Safer 1
Hanging around in the warehouse district isn´t so safe, but it´s better than staying home.
Most nights Xander´s parents don´t bug him much. But on the nights that they do, when his dad lunges at his mom or his mom starts crying in that angry way . . . well. Seems like a good idea to be out of the house more often than not just to avoid that possibility.
Plus, Xander and Oz have some okay times together: taking the keys to Oz´s brothers van when he´s so stoned he leaves them out; lurking around near the convenience store until they find someone who´s willing to buy them a six pack; sitting on top of pay phones and flicking lit matches onto the ground. He doesn´t get his homework done on those nights, but that seems normal more and more, not just for him but for his teachers. Most of them barely pause by his desk any more when they´re collecting papers or problem sets.
Mostly nothing happens when they´re downtown near the warehouses. Once in a while, they run into some jerks or freaks, and then the bruises Xander brings to school aren´t from his dad´s belt but from a group of guys who back them down an alley or chase them behind the convenience store. Once in a great while, something happens that makes him think maybe he would be better off at home, even if his mom does start wailing and getting his dad worked up, or his dad starts opening bills and getting red in the face.
It´s hard to tell what´s safer sometimes. But at least at home he doesn´t run into any men who offer to get them the beer not for money, but for a half hour in the backseats of their cars.
They always turn them down, he and Oz; they´re not dumb asses. Added to which, there´s something in those men´s eyes when they make those soft suggestions that makes Xander picture a homeless guy finding him in pieces in some trash bin.
"How much more freezing can it get out here tonight? We passed freaking freezing like an hour ago," he tells Oz one Tuesday.
Oz takes in a deep breath before he nods slowly. Everything Oz does happens like that: a measured, considered take, always more silence than words, more stillness than motion. It works out, though, because Xander talks too much and jitters a lot, and it´s like he fills in the blanks to Oz´s way of operating.
"Yeah," Oz says a minute later. Then a beat or two after, he says, "Huh."
"What?" Xander asks, turning to look. There´s a cop car that´s inching up on them as they sit with their feet dangling over the low wall. Come to think of it, this is the third pass that car has made in the last little while, but Xander hadn´t been paying attention, not until Oz took notice.
The car slows to a complete stop, and Xander whispers, "We could run. Should we just ––"
"Now, now," one of the cops, the one in the passenger seat, says in a joking voice. He leans out the window and gives them a lazy smile. "You boys wouldn´t be up to no good, would you?"
"What´s with the accent?" Xander blurts.
"English," Oz murmurs. The cop watching them turns his gaze on Oz alone, and his smile widens for some reason.
"Yeah, but we´re in California," Xander says stupidly. There´s no reason he should figure on running into a cop around town who sounds like he´s ready for tea and crumpets.
The cop –– not only does he sound wrong, he looks wrong too, hair seemingly dyed white–blond, and isn´t that supposed to be against some kind of cop rule book? –– laughs and then affects a face that almost seems like he´s pouting. "Takes all the fun out of it, if you get to ask the questions," he says in a playful voice. But something in his eyes makes Xander lean back suddenly, palms of his hands scraping over the textured concrete wall.
He´s thinking about trying to scramble backwards, cops or no cops, when the other man in the car gets out of the driver´s seat. As soon as he sets his gaze on Xander, Xander stills. It´s like being locked in a laser beam or something, the way Xander gets right away that he´s not going to move one muscle again unless this guy okays it.
"We were just heading home, officers," Oz says in a mild voice. He pushes off the wall and gets to his feet, every stage of the motion nice and easy, non–threatening.
"No, you weren´t," the other cop says as he comes around the side of the car. At least he´s American: he´s got a regular accent though his whole look –– strong jaw, dark eyes and hair, blank expression with something simmering behind it –– is a little too Lt. Bullitt to be cop–on–the–beat normal.
Then again, maybe Xander´s been watching too many old rogue policemen flicks on late night television.
"You were going to tell us what you were up to," the standing cop prompts.
Even though he knows he shouldn´t, because he really has watched way too many 1970s cop movies and knows what kinds of things look guilty as hell, Xander can´t help but shoot a quick look at Oz to figure out what the fuck they should say or do next.
"In the car," the dark–haired cop says flatly. Oz is already standing, and Xander´s now on the edge of the wall, the toes of his sneakers brushing asphalt, but neither of them steps forward.
"We didn´t do anything, we were just sitting here," Xander rushes to explain. "We can just go home, straight home from here, honest ––"
"Xander," Oz says in a low voice.
"Car," the cop repeats, and somehow it feels like they went down a silent count of ten straight on to one, because both Xander and Oz move fast to do what he says.
They scramble into the backseat, Oz silent, Xander breathing hard.
There´s a wire barrier between the back and front, and as other cars pass them by, the headlights cast fishnet shadows against the uniformed men in the front seat.
