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Part 2 Santos

Chapter 4

New Orleans, Louisiana 1979

Living in New Orleans’s French Quarter suited fifteenyear-old Victor Santos just fine. No place else he had lived was quite like it. Day and night, the Quarter vibrated with energy and excitement; he never lacked for something to do or someone to hang out with. He liked the sounds and the smells, he liked the old buildings whose cracked plaster walls were always damp, he liked the lush, hidden courtyards and the fanciful iron balconies.

But most of all, Santos—called that by everyone but his mother—liked the people. The Quarter was home to all ages, persuasions and colors, home to the good, the bad and the ugly. Even the crush who flocked to Bourbon Street at night—most of them dedicated party animals, the rest curiosity seekers come to ogle the outrageous—fascinated him.

His school counselors were always telling his mom that the Quarter was no place to raise a kid because of the bad element. Of course, they would lump her into that category, too, if they knew she was an exotic dancer and not the waitress she had told them she was.

As far as Santos was concerned, those counselors were a bunch of full-of-crap know-it-alls. As far as he was concerned, hookers, junkies and runaways had a lot more heart than no-good sons-of-bitches like his daddy. No, from what he had seen of life, the folks who’d had nothing but hard times and hurts didn’t have room inside them for hate.

Santos crossed Bourbon Street and shouted a greeting to Bubba, the guy who worked the door of Club 69, the place his mother danced nights.

“Hey, Santos,” the burly bouncer called back. “You got any smokes? I’m out.”

Santos laughed and lifted his hands, empty palms up. “Gave it up, man. Haven’t you heard? Those things’ll kill you.”

The man flipped Santos a friendly bird, then turned his attention to a couple of tourists who had stopped outside the club and were craning their necks to get a peek at the show.

Victor continued down Bourbon, then cut across to St. Peter, hoping to shave a few minutes off his walk. He had promised his mother he would pick up a couple shrimp po’boys on his way home.

His mouth started to water at the thought of the big, sloppy sandwiches, and he stepped up his pace, though not too much. August in New Orleans didn’t lend itself to hurrying. Although the sun had begun its descent more than an hour ago, the sidewalk was still hot enough to fry an egg. Heat emanated from the concrete in sweltering waves, and the air, heavy with the ninety-plus-percent humidity, could suffocate the overzealous. Just last week, a touristbuggy horse had fallen over dead in the street, a victim of August in New Orleans.

“Hey, Santos, baby,” a woman said from behind him. “Where you goin’ in such a hurry?”

He stopped, looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Hey, Sugar. Going to the Central Grocery, then home. Mom’s waiting.” Until about six months ago, Sugar had danced at the club with his mother. She’d been forced to start working the streets full-time when her man had taken off, leaving her and their three kids.

“Your mama always did like them sandwiches. Bet you do, too, a big boy like yourself.” She laughed and patted his cheek. “You tell your mama I said hello. You tell her Brown Sugar’s doin’ okay.”

“I will. She’ll be glad to hear it.”

Santos watched her walk away, then shook his head and started off again. Sugar was an example of the kind of folks those do-gooder school counselors called a bad influence. The way he saw it, she was doing the best she could to take care of her family. The way he saw it, sometimes life didn’t offer anything better than a shit sandwich. When that happened, you had to eat it or starve.

Not that there weren’t some bad people in the Quarter. There were plenty; just like everyplace else. He figured folks came in three varieties: the haves, the have-nots and the want-to-haves. The way he saw it, the lines between these three groups were very clearly drawn. It was economics, pure and simple.

The haves were easy. They liked their lives, and as long as members of the other two groups stayed out of their way, they weren’t any bother at all. But the want-to-haves were trouble. They came from all walks of life, they grappled for money and power, they would do anything to anyone to get it; the want-to-haves burned in their gut to lord it over somebody else.

Santos considered himself a pretty tough kid, but he steered clear of that kind. Experience had taught him well. His daddy had been like that, always hungry for what he didn’t have, always yearning to lord it over somebody else, ready to raise his fist to somebody smaller or weaker. Like that would make him a big man.

His daddy. Santos curled his lips in distaste. He had nothing but bad memories of Samuel “Willy” Smith. The man had been pure oil-field trash, but too good to marry the “spic-squaw” girlfriend he had knocked up, too good to give their baby his name. He used to call Victor and his mama half-breed wetbacks and tell them they were no good.

