Tracers (2 page)

THE SIGN
said
CHECK CASHING
but it probably should have said check swiping. Because infesting the sidewalk right by the entrance were Cam's two least favorite people: Jerry and Hu.

Chinatown's finest: Chen ran the books, but Jerry and Hu were the ones who finessed the situation.
Finesse
—that's what Jerry liked to call it. Hu mainly just grunted—he was the muscle. Built like a tank.

Cam stared at Hu in his sleeveless black shirt and imagined the guy trying to run up a wall. Then imagined him hitting the pavement. Hard. It was
almost
a comforting thought.

Except for the fact that Jerry had just grabbed the paycheck right out of his hands.

“How did you . . . ?” Cam sputtered.

“How'd we know it was payday?” Jerry grinned and tapped his forehead. “I did some research, my friend. Your boss was pretty chatty.” Jerry gave Cam a pointed look. “As for the rest of it, this is the closest and most convenient check-cashing place. Didn't take a rocket scientist.”

“Luckily,” Cam spit out, before he had time to think it over. He was pissed off about being ambushed. He would have turned most of his pay over to them anyway. But it might have been nice to hold on to a few bucks for, you know, food.

Jerry responded with a smile, but it wasn't a nice one. “It's your fault, me having to play Sherlock, Cam. Where have you been hiding?” Hu just glared and cornered Cam against the building. Jerry stepped closer too, still smiling his oily smile. “You didn't forget about us, did you?”

Cam met Jerry's eyes. He kept his voice even. “I didn't forget. I didn't have the money.”

“What do you call this?” Jerry waved the paycheck in front of Cam's nose. “So what else you got?” Jerry put out his hand. Cam resisted the urge to spit his gum right into Jerry's waiting palm.

Jerry was taller than Hu, and skinnier. He also seemed to be pretty obsessed with his hair: he wore it long in the front, but gelled into perfect waves. Jerry took another step forward, reaching into Cam's pockets.

“Come on, man . . .”

Soon Jerry had his wallet. A few seconds later he'd emptied it of its contents: two fives. Jerry flung the empty wallet back at Cam.

“That's it? Where's all your money going?”

Cam spoke through clenched teeth. “To you.”

“You came to
us
for a loan, Cam. You accepted the terms. Remember? Fifteen hundred on the first of the month.
Every
month.”

“You're right. My bad. I'm sorry I missed the payment.” He swallowed hard, still staring into Jerry's eyes. “It won't happen again.”

“No, it won't.” Jerry pulled a pen out of the interior pocket of his jacket. The lining was a shiny red material printed with little gold dragons. Cam's eye roll was automatic, no stopping it.

Jerry didn't catch it, or pretended not to. “Sign this.”

“But, Jerry . . . I gotta pay rent.”

Jerry was shaking his head. Looking almost like he gave a damn. Almost.

“Think I'm doing this for fun, kid? This is my job. I got a boss just like you do. Sign it.”

Hu grunted as if to add his encouragement. Cam took the pen and endorsed the check. Jerry folded it, put it in his pocket, and stepped away from the wall. Cam followed, and Jerry put a hand on his shoulder. “We like you, man. We really do. But this is the second time you've been late.”

Hu made another sound—this one more of a growl.

Jerry fixed his eyes on Cam. “Second time,” he repeated. “And that makes us nervous.”

Cam frowned as Jerry gave him one more shoulder pat. “You owe us fifteen
thousand
dollars, Cam. Plus interest. Don't miss another payment.”

“I won't.”

Cam watched them head inside.

Jerry turned back to Cam and mouthed through the glass: “Don't miss another payment.”

Yeah, because watching Jerry cash
his
paycheck was really making it easy to forget.

• • •

The L train wasn't late, which was his first piece of “luck” all day.

But then there was the fact that the left side of his earbuds had crapped out—no doubt more fallout from the madness that morning. Cam pulled the cord out of his phone and threw them across the almost-empty train.

He rode in silence, staring at the subway map above his head. The L went from Eighth Avenue to Canarsie, and back again. It seemed like a perfect metaphor for his life: riding a train that didn't actually
go
anywhere—just an endless loop.

