined not to give them to her.

If he only knew what was really what. But he
lived in an ivory tower, with a silver spoon in his mouth, so he
could never conceive of what street life was like for kids. Because
of that he was dangerous. Best to keep her guard up. With a man
like him, you needed your guns poised and your belt full of
ammunition; she couldn’t hand him any bullets to stop her with no
matter how nicely he asked.

“Beware, Senator Wainwright,” she said
glaring at the phone. “I’m gonna win this round. The Street Angel
is not giving up.”

TAZ TURNED UP the volume of the latest
Marilyn Manson song, which already blasted from her computer, and
crossed to the mirror above a dresser in her dingy bedroom.
Carefully, she streaked three fingertips over her face. The
Vaseline went on smooth and thick. It made her deep brown eyes
glisten like the stars. Better yet, it’d protect her skin from
knife cuts.

Tonight she was after some hard beef with her
girls. Mazie Lennon’s boyfriend had been spotted with a member of
Anthrax, and Mazie had called out her home girls to teach the
broad a lesson. It was payback time. Taz didn’t think any guy was
worth the trouble, but when your home girls wanted help, you went.
Her opinion of the male species as lowlifes was why she hadn’t
trained in.

Did you jump or train in?

Smart girls knew it was better to jump
in; training in made you boys’ slaves. But most
chola
weren’t tough enough to do it. Taz had been
tough. She fingered her ribcage remembering that night. The older
girls had cracked two ribs with the billy club they’d jacked from a
cop and used in Taz’s initiation. They’d blackened and bloodied one
eye and it had stayed shut for a week. They’d given her killer shin
kicks; her hair had been pulled so hard she’d felt her fucking eyes
bulge. But she’d stuck it out longer than any chick on record, and
even some of the guys in the neighboring gangs, who did jump in.
Scared the shit out of all of them. Problem was she was so tough,
she was always having to prove it. Which was why she went online
tonight.