Santos remembered feeling little but relief the morning the sheriff had come by their trailer to tell them Willy Smith had been killed—his throat slit from ear to ear—in a barroom fight. Every now and then, however, Santos did wonder about his old man—he wondered how he was enjoying hell.

Santos reached the grocery and went inside, grateful for the blast of cold air that hit him as he opened the door. He ordered the sandwiches, shot the breeze with the counter girl while he waited, and ten minutes later was back on the street, the po’boys and a couple bottles of Barq’s in a brown take-out sack.

He and his mother lived on Ursuline, in a small, secondfloor apartment. The place was clean, cheap and unairconditioned. They endured the summer months with two small window-units, one for each bedroom. Sometimes it was so hot in the kitchen and living room, they ate on their beds.

Santos reached their building, jogged up the one flight of stairs, then let himself into their apartment. “Mom,” he called. “I’m home.”

His mother stepped out of her bedroom, a brush in her hand, her features masked by the thick layer of makeup she wore to work. She had told him once that she liked wearing the makeup when she danced, because it made her feel as if it was somebody else up on the stage, as if it wasn’t really her the men were staring at. She had told him, too, that those guys, the ones that came to the club, liked her to look cheap. Like a whore, or something. It was part of their thrill. Santos thought it was really fucked-up. He wished his mother didn’t have to put up with it.

She shut the bedroom door behind her, careful not to let the cool air escape. “Hi, darlin’. How was your day?”

“Okay.” He fastened the safety chain. “I have the sandwiches.”

“Great. I’m starving.” She motioned toward her bedroom. “Let’s eat in here. It’s hot as hellfire today.”

He followed her and they sat down on the floor, then dug into the sandwiches. While they ate, Victor studied his mother. Lucia Santos was a beautiful woman. Half American Indian—Cherokee, she thought—and half Mexican, she had dark hair and eyes, and an exotic-looking, highcheekboned face. He had seen men look at her, when they’d been out together, just the two of them, her in her blue jeans, her hair pulled back into a girlish ponytail, her face free of the makeup that exaggerated and hardened her features.

He took after her; everybody said so. And every time he looked in a mirror, he said a silent thank-you for it. He didn’t think he could have faced getting up every day, looking in the mirror and being reminded of Willy Smith.

“Mrs. Rosewood called today.”

One of those know-it-all do-gooder counselors. “Great,” Santos uttered. “Just what we need.”

She put down her po’boy and wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. “You start school next week. You need some things.”

His gut tightened. He knew what that meant. Tonight, tomorrow night or the next, she would come home with a “friend.” Suddenly, there would be plenty of money for clothes and doctor’s visits and book bags. He hated it. “I don’t need anything.”

“No?” She took another bite of her po’boy, chewed slowly, then washed it down with a long swallow of the root beer. “What about the two inches you’ve grown over the summer? Don’t you think your pants are going to be a little short?”

“Don’t worry about it.” He crushed the paper his po’boy had come wrapped in and shoved it into the empty take-out bag. “I’ve got some money saved from my job, I’ll get new clothes myself.”

“You also need to visit the dentist. And Mrs. Rosewood said your records show that you’re due for—”

“What does she know?” he interrupted, angry suddenly. He jumped to his feet and glared at his mother. “Why can’t she just leave us alone? She’s just an old busybody.”

Lucia frowned and followed him to his feet. She met his gaze evenly. “What’s the problem, Victor?”

“School’s a waste of time. I don’t see why I can’t just quit.”

“Because you can’t. And you won’t, not while I’m alive.” She narrowed her gaze, her expression fierce. “You need an education if you’re ever going to get out of this dump. You quit school and you’ll end up just like your daddy. You want that?”

Victor clenched his hands into fists. “That really sucks, Mom. I’m nothing like him, and you know it.”

“Then prove it,” she countered. “Stay in school.”

He flexed his fingers, frustrated. “I’m big enough to pass for sixteen. I could quit school and get a full-time job. We need the money.”

“We don’t need the money. We’re doing fine.”

“Right.”

At his sarcasm, she flushed, obviously angry. “What’s that supposed to mean? Huh?” She poked her index finger into his shoulder. “What do you want that you don’t have?”

