Where Hearts Run Wild Page 2

  “Yeah, Bobby,” said Collins. “That’s one way to put it. You are three times a purse snatcher or attempted.” Collins gave Bobby a doubtful glance. “Three times we know of.”

  Collins focused back on the file. “You’ve got two counts of drug possession against you with intent to sell. We know all about your coming to Denver to establish new turf, your background, the whole story.”

  Collins stopped walking and tossed the file on the table. He then faced Bobby, leveling a hard gaze on the boy. “Is that accurate?”

  “Maybe,” Bobby said as he looked away from Collins.

  “No, not maybe,” said Crest. “It’s for real! Only your buddies didn’t like the way you operate. And when you decided to wing it on your own, they blew you out!”

  “So what!” Bobby said, attempting to lessen Crest’s testimony.

  “You’re lucky they let you out alive!” said Collins.

  Collins turned his attention to Crest. “Did you tell him?”

  Bobby looked at Collins with a start. “Tell me what?” Bobby said, now with real worry as his cocky attitude was fading fast. “Tell me what?”

  “You’re getting another chance,” said Crest. “Breakem Youth Camp.”

  Bobby stood, knocking his chair to the floor. “You’re not sending me there,” Bobby shrieked. “I’d rather jump off a bridge than waste my time out there! I want a lawyer, now!”

  Crest nearly laughed and shook his head, amazed at just how far Bobby had gone over the edge.

  Collins pondered the situation for a beat. “Sorry, Bobby,” said Collins. “But no judge will hear you out. Taxpayers have spent enough money on lawyers for you. You’ve broken every rule in the book for the last time! You’ve got no choice in this matter.”

  Crest turned and walked toward the door. He opened it, paused a second, then turned back to face Bobby. “Consider yourself lucky,” Crest said as he turned and walked out of the interrogation room, closing the door behind himself.

  Bobby grabbed his fallen chair and threw it against the door. “I hate him!”

  Collins crossed calmly to the door and retrieved Bobby’s chair, setting it upright. “He’s worked hard for you. Breakem is your last hope. You’ve got one year to turn things around.”

  “And if I don’t?” Bobby said, challenging Collins.

  Collins took a pause, then said, “If you don’t, it’s over for you, understand? Over! No more revolving door justice.” Bobby stared into Collins’ face, a face that he secretly respected. He knew the lieutenant was right.

  Over.

  That’s a heavy word to consider when you’re fifteen. Especially when you’re Bobby Shortino and fifteen. Bobby’s mind whirled with mixed emotions.

  He felt as though he was in a room with no doors from which to escape, no windows to climb out of. And positively no chance to run away this time.

  Chapter 3

  The two-lane blacktopped highway was curvy as it made its way through the beautiful Colorado countryside on yet another sun-filled and inviting summer day. A large white van drove along the roadway and stayed close but steady to the white lines that divided the road. The van had a small logo on its passenger and driver door that read: “Colorado Correctional System-Denver Colorado.”

  Bobby was huddled in the passenger seat with his head buried in his crossed arms—his usual position when in hiding from the world. He was not yet asleep, but his will, at least for the moment, was broken as he wondered why he had ever been born in the first place. Exhausted from his arrest ordeal, Bobby drifted off to sleep…

  The apartment was dark and shabbily furnished. A small television was on, broadcasting a nondescript action cartoon. One small table lamp shrouded by a reddish-brown lamp shade was the only light in the apartment’s living room.

  A twelve-year-old Bobby sat on a couch near the lamp, eating a bowl of cold cereal. He numbly watched the television with a look that revealed his boredom, but what else could a twelve-year-old boy do at home alone? Not much. He could study, but what for? Studying was for kids who had parents that made them do it, he thought. Besides, there was nothing he wanted to be when he grew up.

  Except maybe rich, or famous. Then everybody would have to look up to him instead of down at him…

  Suddenly, from outside the door, a woman’s laughing voice could be heard. A man’s voice chimed in with more laughter, and the door to the apartment swung open, revealing Bobby’s young mother and a boyfriend who was middle-aged.

