Sinner's Ball by Ira Berkowitz Page A

and plucked a photo from an end table. It was a shot of five-year-old Justin staring away from the camera while sunbathing on a flat outcrop of rock on the shore of a lake.
    â€œGood-looking kid,” I said.
    Troy Hapner took the photo, looked at it, and put it back.
    â€œYeah, he was,” he said.
    â€œDoesn’t look too happy.”
    â€œSome kids hate being photographed,” he said, looking at the door. “I wish he had worn his coat.”
    â€œTeenagers are indestructible,” I said. “I don’t see any pictures of Justin’s mother.”
    â€œSince she died I keep them in albums.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œSomething I don’t talk about. Too painful.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair and stared at the door. “They’ve been gone a long time.”
    â€œIt’s only been a few minutes,” I said.
    He looked at his watch. “Yeah, but …”
    â€œSurprising that Justin doesn’t have many friends stop by.”
    â€œHe doesn’t have many friends.”
    â€œHow come?
    Hapner tapped a knee. “He spends a lot of his time looking after me. And the rest of it with his nose buried in books. IQ is off the charts.”
    â€œI guess there’s a downside to genius.”
    â€œThe other kids in the neighborhood see him as a bit of a nerd.”
    The door flew open and Justin rushed in.
    â€œWhere’s DeeDee?” I said.
    â€œOutside,” he said, walking past me and into his room.
    The door slammed shut.
    â€œWhat was that all about?” Hapner asked.
    I went outside and found DeeDee crying.
    â€œWhat happened?” I said.
    â€œTake me home, Steeg.”
    It wasn’t until the train pulled into the 14th Street station that DeeDee opened up.
    â€œWe’re finished,” she said.
    â€œI’m really sorry, kiddo. His idea or yours?”
    â€œHis.”
    â€œDid he give a reason?”
    â€œHe said I didn’t need him in my life.”
    â€œDid he offer specifics?”
    â€œNo.”
    I smiled. “Do you want me to beat him up?”
    It was our private joke whenever DeeDee’s world was in danger of falling apart. It usually got a laugh.
    But not this time.
    D eeDee said she needed a good, long cry. I took her home, tucked her into bed, and headed for Feeney’s.
    â€œYour brother was in a while ago,” Nick said. “Looking for you.”
    â€œWhat does he need now?”
    â€œA miracle. He just got the news. An indictment’s about to come down.”

17
    D awn Reposo’s apartment building still looked like something floating in a petri dish. I was back for a second visit because my brother’s string was running out, and because something Martine Toussaint had said was still echoing in my head.
    Whores lie!
    It was a truth I should have remembered.
    They lie to their johns, their pimps, the police, and sometimes to their friends. Deception is their survival mechanism.
    And I had the feeling Dawn was playing me. Sure, sending me to Martine could have been a tip of the hat for old times’ sake. But Dawn said that she and Martine had a history. Maybe having me traipse around Martine’s business was a way for Dawn to settle old scores. Or maybe it was an easy way of getting me out of her face,stopping me from asking questions she didn’t want to answer.
    Lots of maybes, and only one way to find out.
    A haggard, portly black woman in a flowered housedress answered Dawn’s door. She looked forty, but was likely half that age. I could hear children playing in the background.
    â€œYeah?” she said, her eyes narrowing.
    â€œLooking for Dawn Reposo,” I said.
    â€œDon’t know who you’re talking about.”
    â€œHow long’ve you lived here?”
    â€œFuck is it your business?”
    â€œLook, all I—”
    â€œYou from that clearing house that gives out million-dollar