Boy, Boy, Crazy Boy

Chapter 5: Higgins With A Chance Of Krupke

A/N Hey, I'm trying to avoid leaving author's notes in this book, but if any of the translations in this chapter are wrong, please let me know. I don't speak Italian, and google translate isn't very reliable. 

The first thing Riff was consciously aware of was the fact that he was very much alive. The second was that he was soaking wet. The third was that there were people talking above him.  

"Hrmf," A familiar voice grunted overhead. "Y'know I think I seen this kid before..." 

Riff tried to open his eyes, but the effort almost made him pass out again. 

Then came a different voice, one Riff had never heard before, clearly an old man's, with a distinctive Manhattan accent. "That's my son, Sargent Krupke, I'll take care of 'im." 

"Hrmf," Krupke grunted again. "Alright, just make sure he doesn't get in any more trouble." 

"'Yessir." The other voice answered. 

He heard shuffling footsteps near his head and he tried to open his eyes again, this time succeeding. For a few seconds, everything was blurry, then his vision cleared and he was able to mostly take in his surroundings. 

He was laying on his back on the shore, dripping wet. Lifting his head up slightly, he caught sight of Krupke, also completely soaked, stepping into his car. Suddenly he felt hands under his arms, pushing him into a sitting position. 

"C'mon son." The same voice from earlier said. "Up ya go."

Under different circumstances, Riff would've yanked himself out of the old man's grasp and run away, (actually he almost did anyway) but in his current condition, he could barely even sit up. So he didn't say anything, just let the old man help him up. 

Once he was standing, the old man basically supported Riff's entire weight, walking him down the street. 

It didn't occur to him, until they entered a building and were walking up a flight of stairs, that he had no idea where he was. 

"Where're we goin'?" He tried to sound imposing, but he was too tired. 

"My apartment." The old man responded, panting from the effort it took to keep Riff standing. 

A little voice in the back of Riff's mind told him that this could end very, very badly, but the rest of his brain was too groggy to do anything about it. 

Eventually, the two came to a stop in front of a door and the old man fished a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door with one hand, the other too busy making sure Riff didn't fall over.

"'M notcha son." Riff mumbled as they entered. 

"Speak up, kid." 

Riff pulled himself away from the old man, discreetly holding onto the wall for support. "I said I'm not your son." 

The old man chuckled and walked further into the apartment, beckoning for Riff to follow. "I know that."

"So, who the hell are you?" Riff asked forcefully, following the old man to the kitchen. 

"Antonio Higgins." The man said with a flair, whipping off his hat. "An' how about you?"

The boy surveyed him cautiously, mentally weighing the pros and cons of telling him. "Riff."

The man smiled. "Good ta meetcha Riff." He smiled kindly. "Now," His voice turned firm, the kind of voice mothers used on their children. "Sit down."