Exposure by Mal Peet

Author:Mal Peet [Peet, Mal]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Juvenile Fiction, Social Issues, Homelessness & Poverty, Prejudice & Racism
ISBN: 9780763652456
Google: -ehp8ioMN18C
Amazon: B0040GJ52E
Publisher: Candlewick
Published: 2010-08-23T16:00:00+00:00

THE MORNING TRAFFIC was even more infernal than usual, so when Faustino got to his underground parking space, he sat in the Celica listening to the faint ticking of the cooling car, trying to mimic the process. Then he clambered out and, as usual, took a rather childish delight in using the key fob to chirrup the door locks. He became aware of the sound of running water. People off the street sometimes slipped in here to take a leak — on camera — but this was louder than that.

Over in the shadows below the ramp, Bush was filling the bucket from a tap that Faustino hadn’t known existed. Even in the subterranean gloom, the boy’s mad head was unmistakable. It was shameful, how nervous Faustino felt. Just for a second he considered getting back into the car until Bush had gone. But there was something in the kid’s posture, his intentness on his task, that told Faustino that Bush was fully aware of his presence. So he walked over, conscious of how dreadfully loud his footfalls sounded in the low, echoing space.

“Looks good on you, the top,” Faustino said. “I had to guess the size. How’d I do?”

Bush let the tap run a bit longer, then shut it off and turned around. “Yeah, pretty good.”

“The color okay?”

Bush shrugged. “Yeah, it’s fine. Don’t show up too much, you know what I mean? In the dark.”

“Good,” Faustino said, nodding. “That’s good. The bucket suit you? It seemed, you know, well made and everything.”

“It’s heavy, full. But the handle is cool.”

“Right.”

Faustino waited, hoping that Bush would say something more. He didn’t, but at least the boy’s eyes met his own, and he managed something close to a smile — a brief flash of bright teeth.

“Okay,” Faustino said. “Well, I guess we’ve both got jobs to get to.”

And because neither of them was prepared to make the first move, they found themselves walking up the ramp together toward the light and the surge of the traffic.

At Desmerelda’s suggestion, she and Michael Cass meet for lunch at a place called Tako, tucked away in the district popularly known as New Tokyo. Michael likes sushi. The restaurant is divided into discreet booths, and Desmerelda has ensured that theirs is visible from only one other table. At that table, one of her two bodyguards is sitting, nibbling crunchy little things that he finds slightly disgusting yet interesting. He has a phone mounted on the side of his head; it looks as though a silver cockroach is feasting on his ear. The second bodyguard is outside in the agency car. He has already called Señor Mendosa, as instructed, to tell him of their whereabouts.

“Look, Michael,” Desmerelda says. “He’ll come around. I know he will. This is like politics, you know? He’ll have to keep his distance for a while because, well, because there’s so much involved.”

“Yeah. I’m bad for the image.”

She wants to deny this, but can’t, so she stirs her seafood with one chopstick. Eventually she says, “He’s going to miss you more than you miss him.

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