The couple stopped. "What?" the man asked in a surly voice turning in Johanna's direction. He was unshaven and his eyes were bloodshot. His companion clinging tightly to his side looked timidly at them. She was mousy looking, thin and probably not much past her teens.
"We're looking for someone who lives on this street and we were wondering if you could give us directions."
"Who?" the man asked in an unfriendly tone of voice.
Johanna kept her foot near the gas pedal as she chatted. "We want to pay our condolences to Brenda and Clyde Burrows."
The timid woman who'd been silently observing them finally spoke. "They're probably down at Micki's Tavern. That's where they usually are."
"But their son—"
"It don't matter," the man broke in. "They didn't give a damn about that kid." He leaned in the window. Johanna could smell the stale whiskey on his breath. She recoiled. "I hope they're not close friends of yours or you'll be insulted by what I'm going to say. This neighborhood was bad enough before that trash moved in here." He scratched his stubbly chin. "They live in the apartment across from ours. The beatings that kid took would make your skin crawl."
"Did you ever call the sheriff or police?" Frankie asked.
The man threw his head back and laughed revealing two missing bottom teeth. "Now that's a good one."
"Well, thank you for your help. We'll check the bar," Johanna said.
The man shrugged as he took the woman's arm and resumed walking.
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