He said nothing, just stared at his feet and the remnants of their meal, an ugly mess on the pieces of white butcher paper. Like this whole, fucking situation. Anger and helpless frustration balled in his chest until he thought he might explode with it.

“What?” she asked, poking him again, this time harder. “You want some high-priced stereo system? Or maybe you need some of those fancy, name-brand jeans or a color TV in your room?”

He lifted his head and met her eyes, the blood pumping furiously in his head, “Maybe what I want, maybe what I need, is a mother who doesn’t have to turn tricks every time she has to buy her son a new pair of shoes or take him to the doctor.”

She took an involuntary step back, as if he had slapped her, her face going white under her foundation and blush.

He held a hand out to her, contrite. “I shouldn’t have said that, Mom. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” She took another step back from him, working to get control of herself. “How did you know about the…tricks?”

Santos dragged his hands through his hair, frustrated, wishing he had never started this. “Give me a break, Mom. I mean, I’m not blind. Or dumb. I’m not a kid anymore. I’ve known for a long time.”

“I see.” She gazed at him another moment, then turned and crossed slowly to the one window in the small room. She stared out at the street below, her view partially obstructed by the small air conditioner. The seconds ticked past, seeming more like minutes. Still, she said nothing.

He took a step toward her, then stopped, cursing himself. Why hadn’t he held his tongue? Why hadn’t he just let her believe he didn’t know her little secret? He couldn’t take his words back now, and her silence hurt him more than one of his daddy’s blows.

“What did you expect?” he said, softly now. “Every time I needed something, you came home with a friend. He would stay an hour or two, then leave. Of course, we’d never see him again.”

She bowed her head. “I’m sorry.”

A catch in his chest, he crossed to her and wrapped his arms around her. He pressed his face to her sweet-smelling hair. Tonight when she returned from work, it would reek of cigarettes and the dirty old men who had pawed at her. “Sorry for what?” he asked, choked.

“For being a…whore. You must think—”

“You’re not! I think you’re the greatest. I’m not…” His voice thickened, and he struggled for a moment to clear it. “I’m not ashamed of you. It’s just that I know how much you hate it. You’re always so quiet after. You always look so sad.”

He breathed deeply through his nose. “And I hate that you do it for me. I hate that I’m the reason why you let those guys…” His words trailed off.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, her voice small and broken. “I didn’t want you to know about the tricks. I thought…” She shook her head. “This isn’t the kind of life I wanted you to have. I’m not the kind of mother you deserve.”

“Don’t say that.” He tightened his arms around her, wishing he could protect her, wishing he could take care of her. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I just wish you…if I quit school, you wouldn’t have to do it anymore.”

She turned and faced him, her eyes and cheeks wet with tears. “I would do anything for you, Victor. Don’t you see? You’re the best thing I’ve ever done. The best thing in my life.”

She cupped his face in her palms. “Promise me you’ll stay in school.” She tightened her grip, her gaze on his intense. “Promise me, Victor. It’s important.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll stay in school. I promise.”

“Thank you.” She smiled, but he saw that her mouth trembled. “You always keep your promises. You always have, ever since you were old enough to make them to me.” She shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder how you can be so honorable, coming like you did from Willy and me.”

She made a move to lower her hands; he caught them. “I’ll take care of you someday,” he said fiercely. “You won’t have to put all that crap on your face, you won’t have to work the way you do now. I’ll take care of you,” he said again. “I give you my word on that.”

Chapter 5

“Victor, darlin’, I’m off.”

Santos tore his gaze from the small black-and-white TV on his dresser to glance at his mother. “See you.”

She hooked her purse strap over her shoulder. “You going to get up and come give your mama a kiss?” He made a face, and she laughed. “I know, you’re too grown-up for that now.”

She crossed to him, bent and planted a light kiss on the top of his head, then threaded her fingers through his hair. “You know the rules, right?”

He tipped his face up to hers and arched his eyebrows in exaggerated exasperation. “How could I not? You repeat them every night.”

“Don’t be a smart ass. Let’s hear ’em.”

“Put the chain on,” he said in the sassiest voice he could manage. “And don’t answer the door for anybody. Not even God.”

