Sally's Story (1.5-4): Kids in America

youtu.be/r_GH6M7cUq4

	A two-tap rap of his knuckles on the door later Vince let himself back in. The silent pair paused, turning their heads. Sally sat opposite the young man, their accused, and shrugged. He’d settled down from his knee-bobbing episode but sat quiet, bouncing his eyes now between the two detectives. He nibbled his thumb down, moving to his index finger as he continued gnawing.
	“Anything, Sal?”
	“Well, Vince,” she sighed, folding her things underneath her arm. “We can discuss it outside.” She hefted up the blocky little recorder in her other hand and scooped up the rest of their police flotsam between the matchbook and a few scattered pens.
	“Good?” She nodded, following the man out the door. Vince had sequestered one of the shift-changing officers to scoop up Brian and escort him back to the jail, leaning against the off-white walls as the little robot returned their materials and tidied the closet some. She carefully labeled the tape and tore her notes from the pad.
	“Alright, so,” she started, cutting her hands out in front of her. Vince started to guide her back out to the front of the building, nabbing another cup of coffee for himself on the way. “Brian was at least willing to say he’s still working at that bar, on top of *something* at the docks. And-”
	“Watch your step,” Vince interrupted, the two back on the curb as he unlocked his car. Sally nodded, carefully tip-toeing down the stairs and into the passenger seat of the dense, brown sedan. She folded the notes into her tiny field notebook, doubling over what she’d learned and committing it to memory. “So- what do we got?”
	“Well, like I said he’s still working there, at the bar.”
	“Kochoosko’s, it’s in the Polish part of town.”
	“It’s ‘Kościuszko’, Vince. And yes, he’s still employed there *and* at the docks.”
	“Two jobs is a lot for a kid, huh?”
	“It could easily explain *some* of the stress- maybe. But not being a drug dealer.”
	“Could be part of it, actually… Yeah, yeah,” he thought aloud, turning northbound towards the humble tavern. “So- naturally he’s scared for getting scooped up over this shit. Kid with two jobs obviously needs them, doesn’t want to lose them. Especially if he’s working at a more… *family* establishment. So he’s nervous, jumpy.”
	“Is that how this place is looking?”
	“They weren’t open when I called, and they won’t be open past nine. It’s PG.” The two hopped up, the bounce of the suspension creaking as Vince rolled over a pothole. The dense, aging car rolled and roared up the avenue as he continued. “But yeah, kid was probably worried, doesn’t want to get fired. Needs the jobs.”
	“So, so far we have this bar, and our patient in the hospital left to visit. I don’t think Brian will be doing much more talking with us.”
	“You don’t?”
	“No, he was adamant about that. I tried to ask why he was worried about us visiting the bar and he told me himself what you figured, he doesn’t want to lose his job.”
	“He still thinks he’s getting off.”
	“He was certainly more… confident once you left, yes.”
	“Good to keep in mind.”
	“I don’t think he’ll be much more help, but yes, you certainly have a… presence, Vince.” He laughed, the bob of the radio a bit more upbeat as the airways opened for the day’s commuters. Sally slipped a finger ahead to quiet the radio anyways. “What? You’re a good... talker.” She nervously dropped her head away from him, cheeks mutely glowing on the chilled window besides her. Compliments were far from her strong suit, giving or receiving.
	“It comes with the work,” he reminded her- it wasn’t the first time she’d bowed herself out like that. “And you’ve been doing plenty of work, Sal.” Sally shrunk quietly as he flipped up a lever. The blinker clicked annoyingly, another twist pulling them northwest to the lower rungs of the city, skyscrapers and neoclassical municipal buildings surrendering to shorter, humbler brick buildings. Younger than some of the *really* ancient places in the city, like the French and Indian-era fort or the remnants of the town built around it, but old nonetheless. Their names shifted further and further east from English, streets like Pitt, Wessington, and Knox giving way to Stanisław, Jan Paweł and, Vince taking a final left, Kościuszko.