Like the tattoo of an infinity symbol he'd gotten after his mom died. It was inked in stark black on his left shoulder. At the time it had seemed like a comforting idea—that maybe everything in life was some kind of continuous loop, a cycle of birth and death, happiness and suffering. But now the ink just seemed depressingly symbolic.

When had everything started to go so wrong? What if his dad had picked a different store to rob? Or never pulled that gun? What if his mom hadn't gotten sick?

Was there a moment when he could have gone left instead of right? If he'd never taken the loan . . .

Cam thought back to the time when Chinatown was just another neighborhood to him—before he'd even known what the name
Tong
meant. Of course he'd always known that Chinatown was
organized,
but until he'd been desperate to borrow money fast, he hadn't needed to know anything more.

He'd been making deliveries to a restaurant on Canal Street every few days ever since he started working for Lonnie. It had been obvious from the start that the well-dressed guys who met every night in the back weren't waiters or cooks, so one night Cam worked up the courage to ask about a loan . . . and the rest was history. The Tong, he found out later, was a
particularly
well-organized group—especially when it came to making sure all debts were paid in full. If only he could go back and do things differently . . .

But it was no use wondering about that. The fact was his mom
had
gotten sick. And they'd needed the money—period. Just like he needed money now.

An image of the girl with the silver eyes appeared in his mind, seemingly from out of nowhere, just like she'd shown up that morning. Cam shook his head to banish her from his brain.

Even if he found her—
and
decided to forgive her for ruining his day, and his bike—right now he didn't even have the funds to buy her a hot dog.

None of it mattered. Thinking about the mystery girl was just a waste of time, like showing up for work tomorrow (bikeless) would be. She'd made him curious was all. He would never see her again.

• • •

Cam trudged the five blocks from the L station to Angie's row house. Home sweet home: peeling gray paint, rusted bars on the windows. But all this luxury wasn't for Cam—since it was the
garage
he rented from Angie, not an actual room.

Not too many folks were keen on renting to someone like him—and even fewer were willing to skip the credit check and accept the rent in cash. But Angie had worked with his mom a long time ago. She was one of the few people who'd come to her funeral. When she'd asked if he had a place to stay—after the bank had taken the house—he'd been too depressed and defeated to lie. So he'd ended up in her garage. The rent was cheap; sometimes she even brought him leftovers. Angie's stew, mac and cheese, and lasagna were the only things he ever ate that didn't come on a stick or wrapped in paper or plastic. He never turned down her offerings. Cam hated feeling like a charity case, but he was starting to hate fast food even more.

Angie's kid, Joey, was pulling tricks on his skateboard in the driveway—as always, he looked like he was one sneeze away from a trip to the emergency room.

Just at that moment, the kid wiped out, sent his board flying in Cam's direction. Cam stopped it with his foot.

“You all right?” he asked as he kicked the skateboard up and caught it.

“Yeah. I'm good.” Joey cocked his head to one side. “Hey, where's your bike?”

Not much got by Joey—the kid was observant as hell. Cam had never had a little brother, but he imagined the way he felt about Joey probably fit into the little-brother category. Equal parts affection and annoyance.

“I hit a pothole,” Cam lied, turning the board over to inspect the wheels. “Looks like you got bigger problems. Come on.” He led the way into the garage and through the maze of car guts.

The garage was perfect for Cam—just enough room for the car and all his tools. He didn't have much else. His living space was in the back corner: twin bed covered in a flannel blanket. (In his head, his mom's voice still told him to make the bed every morning.) He kept a plastic crate next to it, topped with a lamp, clock radio, and a couple of books. Another crate turned on its side was his “closet”; he kept his T-shirts, jeans, and cargos neatly stacked inside. His winter gear—a couple of sweatshirts and a heavier coat and scarf—was stored under the bed.

Joey perched on the edge of a stool, picking up a toy car from the workbench. He held it up and spun the wheels of the miniature '67 GTO, but his eyes were on the life-size version that took up most of the garage. “When can we go for a ride?” he asked.

