"TELL ME, BRETT, HOW DID A FINE SPECIMEN OF A BOY LIKE YOU END UP AT HERMITAGE HALL TO BEGIN WITH?" DUSTY WANTED TO KNOW.

Perhaps searching for the right words, I hesitated. "I've been told a couple ways. First, my mother died of cancer and I had no other relatives to take me in. My official records there say I was left by an unknown lady who dropped me off and walked away without any explanation. They tell us boys anything they want to. So, I really don't know how to answer that."

Dusty's next question came, "Where is your father?"

Full of disdain I answered, "If he is who I've been told he is, and is who I think he is, the insane psychopath is six feet in the ground. That's a real good place for him, too!"

"That's not nice to say about your father," Dusty reprimanded me.

"He was never there for me!" I retorted.

Still trying to put the puzzle pieces together in their proper places, Dusty asked, "Why not?"

"Because the man I've been told was my father spent nine years in prison for armed robbery before he was killed by another gangster wannabe," I responded.

"That's not good."

"I don't care."

Not totally sure if the man I talked about was my biological father or not, it truly did not matter to me. To this day, I still do not know what my geneology is, nor have I researched the topic. At this point in my life it is of no interest to me. No one has ever come forth to claim a blood relationship with me and I always chose to leave it rest. Should someone magically appear out of the blue, and make this wild accusation, I am not 100 percent convinced I would be in agreement to even listen to them spout off.

We changed the subject again.

"When you're twelve years old some people frown on you being on your own," I began.

"Correction, when you're twelve years old you have no business being on your own. It sounds like you've been knocked around some in your short life time. Join the club, Tonto. But, don't sing the blues to me because I don't want to hear them. The streets are very dangerous to your health, Brett. I know, I see bad things happen all the time. There's a lot of treacherous people out there you're really not even aware of."

I puffed my chest out and boasted, "I can handle myself."

"Is that right? Do you even know what a pedophile is?" Dusty asked.

"Sure, he's a guy who likes little boys in ways he shouldn't like little boys," I answered him, then asked a question of my own, "Who doesn't know what a pervert is?"

Dusty paused a moment. He reflected on my answer, then said, "Many dangers lurk in the shadows, too. You never know what they may be. Is any of what I'm saying getting through that foot-thick noggin of yours?"

His words sank in deep. He wasn't saying anything I wanted to hear but distant bells rang clear. I took another bite of my sandwich.

"That's why I carry a switchblade knife. A boy in my position has very little to cling to," I told him.

Caught off guard by my admission, Dusty responded, "A switchblade knife! You better be careful you don't cut yourself on something that sharp." He muttered under his breath, "If you were my son, and told me you had a switchblade knife, I'd...!"

I heard what he whispered, and curious, asked him, "If I were your son, what?"

Distinctly spoken, and very parentally stated, Dusty said, "Young man, if you were my son, and told me you carried a switchblade knife in your pocket, I'd pluck every single one of your tail feathers one at a time until they all disappeared, you little banty rooster."

When will I ever learn to see foreshadowing? A couple months down the road that's exactly what Dusty did when he confiscated my switchblade knife. But, that is jumping the gun.

The more we talked the closer I listened to what Dusty told me. All the time, I wondered to myself, "How is this dude breaking through your wall of defenses when no one else could?"

The obstruction penetrated, Dusty didn't just break through the fortified ramparts I erected long ago for self-protection, he fragmented their cores to shredded remnants.

A couple hours flew by as we conversed. I reached a subjective conclusion that cut against every fiber of my being and said exactly what was on my mind, "I wish you could be with me when I go back to Hermitage Hall."

Dusty shook his head "No". His action assured me my fervent, sincere, desire was not going to happen. "Your returning back to Hermitage Hall is a decision you need to make, and be brave enough to face on your own."

On my own. The story of my life.

I pushed my chair back away from the table and stated, "I can handle what is waiting for me when I get there."

Dusty looked at me but did not speak. I wondered if he didn't test my mettle?

I graciously told him, "I know I'll never see you again, so thanks for the lunch. It was good."

Fighting back a tear formed in the corner of my eye, I scurried out of the restaurant as fast as I could motor leaving Dusty to clean up our mess. I was not about to let him see me cry.

Safely outside the establishment, I asked myself, "What is this strange stranglehold this guy had you tightly in? You've never felt anything like it before."

The fragile glass menagerie shattered into fragmentary shards. My splintered bleeding heart pined for Dusty to call me back and dress the wounds life cocooned me in. No sound came. Leaving Dusty behind in that McDonald's, under those golden arches, was the second hardest thing I ever did in my entire life. Compared to exiting that McDonald's without him, returning back to Hermitage Hall was a cakewalk. Maybe I had allowed my overly vivid imagination to run wild? Maybe I yearned for more out of that situation than what was there?

I screamed at myself, "Hey, stupid! Get those rocks out of your head! There ain't never been no gold at the end of your rainbow and there never will be!"

Unbeknownst to me, and I learned this after we got together, Dusty headed for the nearest pay phone he could find and dialed a number. Upon the receiver being picked up, he said, "Frazier, you're going fishing and I'm collecting in spades. I want anything you can dig up on a boy who just entered my life unexpectedly. He is a blond haired, blue-eyed rugrat rapscallion at Hermitage Hall and said his name is Brett, something or other. I forget now. Give me everything you got, down to the correct size of his tighty-whities, and I mean yesterday! Call me back ASAP with the report. And-a, don't let on to anyone, especially him, I'm the one you're working for."

(TO BE CONTINUED:)

In Chapter 25, does whiskey talk?