  Bobby’s mother was attractive in her bright red dress that was cut well above her knees. Through her slightly tough countenance one could see she still possessed a fading touch of appealing youth. The boyfriend, one of many, had a six-pack of beer in his hand. He wore a ponytail and a leather jacket. Alcohol and drugs had ravaged his once good looks, replacing them with tired and somewhat mean and weary eyes. Bobby looked at the two. But he did not smile with any sense of joy that a twelve-year-old boy should have upon seeing his mother. Instead, he knew his mother and her boyfriend were, as usual, drunk or high on something. He knew that much, and he hated it.

  Bobby climbed from the couch and walked toward the kitchen.

  “Hey, honey, where you going?” Bobby’s mother said with a slurred voice.

  “Yeah, don’t like my company, kid?” her boyfriend said with a voice that clearly challenged Bobby. A voice that Bobby did not want to hear. The resentment that Bobby had in his heart toward this man would never change and only worsened as Bobby knew what the night would bring

  “Don’t like me stealin’ your momma, huh, kid?” the boyfriend said with an icy chuckle.

  Bobby stopped and turned back to study his mother and her boyfriend. His disappointment showed. A boy’s love for his mother at twelve years old was a precious commodity. Bobby’s heart pounded with desperation and anger. But he knew not to speak out, not to protest or his mother’s boyfriend could get mad. He could easily slap Bobby around. He had done it before. Or worse yet, he could get drunker than he already was and beat his mother. He had done that before also.

  Bobby’s mother turned to her boyfriend with a smile, attempting to excuse Bobby’s behavior. Her look reinforced what Bobby already knew. His mother would sway with the wind without a firm stance when it came to their relationship. Bobby knew his mother loved him, but he was never sure exactly how much.

  “Now, Larry. Bobby likes you and likes it when you visit,” said Bobby’s mother. And one could sense she was throwing water on a fire that was still small enough to douse.

  The boyfriend contemplated Bobby’s mother’s words, then cracked an inebriated smile. “Yeah, no reason why he wouldn’t,” the boyfriend said as he crossed the room toward Bobby and reached out his hand for Bobby to shake it. A few seconds seemed like an eternity to Bobby as the swaggering boyfriend waited for Bobby to take his hand. Bobby’s mind raced. How could he take the hand of this type of man, the kind he resented so much? How could he take the hand of a man who—who would sleep with his mother tonight yet never marry her and make a home for the three of them. Being twelve, Bobby did not clearly understand the dilemma of the situation, and at times the confusion was overwhelming for him. But he did know that things were wrong with his home life, and he suffered the pain of it all too often.

  “Hey, you little punk!” said the boyfriend. “You gonna shake my hand or what?”

  Slowly, Bobby lowered his head and stretched out his arm, and the two shook hands.

  “That’s more like it, kid,” the boyfriend said with a cheesy grin. “Thought for a second there I was gonna have teach you a little respect.” The boyfriend then turned away from Bobby and set the six-pack of beer on the end table. He grabbed Bobby’s mother and began to kiss her. She resisted a little at first, then, having no choice, gave in. Bobby watched, his eyes filled with pain. The boyfriend stopped kissing his mother and glanced over his shoulder at Bobby.

  “Hey, go on and hit the sack!” commanded the bo
yfriend. “Now go on, beat it!”

  Bobby and his mother looked at each other. Their eyes told a story of broken dreams and broken hearts. For both of them had been here before, and Bobby knew his mother was no light in the harbor and no safe haven for him to run to. Bobby turned quickly and ran from the living room.

  * * * *

  Armos Williams drove the white correctional van. Armos was a black man in his forties. He wore a cowboy hat, a dark blue State of Colorado Deputy jacket and slacks to match. He did not carry a gun. Tall and thin, Armos had been told he was ruggedly handsome with naturally pleasant features. He was philosophical about life. He maintained an optimistic attitude even though his past, including his childhood, was something he would rather toss to the wayside of his memories.

