18
For the twentieth time in an hour, Rickey highlighted G-man’s name on the speed dial of his cell phone and hit call. For the twentieth time, G-man’s phone rang and rang, then went to voice mail. Nobody had picked up at home or the restaurant either. What a magical night this was shaping up to be.
Beside him, Dr. Lamotte sat with his big ass wedged uncomfortably into a plastic police-station chair. Mrs. Lamotte was around here somewhere, maybe looking for a Coke machine; she’d said something about being thirsty. The station was near Joe Brown Park, where Rickey vaguely remembered having his sixth birthday party. His mother had made the cake herself; it was dense and dry, and she’d ended up in tears because none of the kids wanted to eat it. Or was his memory exaggerating that last part
