Chris drank a beer. He thought of Ben and the day at Pine Ridge, and as the alcohol kissed him he felt his shoulders relax. He tossed the first bottle into the grass and reached into the cooler for another. He twisted off its top and emptied its neck.
Chris heard a vehicle come to a stop and looked to his right. An old black sedan had parked on the street and its engine died.
Chris reached into his pocket, retrieved his cell, and flipped it open, its buttons and screen illuminated. Because he was of a generation that was dexterous with keyboards, he quickly found the contact he was searching for.
Two men, one large and one small, got out of the car, crossed the street, and walked toward him in the yard. Chris studied them and continued to text with his fingers.
He was not thinking of police. He was a boy, and he was calling his father.
He typed the words I’m at home.
And: Signal 13.
TWENTY-THREE
The large man wore a windbreaker over a T-shirt and jeans. The small man wore black. They stood before Chris Flynn, still seated in his chair. Chris had slipped his cell back into his pocket. He held a beer bottle loosely in his right hand.
“Get up,” said Sonny. “Let’s take a ride.”
Chris slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“We need to have a talk.”
“We’re talking now.”
“Not here,” said Sonny.
Chris’s eyes disconnected from Sonny’s. He drank slowly from his bottle of beer.
“Get up,” said Wayne.
Chris looked at him blankly. Wayne’s brush mustache seemed to spring from inside his nostrils and lay beneath a flat nose in a deeply lined, imploding face. He appeared to be rotting. His wiry arms were dominated by ink.
“What do you want?” said Chris, returning his gaze to the big man with the walrus whiskers and high cheekbones.
“Somethin that’s mine,” said Sonny.
“What would that be?”
“Try to tell me you don’t know.”
“I’m not playing this game,” said Chris.
“You will.”
“You’re trespassing.”
“Fuck you, sweetheart. Let’s go.”
Chris looked at him with lazy green eyes.
The big man held one hand out to Chris and turned it into the shine of moonlight. Chris saw a tattoo on the crook of it.
“You know what this is?” said Sonny.
“Prison ink,” said Chris.
“What, specific? ”
“It’s a four-leaf clover.”
Sonny breathed out heavily in exasperation. Chris thought he saw the little one smile.
“It’s a shamrock,” said Sonny Wade. “You ride with the rock, means you’re part of a special club. You know what that club is?”
“The dick suck club,” said Chris.
Wayne grinned and giggled. Sonny’s smile showed perfect ugly teeth, gray in the light.
A car drove by and they all went silent.
“Let’s just get this done,” said Sonny, and he reached into his windbreaker.
“I wouldn’t,” said Chris. “Whatever you got inside that jacket, you pull it out, it’s a mistake.”
Sonny kept his hand where it was but made no move to pull his gun. “I said, let’s walk.”
“I’m not goin anywhere with you.”
“How ’bout I just murder your ass right here?”
“You’ll lose what you’re after.”
“Chris Carpet,” said Wayne. “Boy thinks he’s a real tough nut.”
Chris felt the blood leave his face.
“Shut up, stupid,” said Sonny.
A Montgomery County police cruiser drove by on the road beside the house. No one spoke, and the car passed from sight. Sonny’s black eyes flickered and he moved his hand. Chris saw the grip of a pistol inch out from the jacket.
“There a problem here?”
Andy Ladas emerged from the shadows of the side yard and stood well back from the two men. In his hand was a flipped-open cell.
“Chris,” said Andy. “Is there a problem? ”
“Is there?” said Chris, staring into Sonny’s eyes.
Sonny’s hand came empty out of his jacket and he dropped it to his side. He looked at Wayne and nodded shortly.
Sonny looked down at Chris. “See you around, fella.”
Sonny walked out of the yard, his little partner creeping along beside him. Chris heard car doors open and slam, and the turn of an engine. He heard the creak of worn shocks and watched the old black sedan roll down the street.
“How long were you back there, Andy?”
“I came off the porch soon as I seen those two walk back into the yard. Those guys didn’t look right.”
“What did you hear?”
“Most of it. I was about to call nine-one-one.”
“Wasn’t any need for that. But thanks.” Chris stood from his chair and killed the beer left in the bottle. He tossed it on the ground and noticed that his hand was shaking. He picked up the cooler and gripped its handle tight.
“You all right?” said Ladas.
“Yeah,” said Chris. “When my dad comes, don’t speak on any particulars. Just tell him I’m inside.”
He walked toward the bungalow, using his damp T-shirt to wipe away the sweat that had broken on his face.
Thomas Flynn arrived shortly thereafter and parked Amanda’s SUV sloppily on the road, one set of tires up on the curb. He jogged across the yard to the front porch of the bungalow, where Andy Ladas sat, working on another beer and a smoke. Flynn was winded and his color was up. His shirttails were out, covering the. 38 he had holstered at the small of his back.
“Is Chris all right?”
“Yes,” said Ladas.
“What’s happening here?”
“Couple of guys were talkin to Chris outside.” Ladas cut his eyes away from Flynn’s. “That’s all I know. They’re gone and he’s fine.”
Flynn went into the house. He stepped to the door of Chris’s apartment and turned the knob without knocking. It was a small place consisting of a bedroom, living room, kitchenette, and head. From behind the closed bathroom door he could hear the run of a shower. Flynn had a seat in a cushiony chair. He looked up at the crowded bookshelves. On the small table beside him lay a bookmarked copy of Wartime by Paul Fussell.
The shower shut off. Soon Chris stepped out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist.
“Dad.”
“Everything all right?”
“I’m good.”
“You’re so good, why’d you send me that code?”
“Can I dry my hair off and put some pants on?”
“Go ahead.”
“There’s beer in the refrigerator, you want one.”
Flynn found a bottle of Budweiser and uncapped it while Chris changed. He drank off a good piece of it standing up and finished it sitting in the same chair.
He’s taking his time, thought Flynn. He’s figuring out his story and his lies.
Flynn went back to the refrigerator and got another beer. He was drinking it when Chris stepped barefoot into the room, wearing jeans and a wife beater. His hair had been towel dried and left uncombed. The look on his face was clever and annoyed, as it had been when he was a teen. As if he was expecting a tongue-lashing from his father, was prepared to take it, and would give up nothing in return.
“Well?” said Flynn.
Chris pushed hair back behind his ears. “Couple of dudes came by to speak with me about somethin. I thought there was gonna be trouble, but I was wrong. I apologize for bothering you.”
“What did they want?”
“I owe them money,” said Chris. “I get into these card games sometimes. Texas hold ’em, like you see on ESPN. Only these are played in basements around town. I was into those two for a coupla thousand dollars.”