  Armos was a reformed con artist with a record too long to count. Nothing life-threatening. Petty theft, panhandling, breaking and entering, a potpourri of illegal acts he committed for survival—at least he thought so at the time when he was a loose mouth kid who knew it all and be damned anyone who tried to tell him he did not. These days, however, one might consider Armos to be a savior of lost young souls. And he was good at it.

  He gazed over to the passenger side where Bobby was still wrapped in a ball and sleeping. Armos grinned warmly. “Hey, pal,” said Armos. “Are you gonna sleep your life away?”

  Bobby woke and looked up and around through somewhat blurry eyes from sleep. Stark reality told him he was not at home in his apartment. And like in his bad dream, he was not going to his room to cry himself to sleep and make the world go away. He lowered his head, wondering which was worse—his dream of the past or his present predicament?

  Bobby did not respond. Armos focused on the road, continuing to pilot the van.

  “Sometimes talking about stuff can lighten your load, if you know what I mean,” Armos said, hoping for a response.

  Bobby slowly raised his head a little and peered at Armos

  “I don’t want to be a cowboy…sir…” Bobby said with a dreary voice as he rested his head back into his arms.

  Armos had made this trip many times before and knew what to expect from each of the juveniles he chauffeured in the state’s van. He would always try to strike up a conversation in hopes of breaking some ice and easing the pain he knew many of the boys were going through. He was a firm believer in “a spoon full of sugar made the medicine go down easier.” He also knew, from his hellish experience as a kid, what a dark world it can be when you are imprisoned, and no one appears to care.

  Armos grinned as he looked at Bobby. “Hey, I understand. I wasn’t too crazy about the idea myself at first. And, ah, you can call me Armos. ‘Sir’ sounds impressive, but I ain’t into bein’ impressed. And I ain’t into bein’ too formal.”

  Bobby eyed Armos again, studying the black man with a curious expression. “I don’t get it,” he said. “They told me about you. You used to work the streets just like the rest of us, and now you're acting all righteous.”

  “Sorry, I wasn’t tryin’ to be ‘righteous’,” said Armos.

  Bobby shook his head and gave Armos a sore look of disbelief.

  “Hey, come on, cut me a little slack. People can change, ya know.”

  “Yeah, right,” Bobby said, looking at the road ahead.

  “Ya know, ever since Dirty Harry cleaned the streets, people are sick and tired of guys like you, and the way I used to be.”

  Bobby gave Armos a questioning look. “Who’s Dirty Harry?”

  “He was movie cop. He handled crime his way, goin’ against the rules most of the time, but he had a clear sense of right and wrong, and people liked that.”

  “Oh,” Bobby said flatly. “Are we gonna get a chance to eat pretty soon?”

  Armos eyed Bobby, this time without a kindly smile. “Tough as a rattlesnake, hey?”

  Bobby continued to look out the passenger window. “I can hold my own,” he said with as much bravado he could muster under the circumstances.

  Armos looked ahead, somewhat amused by his “tough guy” passenger. He wondered if things would ever change.

  Would there come a day when suddenly a bright light—lighter than the sun—would flash with thunder, engulfing the cities at night and expose all those who crawled about? All those looking for a quick hit, an angel, a shortcut to get what they wanted no matter who suffered, who took a gut punch, and who paid the price? Would the night movers ever be exposed to the point where they would see themselves and how wasted their lives were? How they were throwing away that precious commodity, the jewel of time? And then, would they make a decision to turn a corner? If not for the sake of themselves, for the sake of others? Was it possible?

  Secretly, he feared it was not, but Armos was an optimist, and hence he would never let you know his furtive thoughts. Looking forward with a smile was his game, and he aimed to be a champion.

  Chapter 4

  A sign at the edge of the road was circa 1960s. It was six feet square and mounted on a pole that was some twenty feet high with cone lights on either side. The sign was white with bright red letters that read: The 115—Best Colorado Burger Cafe.

  Armos wheeled the white van into a parking lot just under the sign. He and Bobby climbed out of the truck. Bobby peered up at the sign, squinting his eyes.