She rapped her knuckles against the top of his head. “And don’t leave the apartment. Except if it’s on fire.”

“Right.”

“Don’t you look at me that way.” She narrowed her eyes, all traces of amusement gone. “You think my rules are a big joke. But take it from me, there are some real creeps on the streets. And if the creeps don’t get you, the state will. Merry, from down at the club, lost her kid that way. Social Services found out she left him alone at night and took him away.”

“Yeah, but Merry’s a doper and her kid’s only six.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. “It’s not going to happen, Mom. You worry too much.”

“Is that so, Mr. I’m-fifteen-and-know-everything?” Hands on hips, she leaned toward him. “When I was your age, I was damn cocky, too. I sure as hell never imagined I’d have to make a living by shaking my tits and ass for a roomful of strangers. I didn’t even know women like me existed.”

She shook her head, her expression sad suddenly, resigned. “That’s one of the things life teaches you, darlin’, one bad choice can screw up your entire life. Remember that the next time you think you know everything.”

Santos knew the mistake she was talking about—hooking up with Willy Smith, getting pregnant by him. Her family had disowned her, and Willy had taken to using her for a punching bag. Bad choice, all right. A real doozy.

He swallowed hard. “I’ll be careful, Mom.”

“You do that.” She touched his cheek with her fingertips, lightly, lovingly stroking. “I couldn’t bear to lose you, Victor.”

He opened his mouth to say the same to her, then feeling silly, he swallowed the words. “You won’t,” he said instead, covering her fingers with his own, squeezing them. “You’re stuck with me.”

She smiled and motioned with her head toward the front door. “I’ve got to go. You know how Milton is if I’m late.”

Santos nodded and followed her to the front door, watching as she walked down the hall. When she reached the top of the stairs, she looked back at him, smiled and waved. A lump in his throat, he returned her smile, then closed the door. He reached for the safety chain, then stopped, taken by the urge to run after her and give her the hug and kiss she had asked for earlier, taken by the sudden and overwhelming need to hold on to her, the way he hadn’t allowed himself to in a long time, to hold on to her and tell her he loved her.

What would he do if he lost her?

He opened the door and started into the hall, but caught himself short, feeling more than a little bit silly. He was too old to cling to his mother the way a baby would, too old to need her coddling and reassurance. He laughed to himself. All her talk of losing him, all her worries and warnings, had momentarily unnerved him. He laughed again. Next, she would have him believing in the bogeyman and the kid-eating monster in the closet.

With a snort of amusement at his own imagination, Santos fastened the chain, and made a beeline for his room. He dug his shoes out from under the bed, put them on, then sat to wait.

He checked his watch. He would give his mother a tenminute head start before he left to meet his buddies. He met them every night at the abandoned elementary school on Esplanade and Burgundy, at the northern edge of the Quarter.

His mother’s words filtered through his head, the ones about Social Services, about her fear of losing him, and he pushed them away. His mother worried too much; she treated him like a baby. He had been meeting his friends this way for the entire summer and weekend nights during the previous school year. He always made sure he beat his mother home; he, like all the kids, steered cleared of both the cops and trouble. And as he had promised his mother, he was always careful. He had never even come close to getting caught.

Exactly ten minutes later, Santos unlocked the door again and headed out into the hallway. Moments later, the hot New Orleans night enveloped him. He muttered an oath. Nine-thirty at night and it was still hot.

Santos brought a hand to the back of his already damp neck. That was the thing people didn’t get about New Orleans summers, the thing that made those long months nearly unbearable—it never cooled down. Sure, other places got hot during the summer, some got hotter. But those places got some relief when the sun set.

New Orleans remained at the boiling point, May through September. In August, they were all nothing more than human crawdaddies. The tourists he talked to acted so surprised by the heat. Invariably, they asked how he stood it. New Orleanians didn’t “stand” the heat, they just got used to it. To his mind, there was a difference.

Santos lifted his face to the black sky, and breathed deeply through his nose. The air may not have cooled, but in the last few hours it had changed, the Quarter with it. He found the difference both subtle and glaring—like the difference between natural light and neon, between the scent of flowers and perfume. Like the difference between saints and sinners.

