No Immunity

Twice his size, sure, but the Weasel hadn’t survived all these years on the Marquis of Queensbury. Blockhead like this, he’d be around behind him and have his big face in the dust before he could say Weasel.
    Then McGuire spotted what the blockhead was puzzling over. Girl. Looked to be seven or eight. Walking toward the apartments. Blockhead was coming toward her, like a chiquita like that was going to do anything but run when she spotted him.

    One chance was all he’d get, and Tchernak knew it as he eyed the girl on the sidewalk. Kids liked him in the same way they liked Ezra. In some way they felt like they’d tamed this big creature. But there had to be trust to begin with, and here in this neighborhood he might not get a chance to show he was okay.
    The little girl was half hidden behind her brown paper bag. She glanced toward Villas de Las Palmas, kicked something on the sidewalk, glanced back at the building, moving slower with each step. With a final glance toward her destination, she swung her foot hard and lobbed the lump toward the street.
    Tchernak sprinted into the street, scooped up the deflated ball before it splatted to the macadam, and sailed it back to the haphazardly lit sidewalk.
    The girl hesitated, then grinned and kicked it back. Three plays later Tchernak said to her, “You’re good.” Again she hesitated. “Never talk to strangers”—she had to be weighing that injunction against the seduction of praise. “I’m on the Blessed Virgin soccer team.”
    “Well, then, you guys must be champions.”
    “Not yet. But we’re in the play-offs.”
    “Betcha win.”
    She couldn’t restrain a grin.
    “You ever play with the boys in the corner apartment?”
    “I used to, a little,” she said, shifting the bag to her left arm. “They could kick good, but they didn’t know the rules. They were dumb.”
    “They didn’t speak English?”
    She shrugged. “They never said anything. I told them the rules, but they didn’t listen; they just did what they wanted.”
    “Where are they now?”
    “Gone. They got sick and the blond lady came and took them away.” She shifted the bag again and looked toward the apartment. “I have to go.”
    “The blond lady, did she come with a man like me? Like me, but a lot smaller?” he added, grinning.
    The girl smiled, then looked nervously toward the apartments.
    Had she spotted a shade moving? A big gringo hulking over one of their children, that was something they’d call the police about, pronto. Or worse. Tchernak stiffened, keeping back from the girl. “Was the blond lady with a man?”
    “No, not her. The nice señora came with him. I have to go.”
    “Your mother doesn’t usually let you out after dark?”
    “No. I always have to be home before the streetlights are on.”
    “But she’s sick, huh? So she broke her rule and sent you out for groceries.”
    “Yes. The blond lady won’t come and take her away, will she? You won’t tell?” She was edging back now, the desperation clear in her high melodic voice.
    “Thank you.” He was tempted to stay and watch till she was safely in the apartment, but good sense told him it would be better for both of them if he did his watching from the car.
    He hurried to the car, suddenly awash with guilt. What was this sickness the boys had and who was the “blond lady” who had taken the boys? Maybe his next move should be calling hospitals.
    He climbed into the Jeep.
    He didn’t note the old sedan across the street, or hear the soft steps crossing the macadam, didn’t see the Weasel making his way around the building.

    Louisa Larson was parked so far away, she couldn’t make out facial expressions. But she could read body language, and she guessed the girl gave Tchernak more than was good. Sarita was a chatty little girl. But Louisa froze around children. It always surprised her; she was so good with adults. But kids didn’t take to her the way adults did, and it bothered her every time she came up against them. Now that she needed information from Sarita, each time she had asked, she knew there was something the girl wasn’t telling her. Something, it looked like, she’d blurted right out to the big detective.
    She shifted her shoulder and braced her legs, ready to slide out.
    Before Tchernak started his engine, the door to an old car she had barely noticed banged, and there was that little thug shooting across the street. If she’d blinked, she would have missed him. Who’d have