Suitable for Framing by Edna Buchanan Read Free Book Online Page B

“FMJ, I remember what it stands for: Full Metal Jacket.”
    I swung by the Edgewater, the vertical mall that rises just north of downtown. The towering monolith draws kids like a magnet to its game rooms, eleven movie theaters, and food courts. Because it is near the paper, Lottie and I used to see movies there, but the audience has become younger and rowdy, with kids shouting out rude advice to the actors and cheering the villains.
    The floors of the video game room are carpeted to absorb the explosions of intergalactic warfare and the ceilings mirrored to monitor the pumped-up participants. The intense body language of kids playing the sophisticated games, mostly violence-oriented and involving guns, suggests that to them it is more than a game. They are rock-and-roll without the music, most wearing au courant garments that baffle me. Are they pants that are too short or shorts that are too long? A number of youngsters seemed to know Cornflake, but all agreed they hadn’t seen him for a few days.
    â€œWhy you looking for him when you can have a real man like me?” Flashing a gold-toothed grin and swaggering, he couldn’t have been more than sixteen.
    They fielded my questions with typical teenage macho and curiosity. “You his probation officer?” somebody demanded, as a metallic voice from the machine he was playing instructed, Destroy all buildings to move to next level
    â€œNope,” I said, “just a reporter.”
    â€œWhat channel?”
    â€œYeah, I seen her before,” bragged a boy wearing a purple rubber baby pacifier on a cord around his neck, another hard-to-fathom new fad. “On TV.”
    â€œEyewitness News,” cackled his sidekick in baggy hip-hop shorts. “Eye in the Sky.”
    â€œNo, I work for the newspaper, the Miami News .”
    The hip-hopper’s stare was blank. “What channel?”
    The future of my chosen profession looked bleak.
    A skinny shy-looking kid in a Marlins T-shirt lingered on the fringe.
    â€œMaybe you’ve seen him,” I said, trying to draw him out.
    He shook his head slowly. Something sly shone in his eyes. Was he lying?
    The boy who had been sucking noisily on his pacifier removed it to ask, “Why you want Cornflake?”
    â€œI write stories and thought he might have one to tell.”
    That brought choruses of, “I tell you a story, baby,”
    â€œI got a story for you,” as they preened and postured and tried hard to look bad. “How about a nice bedtime story?” asked a kid wearing a Malcolm X T-shirt and a fade haircut.
    â€œWhen you see Cornflake, ask him to give me a call,” I said briskly, ignoring their hoots. “I need to find out if some things I heard about him are true.”
    They eagerly snatched the business cards I offered, exhausting the supply in my skirt pocket. A rash of obscene phone calls would probably be the only result. Who cares? I thought. Let them talk dirty to the newsroom voice mail. That curse on mankind deserves it.
    â€œBitt?” said one, scrutinizing my name.
    â€œBrrritt,” I said, entertaining ugly thoughts about the Dade County school system.
    â€œStaff writer?” asked the shy kid, reading off the card I had given him. “What’s that?”
    My reply—“I cover the police beat”—elicited cries, guffaws, laughter, and mock trigger pulling. “Pow! Papow! Pow!”
    â€œRight,” I said serenely, as the laughter died down. “I need to talk to Cornflake because he may be getting blamed for something that wasn’t his fault.” Seed planted, I took off.
    When I opened the trunk of my car to retrieve my purse, it buzzed like a swarm of killer bees. I flicked off my pager and it immediately began to beep again.
    I drove across the street to the paper and called the city desk from the security phone in the lobby. “Where are you, Britt?” Gretchen’s voice could shatter