Chapter 11: Arrested

Fresco came to as the door beside him was pulled open and he was manhandled from the back of a police car, his hands cuffed uncomfortably behind him. Struggling to remember what happened, Fresco started to fight the two officers. One shoved him up against the side of the car. The older man, with sharp green eyes and an angry expression, leaned in and hissed in Fresco's ear.

"You fight me, boyo, I'll break your arm."

He felt the man's grip tighten and believed him. Meanwhile, his partner, a young pretty boy with big shoulders, grinned at him, perfect white teeth sparkling.

Fresco sagged in the cop's grip, showing his total obedience. Returned to himself at last, remembering the attack and being thrown in the back seat.

"I'll behave," Fresco whispered.

"You'd better," the cop said, hand twisting his skin. "I watch you damned floaters eat up my town, sleepwalking your way into our clean neighborhoods. And here I find you, boyo, with a damned fine case of the superflu, wired up tighter than a Friday night and I ask myself why I should grant you the comfort and safety of my hospitality."

Fresco stayed silent rather than make things worse.

"Forget him, Len," his young partner said with a smirk. "He's so high up he's not hearing a word you're telling him."

Len shook Fresco a bit. "Is Jakey right, boyo? You chase the dragon one too many times? Fry that little brain you got in there?"

"No, sir," Fresco whispered.

Len's eyes widened as his partner chuckled. "Is that so?" Len leaned back and let Fresco go. "We'll see, won't we? I find you on my streets again, boyo, you and I will have a talk about your continued wellbeing, now won't we?"

Fresco nodded, keeping his head down. The old cop grunted and took his arm again, this time loosely. He half-led, half-dragged Fresco across the parking lot behind the station, his pace so fast Fresco dug for the strength to keep up, not wanting to find out what Len would do to him if he couldn't.

Air conditioning hit Fresco's face in a frigid wall as he was thrust inside the building. The interior of the station was cool and far too brightly lit. Len stopped at the front desk, pulling Fresco up along side. Before he knew it happened, Jakey took his backpack and Len spoke.

"He's clean," the older cop told the booking sergeant who grunted back.

"Name?" The bored uniform at the desk asked, eyes flat and disinterested.

"Fresco," he whispered. Len shook him a little.

"Speak up, boyo," he said.

"Fresco," he repeated, louder. "Fresco Conte."

"You got an address kid, or are you past that?"

Fresco shrugged, not knowing what to say. Len took it as disobedience and shook him again.

"Answer the man, boyo."

"No address," Fresco said.

The sergeant nodded. "Fine, whatever, put him in the tank. I'll call social services. You are under eighteen, aren't you, kid?"

Fresco didn't know. His mind flashed to Justin and the three months passed.

"Yeah," he lied, hoping Len wouldn't sense it, saddened he missed his eighteenth birthday. Neither of the cops seemed to notice or care past their preliminary questions. Len and Jakey deposited Fresco into the hands of a grossly fat cop with white donut powder on his face.

"You remember what I said, boyo," Len told him as he unhooked the cuffs, trading them for a set the fat cop handed him. "You leave Aunt Hazel alone or ain't nothing going to save you from me."

Fresco watched the two saunter out of the station. He turned back as the fat cop grabbed him and shoved him toward a door. The blue clad officer brushed at confection sugar on the front of his uniform before shuffling in his pocket, grunting a little as he dug. He liberated a keycard from the deep recesses below his ponderous belly and slid the pressure warped plastic strip down the lock. The cop was already heaving on the handle before the buzzer even sounded. With a heavy sigh he yanked the resistant door open and pushed Fresco in.

The hall was ugly yellow and green, lit by buzzing fluorescents. Part way down, he was pulled up at another door while the cop repeated his card performance. It swung wide. Fresco was yet again propelled through like a sack of garbage.

The room beyond held a large communal cage. Despite the early hour, there were already several young men there. A quick scan of their faces flooded Fresco with relief. None of them seemed above the age of majority. At least he wouldn't be with adults. The thought of it stirred his fearful imagination, fueled by years of watching dark police dramas and prison movies.

The cop nodded to the guard who looked up from his newspaper to check them out. The tall, lean officer sighed as he folded up his paper and set it aside, rising with keys jingling in his hands.

"Got another one," the fat cop grunted.

"Damned shame," the other said, his sharp eyes searching Fresco. His scarred face glowed with oil. He didn't seem all that sorry. "Anything interesting?"

The fat cop shrugged. "Just put him in. My donuts are getting stale."

The guard laughed and unlocked the door. "You animals stay back while your new roommate gets his jewelry off."

The other teens in the cell watched with flat eyes as Fresco was shoved through and pulled up against the bars to have his cuffs removed. As the keys released his hands, he heard the clang of the cage door and his spirit crashed.

"Play nice." the greasy guard said before going back to his paper and ignoring them.

Fresco was in jail for the first time in his life. The consolation of being housed with others his age did nothing for his heightened sense of preservation. It brought his anxiety back with a vengeance.

His fellow inmates were looking at him like he might be good to eat.

Hoping to avoid contact, he turned away from them, finding a corner of a bunk to collapse onto, pulling up his legs to rest his forehead on his knees. The thin mattress barely protected what was left of him from the cold of the concrete slab it laid over. He was still reeling from the pain of the last attack, disoriented, his veins on fire with need. His feet and hands twitched involuntarily, and no matter what he did, he was unable still them. He took turns focusing on one then the other before finally giving up.

To distract himself, he thought about the girl. He needed to get out of there and find her. Knowing he wasn't alone was more valuable to him than anything. He wasn't sure how he was going to get himself out of the cell, but as soon as he did, he planned to go looking for her.

The memory of her face, her smile, her shining pink fingernails, brought him a measure of calm. She was so beautiful with her darkly glowing skin and bright golden eyes. Where did she come from? And how did she find him? She even called him by name. He didn't have the answers, but thinking about them helped peace settle into him even further until he was able to raise his head and think more clearly.

It didn't take long for the top dog to notice he was now aware enough to be used for sport. Fresco watched the lean Latino boy uncoil from the opposite side of the cell, his fully tattooed sleeves rippling as he flung a cigarette butt to the floor and ground it out with the heel of his heavy leather boot. He was dark haired and eyed, around Fresco's age, slender but powerful. Two of his cronies moved with him as he crossed the distance and stood in front of Fresco, grinning down at him, one of his front teeth gleaming with a gold cap.

"Hello, meat," he said.

The beating commenced without further ado, ignored by the guard behind the newspaper.

***