Indeed, the shoppers and businesspeople had disappeared with the day, making way for the night people. Night people came in two varieties, those who lived on the fringe, and those who lived on the edge. Fringe people were people like his mother, ones who didn’t quite fit into the standard, all-American, Norman Rockwell mold, though they wished they did. Those who lived on the edge did so by choice, because they liked the life.

Music, bluesy and sad, trickled from an open balcony somewhere above him, from another the sounds of sex. Santos jogged past them, ducking down an alley, choosing the less-traveled streets, careful to avoid the paths his mother might choose, careful to avoid being seen by anyone who might report back to her.

From a corner restaurant came the clatter and clank of pots and pans, the enticing smell of boiling seafood. Santos passed behind the restaurant, then wrinkled his nose as he dodged a particularly ripe garbage bin. Nothing like a day or two in the heat to transform crabs and shrimp from enticing to sickening.

The school in sight now, he slowed his pace. It wouldn’t do to be seen running in this neighborhood—with the amount of poverty and crime here, the cops were always cruising the area, always on the lookout for a young male fleeing the scene.

Santos circled around to the back of the school. After making sure nobody was watching, he ducked behind a row of wildly overgrown oleander and sweet olive bushes. There, as he knew he would, he found a window propped open with a brick. He hoisted himself up to the ledge and swung inside. From deep within the building he heard the sound of laughter; his buddies had already arrived. He dropped to his feet.

A match flared. Startled, Santos swung around. A kid called Scout—so named because he was always on the lookout for cops, pushers, winos or anyone else who might intrude on the group—stood in the corner, his amused expression illuminated by the match’s flame.

“What gives?” Santos asked, frowning. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Scout lit a cigarette, then tossed the match. “Sorry, man. You’re late tonight.”

“I got hung up with my mother.”

“Drag.” Scout pulled on his cigarette, then blew out a stream of the acrid smoke. He indicated the length of iron pipe propped against the wall beside him. “Glad it was you. For a minute, I thought I was going to war. Got to protect our turf.”

And he would have, Santos knew. Most of the kids Santos hung with, including Scout, lived on the street full-time. They were runaways, either from their families or the foster-care system. A few, like Santos, were neighborhood kids who didn’t have adult supervision at night. They ranged in age from eleven to sixteen, and the group shrank and swelled in size on an almost daily basis. New runaways joined the group, others moved on or were caught and returned to wherever—or whomever—they had tried to escape. Santos and a handful of the others had been part of the group since its beginning.

“Where is everybody?” Santos asked.

“Homeroom. Lenny and Tish lifted a bag of crawfish from the back of a truck. They’re still hot. They were thirty minutes ago, anyway.”

Santos nodded. “You coming?”

“Nah. I’m going to stand watch for a while.”

Santos nodded again and started for the area they called homeroom. Because the school was so large, they had selected four rooms to be their regular meeting places and had given each a name—drama club, arts and crafts, sex ed. and homeroom.

Homeroom was located on the second floor at the end of the main hall. Santos made his way there, picking around rubble and weak spots in the flooring. As he expected, he found the group gathered around the bag of crawfish, laughing and talking as they shucked, sucked and generally made pigs of themselves on the stolen mud-bugs.

Razor, the oldest of the group, saw Santos first and motioned him in. Nicknamed Razor for obvious reasons, he had been on the street the longest of anyone in the group. He was a good guy, but he didn’t take any crap from anybody. Living on the street did that to a kid. Toughened him. Santos figured Razor wouldn’t be hanging out with them much longer. At sixteen, he was ready to move on.

“Nice score, Tish, Lenny.” Santos exchanged high-fives with the two teenagers, then took a seat on the floor.

Conversation flowed around him. Social Services had picked up Ben again and sent him back to his foster family; a pimp had cornered Claire and had tried to scare her into tricking for him; Doreen had caught Sam and Leah making out; and Tiger and Rick had left New Orleans, planning to hitch their way to the good life in southern California.

After a time, Santos noticed that there was a new girl with them tonight. She sat just outside their circle, joining in neither the talk nor the crawfish, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle. Santos nudged Scout, who had joined the group and taken the place on the floor next to him. He motioned the new girl. “Who’s that?”

The other boy followed his gaze. “Tina,” he said. “Claire brought her. She hasn’t said more than two words since she got here.”