"Let´s go," the blond cop says to his partner. His voice has a teasing note. "After all, they´re not getting any younger."
The other cop starts driving. They turn one corner, then another, and Xander says aloud, "Are you taking us . . . in to the station?"
Neither one answers.
"Is your brother home?" Xander whispers frantically to Oz. "Because my parents would seriously beat me down if I called them from jail. Do you think he´ll come get us if we call him?"
Oz shrugs, not really looking back at him. His mouth seems set into a thin line, like he´s getting ready for what he knows is coming, and Xander can´t help but think he´s missed something important.
They turn another corner, go down a side street, then another corner, and finally around a bend, until they end up in an alley. None of the buildings they´ve gone by seem occupied, and there´s a quiet to where they´ve gotten to that makes Xander shiver.
"Shit," Xander says miserably. It doesn´t seem like the smartest thing to say in front of two policemen, but then he figures he might already be in deep trouble, and a little cussing isn´t going to make any difference.
"You seem nervous," the dark haired cop says. He doesn´t turn, and for all Xander knows, he´s telling the other officer that, or practicing a speech to some future group of troubled teens.
"Can´t be nervous without a reason," the blond cop says with delight. "Matter of fact, two boys about your description have been spotted ´round these parts, breaking windows, shoplifting, harassing people. Funny, that. Anything you want to tell us?"
"We haven´t done anything wrong," Xander says. He´s trying to keep his voice steady.
"You could just let us go," Oz suggests.
"Yeah, I don´t think that´s about to happen." The blond laughs, though his partner doesn´t seem to share in the joke.
"I can´t get arrested, my dad ––" Xander chokes on the last word.
Now the dark haired cop turns around to look at him. "You say you haven´t done anything. But we have to investigate leads. So do you see how we´re in an awkward situation here?"
Oz narrows his eyes. "Awkward?"
"Well." He takes off his hat as he half–turns to watch them, and suddenly he seems younger than Xander first thought. It´s hard to tell with adults, but he´s not as old as Xander´s parents for sure. "You seem like good boys."
The other cop snorts, and takes his hat off too. Xander half expects the two of them to loosen their collars or roll up their sleeves, like they´re going to get to work.
"Taking you in, booking you, doing all that paperwork . . ." the dark–haired cop trails off with a grimace. "That´s a lot of hassle if you really haven´t done anything." He pauses. "If you´re telling the truth, that is."
"We´re telling the truth, I swear we are," Xander pleads.
"I say we take them in, Angel," the blond one argues. An indirect light catches the sharp planes and angles of his face as he faces his partner. "Don´t know why we should trust them at their word."
"But lots of kids could look like the two of them," the other –– Angel –– says in a measured voice. "I think we could take a chance on these two. So why don´t we take down their addresses, and let them go. If there´s call for it, we can always check them out tomorrow."
"Like they´d give us their real addresses," his partner shoots back. "Again, don´t see why we should believe them." He glances back over his shoulder. "Especially when they fit the . . . profile so nicely."
"Profile," Oz repeats. It sounds like he´s trying the word out to see what it means.
"We could drive them home, talk to their parents," Angel offers. "Maybe that would answer some questions."
"No," Xander says in a near shout.
All of them fall silent.
"I mean –– we don´t have to do that," Xander says in a shaky voice.
Oz´s head dips forward just for a moment, and Xander´s trying to figure out what that might mean when Angel says in a low voice, "Maybe we can work something else out."
Xander shakes his head, still caught up in making sure his parents don´t find out. If only the cops would listen to them . . .
But Oz says, "What kind of something?" in an even voice.
Anything, Xander thinks wildly, whatever they want. No, not thinking –– the words spring into his head faster than he can process them. Aside from getting detention once in a while and pulling crappy grades, he doesn´t have anything bad on his record. He doesn´t want to get in trouble, doesn´t want to screw himself over at school or with his dad.
For a while neither cop speaks, and then the blond cop shrugs. "I still say we take them in, but if you think . . ."
"What?" Xander asks. "What do you want us to do?"
There´s a long look exchanged between the two officers, and then Angel turns and looks Xander right in the eye. "Listen. I´m going to get in the back seat with you, okay, buddy? And your friend, he´s going to come up here and sit with Spike."
"Spike?" Xander asks. He wants to ask what the hell kind of name for a cop that is –– it makes Angel´s partner seem more like a thug instead of an officer. But instead Xander turns to glance at Oz, who is staring at him like he´s trying to tell Xander something without words. His face is very nearly blank, but his eyes are sharp and focused.
Angel´s still watching, impassive and straight–faced now, and the other one, Spike, gives the two of them a broad smile.
Just as Xander figures it out, his jaw drops. They want them –– oh god, they want –– and he´s about to say, "No way, just take us to the stupid station," and start getting ready for his dad to whale on him big time.
But Oz speaks first, saying, "Yeah, okay."