  Armos noticed Bobby’s somewhat disappointed look. “Don’t complain now. The sign ain’t lyin’. It’s the best burger I ever had in the whole state of Colorado. It’s fast food made slow, country-style.” Armos then removed a set of handcuffs from his belt. “Put out your left arm.”

  Bobby’s eyes widened, seeing the handcuffs. “Are you serious? Where would I run to out here?”

  “No place, maybe,” Armos replied. “But if I want to keep my job we’re gonna wear ’em. Now stick out your left arm.” Bobby slowly raised his left arm to Armos who quickly snapped a handcuff onto his wrist. Armos then snapped the remaining handcuff onto his own right wrist.

  “Aren’t we gonna look a little weird walkin’ in there?”

  Armos looked at Bobby with a tad of regret. “I don’t generally do this, but they told me you might be a flight risk. Sorry, son. I’m only doin’ what I’m told. If it were up to me, I’d say forget the cuffs, and I’d trust ya.”

  “I think it’s lame.”

  “That I’d trust ya?” Armos said, a little surprised.

  “No, I mean…” Bobby felt a shade embarrassed. “I mean…Never mind.”

  “You know, life’s funny,” said Armos. “When you’re young, older people look stupid, or lame as you say. Then when you get older, young people sometimes don’t make any sense. It’s the craziest thing.”

  Bobby just shook his head, sorry he staged a complaint.

  Armos smiled at him, just waiting for a response, even though he knew he was not going to get one.

  * * * *

  The 115—Best Colorado Burger Cafe was a simple layout. A counter where the sugar, salt, and pepper were readily available for three cowboys who sat on barstools having their midday break. Five or six tables were spread out here and there in no particular pattern. Each had vinyl black and white checkered table covers that gave the restaurant a uniform look. A few local couples sat at the tables having lunch, complete with apple pie and coffee. The stuffed head of a deer was attached to one wall. The buck’s rack of horns fanning out in every direction as it looked down on the patrons through large, steely black eyes. At first glance, one might get a jolt out of the animal’s ominous stare and dwell on the deer to make sure he was not alive. On another wall was a coyote, four legs and all, made to look as though he was running at full speed. And if the creature could have had his way he would be. A taxidermy treated hawk with a wingspread of five or six feet simulating flight rested just above a jukebox that played a nondescript country-western song.

  Bobby and Armos sat at a table. Armos held a menu in his left hand. Bobby held one in his right hand. Their handcuffed wrists were below
the table.

  “Do we have to keep wearing these?” said Bobby.

  Armos looked up from his menu, and for the first time, his countenance was a tad stern. “Look, Bobby,” Armos said with a tone in his voice that told Bobby he meant business. “I need you to think about something for a minute. I'm not the reason we’re wearing these. Understand what I’m sayin’? Think about it.”

  Bobby’s features altered, softened as he dropped his defensive attitude. He studied Armos and decided he had better “think about it.” Bobby’s gaze then drifted slowly back to the menu. But he was not thinking about food. At least not for the moment. Bobby took into account, as best he could based on the short time he had known Armos, that maybe, just maybe, this old black dude had a thing or two going for himself. He knew he did not deserve Armos’ respect. But outside of Lieutenant Collins, Armos treated Bobby with some kindness that made him feel like he had some self-worth. Armos did not rag on Bobby or put him down. Bobby had not been treated this way in a long time. He had never spent serious time considering his life. Everything was ruled by quick decisions based on his emotions at the time. Armos might be a cool guy, but he’d better wait and see. Meanwhile, he would keep his guard up just in case.

  Mary Lou approached Armos and Bobby’s table with an order pad in her hand. Mary Lou was fifteen and the daughter of the owner of the diner. She was possibly the sweetest appearing and most attractive girl Bobby had ever seen. And he had trouble taking his eyes off her, Armos noticed.

  Mary Lou was basically an innocent country girl. The spoils of inner-city urban life and the strain it can place on a youth had not invaded or pressured that innocence, altering what was natural and right. She was blessed with good character and a sense of self-worth, and it showed. Mary Lou made a visual note of the handsome Bobby. However, she concealed this and smiled brightly.