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It was his little secret, and it didn’t change anything. There was a reason he walled off those memories behind a foot of imaginary steel. But talking to Evan, the real guy, not the symbol from his dreams, it was like visiting that vault.
“So you got out early.”
Evan nodded. “They needed to clear some bunks. It was my first fall for a violent crime. And inside I kept myself to myself.” He shrugged.
“Simple as that.”
“If you say so.” Their eyes met again, feeling each other out. Da
Then Evan spoke. “You hear about Terry?”
Da
“I met one of his old dealers inside. Apparently Terry cleaned up, quit using. Managed to talk someone into letting him middleman product, God knows how, fucking track marks on his arm. He was doing well, selling to college kids wa
Da
“Soon he’s cutting his stuff to skim for his own supply. Isn’t long before he’s selling milk sugar. Even the college kids can tell the difference.
He has to hit the street. Only now his habit is back, and shorting is the only way he can supply himself.”
Something about this story felt familiar. Not the specifics, but the structure. The course of it. The illicit thrill of the conversation began to evaporate as Da
“One day he sells a couple of weak grams to a Mexican kid. The guy turns out to be a baby banger, a Latin King trying to earn his stripes.” Evan took a sip of beer. “So Terry bled out in the basement of a tar house on South Corliss.”
A wave of rolling nausea washed through Da
Nothing.
It was time to go home.
“Listen, brother, it’s good to see you, but I’ve got to head out.”
Evan’s expression hardened, and he turned to the bar, one hand on his pint. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, you know, I’m a civilian now. I’ve got work.” He stood up, reached for his jacket. “Construction.”
“Just like your dad.”
“Sort of. I work in the office, though.” A voice inside him told him to shut up, not to go any further, but the words slipped out. “I’m a project manager.”
Evan nodded, still not looking at Da
“Yeah. Hey, congratulations again.” He fumbled for his wallet, took out a couple of twenties.
“You don’t need to buy my beer.”
“Shit, it’s my pleasure. Least I can do.” What was he saying?
Evan sat silent.
The voice inside whispered that this was all wrong, that the tightrope was swaying and he was off balance and the darkness was hungry, but between the booze and the music and the thought of junkie Terry bleeding to death on dingy concrete, he pushed it away. All he wanted was to get out.
Evan kept staring straight ahead as Da
Evan only nodded.
6
A roar from Wrigley Field drifted up through the autumn air. The Cubs must have scored. In Bridgeport, they’d have been rooting for the White Sox. Da
Come to think of it, he loved the whole damn place. Loved their condo, a second-story flat with hardwood floors and a working fireplace. He even loved weekend afternoons spent repairing crown molding or laying tile. Evan would have howled to see it, Da
Laugh it up, buddy. Just don’t expect me to care.
“What are you still doing here?” Karen stepped out, smiling as she pulled her hair back into a ponytail. “Didn’t you promise me a date?”
He gri
“Easy, Romeo.” She stepped away from him with a teasing smile. “Isn’t your boss expecting you?”
He groaned. “Richard can wait.”
“Quit stalling. Go take care of business. Then take me to the zoo and buy me cotton candy.” She turned to go inside, stopped, and glanced over her shoulder with a flirty look. “Who knows? You might get lucky.”
He laughed, and followed her in.
It took thirty minutes to make it out to the North Shore. In a neighborhood where half a million dollars bought two bedrooms, Da
Da
His boss followed, meaty face red. “I don’t care. I’m not buying you a damn PlayStation so you can rot your brain.”
“What do you care?” Tommy glared at his father. “You’re never even here.”
“Don’t you talk that way to me, young man. I’m still your father.”
“Barely.” The boy turned and stormed away.
“Get back here. Thomas Matthew O’Do
The kid flipped the bird over his shoulder and kept walking. He was stomping away with such righteous adolescent fury that he almost bumped into Da
Tommy caught his look, nodded angrily. “I hate him.”
“Ahh, don’t say that.” Da
The kid shook his head. “It’s not that. I don’t care about that. He’s just never…” He straightened, wiped at one eye with the back of his hand. “I wish I lived with Mom.”
“Cut him a little slack. I’m sure he loves you.” He was, too. Richard was a loudmouth, but his office was plastered with photos of the boy, and company meetings routinely began with everyone giving their best impression of sincere interest while Richard regaled them with his son’s minor accomplishments.
Tommy snorted. “Whatever.” He stormed away, little fists pumping.
Da