	The building was short and fat, the first floor the business, and second the home, of whichever voice had answered the phone earlier. Reflected sunlight shut Vince’s eyes as he pulled the car to a stop, the rumbling engine shaking itself quiet.
	“Good?” Sally checked through her pockets for her tiny flip-cover notebook she had on hand, eagerly tapping it with a pen.
	“Good,” she nodded.
	“They should be open by now,” Vince nodded, eyes squeezing shut again after an unfortunate mirror adjustment.
	“Alright then.” The pair hopped out of the earthy car, dense and inefficient as it cooled in the brisk air. Vince pulled his suit coat tighter as they marched to the door, wiggling his tie just a touch looser. He pulled on the looped, brassy handle that stung his hand in the cold, escorting Sally into the quiet establishment. His shoes clapped on the hardwood floor, the tip-tapping of Sally’s knocking behind him.
	“Hello,” Vince coughed. “Hello?”
	“Are you sure they’re open?” Sally turned her head back to the heavy wooden door, its handle mute and unshining behind her. “...Are we trespassing?”
	“It’s fine, I called-”
	“Coming, coming,” a thin voice peeped, a generation, perhaps two, younger than whoever Vince had spoken with. “Hello? Oh!” A rail thin lady popped down a staircase, turning to lock eyes with the two detectives. They widened at the pale blue eyelights meeting with her own, a robot standing squarely in the huddled establishment. Sally noted the girl’s appearance- neatly groomed, short hair delicately brushed and face flushing in adolescent surprise. She pulled a string of her black hair out of her face, Vincent taking a step ahead to meet her.
	“Detectives la Fontaine and Sally, BCPD Vice,” he extended, hand taken limply in the young woman’s own. “I called ahead earlier-”
	“Oh, that was you?”
	“...Correct.” Vince’s eyes narrowed, her voice far from what the phone couldn’t have butchered it into. “So you picked up?” Sally jotted a note in her open booklet, its little nylon band hanging free and limp beneath it.
	“Oh, no, that would probably be my father,” the lady interjected. There was a soft lilt in her voice, locally foreign, that Sally caught on and noted. She was clearly the caller’s daughter by any measure, the nandroid noted. “He’s the owner here, I’m just visiting.”
	“Could we please speak to him?”
	“Oh… Is- Is he in trouble, detective?”
	“No, no, uh- We’re looking at another case and believe he may have some insight for us.”
	“Goodness, a case,” she whispered. A gust of wind outside bowed the windows in imperceptibly. “I don’t see why not, but could you explain what he has to do with any of what… whatever’s wrong?”
	“We’re afraid that’s sensitive, miss…,” Sally joined.
	“Marta Banaszewski,” she whispered, her pronunciation perfect.
	“Could you spell that for-”
	“I’ve got it Vince.” The robot spelled her name neatly from the phonetics of it. Vince tugged at his long hair, moustache curling just a bit.
	“I thought this was-”
	“Kościuszko’s?” The girl chuckled. “He was a general, very important. Though my father would know more than I do, he *adores* him. I just help out when I visit on the weekends is all.”
	“And you’re visiting from where?”
	“College- Duquesne, out of town.”
	“Go Quakers,” Vince smiled, summoning up the pudgy, garish mascot on the sidelines. She laughed with him. “Pretty far though, up there.”
	“It’s not *that* far- I take the bus in for weekends.”
“Then you’re here during working hours, right?”
“Yes! I help out a lot when we’re busy, actually. It’s nice, like those working vacations people take.” She smiled warmly, the balance of school work and helping at home not too much for her slender shoulders. Somewhere a few dozen miles north a roommate was waking up alone in her dorm for the weekend and promptly choosing to go back to bed.
	“Would you happen to know any of the other employees then?” Sally gestured around the broad establishment, a touch too large to be purely family run. No one had *that* many kids, Vince figured.
	“A little bit,” she mumbled, sensing the direction in the robot’s voice. “I wouldn’t say I *know* them, but I help them where I can.”
	“Would you know a Brian? Brian Sidran?” Marta blinked at the question, putting her head up in thought. She grabbed her chin for effect, humming and racking her brain for the detectives.
	“No, I can’t say that I did. Just that he works here. Sorry,” she shrugged. “I wouldn’t say I know any of the employees that well, no.”
	“Well, think some- was Brian busy, late to work, tired…?” Vince churned the air with his hand for affect.
	“No, he wasn’t acting off if that’s what you’re asking… Is *he* in trouble?”
	“Like we said that’s sensitive information,” Sally interjected. “We’re just trying to learn as much as we can, apologies for the intrusion.”
	“...Okay, right. Well,” she bobbed her head to the side, thinking again. “He’d been here a while for sure. Since before I started college, yeah.”
	“Yes,” Vince prodded. Sally’s hand lit up, flipping into a new, tiny page. Her pen hung anxiously above the cream paper.
	“He really enjoys working here, I’ll say that. Been here for a long time, mhm,” she nodded, memory rebuilding itself in front of the detectives. “Mama loves him, though we never really spoke or anything. Some time ago he started showing up less too. My dad would know more about that, though.”
	“So other than that you didn’t know Brian at all?”
	“No, sorry.” Sally scribbled a conclusory note on the page before flipping it for a fresh one.
	“Thanks Marta, we appreciate the help. Could we speak to your father please?”
	“Sure! ...Though I need to go wake him up first. Not to mention,” she paused, rubbing the back of her neck. “Nevermind... dad’ll be okay.” The girl turned around and hopped up the staircase again, a muffled conversation lingering downstairs. Sally perked an ear up to listen, failing to catch the language in her Sterling-standard library, the words passing uselessly through her mind and well over Vince’s head. The pair tottered around in the downstairs, Vince idly marching off to one of the empty booths with the curious nandroid in tow. She slipped her notebook away as she marched around the booth, too nervous to sit down as she kept up her pacing back and forth. Odd, misplaced bits of memorabilia and photos stared at her from the walls, the sharp face and handsome nose of the pub’s namesake following her as she stepped in a line, hands folded and wringing each other nervously. The two turned their heads up to the broad, tall owner of the business. He crossed his thick, pink arms as he stood across the floor from them.
	“You wanted me, officers,” he coughed, phlegmy grumbles clearing his throat.