“She new to the street? A runaway?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

No “think” about it, Santos decided, cocking his head slightly as he studied her. She had lost, alone, and scared to death written all over her. She kept her eyes downcast and repeatedly bit down on her lower lip, as if to keep it from trembling. Whatever she was running from, he would bet his meager summer earnings that it was pretty bad.

He felt for her, the way he did for all his friends. Over the years, they had told him stories that made his daddy’s beatings seem tame. Santos peeled a crawfish and popped the tail into his mouth. He tossed the head and shell onto a pile of others, and reached for another. Every time he heard a new kid’s story, he appreciated his life—and his mother—more.

He thought of the discussion he’d had with his mother earlier that day, remembered her shame at his knowing that she sometimes hooked. She just didn’t get it. She might not be Mrs. C from “Happy Days,” but she loved him. They might not have much, but they had each other. And his friends made him realize that in this mostly rotten world, having someone, having love, was something special, something worth holding on to.

The crawfish gone, the group began to shift, some splitting into smaller groups, some of the kids heading out to the streets, some crashing. Tina didn’t move; she sat as if frozen to the spot. Frozen by fear, no doubt. By uncertainty.

Santos stood and made his way across the room to her.

“Hi,” he murmured, shooting her an easy smile. “I’m San tos.”

She lifted her gaze to his, then dropped it once more. “Hi.”

Her voice was soft and sweet and scared. Too soft, too sweet for a girl on the streets. It would harden up fast, just as she would. If she was going to survive. He sat down next to her, though careful to leave plenty of distance between them. “Your name’s Tina. Right?”

She nodded but offered nothing more.

“Scout says Claire brought you in.” She nodded again. “First thing you’ll learn about us,” he said, smiling, “is Scout knows everything. The second thing is, we’re a good group. We watch out for each other.”

When she still didn’t look up, he figured she would rather be alone. He started to his feet. “If you get in a jam, let me know. I’ll do what I can to help you.”

She lifted her face, and he saw that her eyes and cheeks were wet. He saw, too, that she was pretty, with light brown hair and big blue eyes. He guessed her to be his age, maybe a little older.

“Th…thank you,” she whispered.

“No problem.” He smiled again. “I’ll see you around.”

“Wait!”

Santos stopped and met her gaze.

“I—” Her throat closed over the words, and he saw her struggle to clear it. “I don’t know where to…go. I don’t know…what I should do now. Can you…help me?”

“I’ll try,” Santos said, though he doubted he could give her what she really wanted—a safe place to sleep, freedom from fear. He sat back down. “Where do you want to go, Tina?”

“Home,” she whispered, her eyes filling. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, fighting the tears. “But I can’t.”

He understood. He pursed his lips in thought. “Where are you from?”

“Algiers. My mother and—”

The scream of a police siren ripped through the night, stealing her words, punctuating the quiet like an obscenity.

“Oh, my God!” Tina leaped to her feet. She looked wildly around her, the way a trapped animal would, as if seeing her surroundings for the first time.

Santos followed her to her feet. “Hey, Tina…chill. It’s okay. It’s just—”

A second siren followed the first, then another after that. The squad cars passed close to the building, flashes of redand-white light penetrated the darkness, squeezing through cracks and crannies, creating a weird, frightening kaleidoscope. It was as if a dozen cop cars had descended directly on top of them.

“No!” Tina screamed, covering her ears. “No!”

“It’s okay…Tina—” Santos put his hand on her arm, and she whirled to face him, her face a mask of horror. In the next instant, she tore free of his grasp and ran for the door. Santos ran after her, catching her a moment before she reached it. He put his arms around her and held her tightly.

Hysterical, she fought him, kicking and crying, pummeling him with her fists. “Don’t! You have to let me go! You have to!”

“You’ll hurt yourself.” Santos dodged her blows as best he could, wincing as her fist caught him in the side of the neck. “Dammit, Tina, the stairs are—”

“They’re coming…he sent them! He—”

“He who?” Santos got a hold of her upper arms and shook her. “Tina, nobody’s coming. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Listen, they’re gone, the sirens are gone.”

She crumpled against him, sobbing, shaking so badly he thought she was having convulsions. “You don’t understand. You don’t understand.” She curled her fingers into his T-shirt. “He’ll send them…he said he would.”