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He was also seventeen, and if something wasn’t done, soon, he’d be free to do whatever he wanted.Īnd Dutch did not see this going in the right direction.Īnd Dutch could be the only guy in Denver who could get him out of there.Īnd he needed to get this kid out of there. One of the women was shrieking because another one had pulled off her wig.ĭutch sighed and looked back to a boy who was really no longer a boy. “The wig’s gonna go, wait and see,” he declared as Dutch made the table.ĭutch turned his head and looked at the TV.Ĭarlyle was right. He was sitting at a table on the outskirts. He didn’t hesitate moving right to the guy who was not at one of the couches around the big sixty-incher, watching some show where three bitches were wearing skintight mini-dresses and four-inch heels, shouting at each other and pulling each other’s hair. He parked at the shelter, got out, grabbed one of the books, and headed in.Ĭhances were probably seventy-thirty the kid wouldn’t be there.ĭutch’s day looked up when he saw him there. It was just she was a dab hand at finessing that shit. If there was no way, she’d figure out an alternate avenue for a kid that didn’t include hanging downtown, falling into dealing, using, or whoring. If there was a way to reconcile shit at home, she’d find it, and reconcile that shit.

That said, Juliet Crowe, the woman who ran the place, made an art of making pressure seem like no pressure. There was food, clean beds, and a huge TV.

They could get a decent meal, sleep in a clean bed, take a shower and catch up on their reality programs.

Mostly, it was a no-pressure place for kids who couldn’t hack home so they wouldn’t be on the streets. He headed to King’s Shelter, a safe place for runaway kids. He ignored the call, started up his truck, and embarked on the only other item on his agenda that day. He climbed into his truck as his phone rang again. Trendy, like there was a fucking tiki bar, for fuck’s sake.Īs the years had gone by and the new edged out some of the old, Fortnum’s had become the bastion of old-school cool on South Broadway in Denver.Īnd Dutch hoped like hell the millennials-of which he was one, but he wasn’t a fan of his membership-got bored with Broadway and returned it to the freaks and geeks and antiquers and gays and hip cats and hipper pussycats who knew true cool came from a vintage clothing shop, not a Free People catalog. A spot that even five blocks away was considered a score in an area that had grown popular over the years, to the point all the good shit was smushed in with all the trendy shit.

And right then, he walked the five blocks to his vehicle huddling into his leather cut.

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