With a wrench, he brought his mind back to the subject at hand. "Do they get into much trouble?" he said.
"Well, no," Lynch said reluctantly. "As a matter of fact, they don't. For a bunch like that, around here, they're pretty well behaved, as far as that goes."
"What do you mean?" Malone said.
Lynch's face took on a delicately unconcerned appearance. "I don't know," he said. "They just don't get into neighborhood trouble. Maybe a scrap now and then—nothing big, though. Or maybe one of them cuts a class at school or argues with his teacher. But there's nothing unusual, and damn little of anything." He frowned.
Malone said, "Something's got to be wrong. What is it?"
"Well," Lynch said, "they do seem to have a hell of a lot of money to spend."
Malone sat down in a chair across the desk, and leaned eagerly toward
Lynch. "Money?" he said.
"Money," Lynch said. "New clothes. Cigarettes. Malone, three of them are even supporting their parents. Old Jose Otravez—Ramon's old man—quit his job a couple of months ago, and hasn't worked since. Spends all his time in bars, and never runs out of dough—and don't tell me you can do that on unemployment insurance. Or social security payments."
"Okay," Malone said. "I won't tell you."
"And there's others. All the others, in fact. Mike Fueyo's sister dresses fit to kill, like a high-fashion model. And the Grito kid—"