Cam stood before the workbench, tightening the trucks on Joey's skateboard. “Doesn't run yet, kid. Haven't had time to work on it.” He switched screwdrivers and kept tightening. “Don't have money for the parts I need,” Cam added, talking mostly to himself.

“Maybe you should sell it,” Joey said, still spinning the wheels on the toy.

“Maybe.” Cam looked over at the car. He didn't have the energy to explain that even though his dad hadn't been worth a damn, Cam wanted . . .
needed
to hold on to his car.

He handed the skateboard back. “You're good to go.”

“Thanks, Cam.” Joey returned the toy GTO and Cam put it in his toolbox. He buried it a little under a hammer and a chunk of exhaust pipe.

“Joey?” Angie was calling. When he didn't appear, she showed up at the garage door. “I told you to give Cam his space.” She frowned.

Joey rolled his eyes. “Chillax, Mom. It's all gravy.” Joey threw down his board, hopped on, and sailed back down the driveway. Cam couldn't help but smile.

“Seems like just yesterday he was so cute and little. And now . . . so full of attitude.” Angie turned back to Cam. She looked tired—and much older than she actually was. There were always dark circles under her eyes. “Sorry about that . . .”

She looked like she was in the perfect mood to hear some more bad news.

“I don't mind,” Cam told her. “He's a good kid.”

He took a deep breath and let it out. It was no use putting it off. It wasn't like he was getting any richer sitting here fixing Joey's board or his old man's wreck of a car. “Listen, Angie . . . I'm going to be a little late with the rent this month. I'm sorry.” He swallowed hard; seeing Angie do her best to smile at him was like a knife twisting in his gut. He felt bad enough already. “I'll get it to you as soon as I can. I swear . . .”

Angie sighed, and it seemed to shake her thin frame. “I know you're good for it, Cam. But I'm having a tough month. Just . . . promise to try your best, okay?” Angie's eyes were dark brown, but they seemed faded somehow. Like even at thirty-five she'd already seen way too much. She always reminded Cam of his mom, even though he'd never seen the two of them together, and they certainly looked nothing alike. Angie was African American, about a head taller than his mom had been. Maybe, Cam thought, it was the way Angie had about her: she was so tired and sad—but she wasn't broken. That part definitely reminded him of his mom.

Cam tried to muster a reassuring smile for her. “Promise. Thanks, Angie.”

He watched her go, looking around the garage at everything he owned. It was actually sort of depressing how easily his possessions would fit into the trunk of the GTO.

Which would be entirely pointless unless the car actually
ran.

Feeling possessed all of a sudden, Cam stood up and started rooting through all his workbench crap until he found it:
Chilton's Repair and Tune-up Guide: Pontiac GTO 1965–68
.

His earbuds were now part of the garbage slime on the floor of the L train, but luckily he had a speaker hidden somewhere on the bench.

He'd had the same song stuck in his head all day—ever since
she
had jumped down from the sky like some lunatic cat. Cam wasn't usually that choosy about the music he played. His dad, on the other hand, had been obsessed with music—he'd loved seventies rock the most, but Cam remembered him listening to everything. When he was little, his dad always made mix CDs for the stereo in the GTO. He always said he was making a road-trip mix, but Cam couldn't remember a time when they'd actually
gone
anywhere.

For Cam, music had always just been noise—a way to drown out the city. Dance and techno—anything with a driving beat—created the best wall of sound. Usually when he worked on the car he just set the music on his phone to shuffle and let it play.

But today Cam opened up Pandora and created a new station based on the song playing on repeat in his brain: Bad Company's “Ready for Love.” His dad had kept the band's CD in the GTO when Cam was a kid—God only knew where it had gone. Cam had a vague memory of riding in the backseat, closing his eyes as the sunshine streamed in through the open windows, and letting the music wash over him.

He connected his phone to the speaker. The beauty of living alone in a crummy garage was that no one was around to judge his embarrassing music choice, so Cam cranked the volume and sang along: “Wonderin' where my life is leading . . . Rollin' on to the bitter end . . .”