Burn (7 page)

“You could try harder yourself, you know.”

“Kiddo, I hate to say it, but I'm starting to think I've tried about as hard as I can.”

They sat poking their forks at a large plate of leftover Penne Diavolo that Caroline had rewarmed in a skillet on the stove. From his side of the small wooden table where they shared lunch, Andrew surveyed Caroline's
new-and-improved sunroom. She'd spent the weekend making the place over, just because the mood had struck: cheerful new colors, airier spaces, young potted bamboo sprigs growing on high windowsills.

He liked it. Caroline had an undeniable knack for making a room seem like it wanted you in it.

“He's not a bad person, Drew. He's not even a bad husband, all in all.”

Andrew tried to hold his tongue. He'd only meddled in Caroline's romantic affairs one time that he could remember, and it had turned out to be a colossally foolish decision in the long run. He'd tried to take a lesson.

Still, he couldn't help but ponder the irony. After all this time, Caroline had ended up with a guy like Lane Borland instead of a guy Andrew had once considered family.

“He's a conniving horndog, and he doesn't deserve you, ” Andrew told her. “I swear, I don't know why you stay.”

“Deserve. Now there's a concept.” She chewed her food. “You'll have to tell me all about it sometime.”

“Here we go.”

“Look, nobody's arguing he's got his flaws. He's not perfect, believe me, I know. But I'm not Aunt Shirley, God rest her. As for Lane … come on. Whatever Lane might be, he isn't your dad.”

Andrew took a pause at that one, surprised by this uncharacteristic turn in her usual sphinx-like rhetoric where her husband was concerned. Caroline only shrugged and waited.

“First of all, ” he said, “the sorry prick you must be talking about wasn't my dad. You know that.”

“He adopted you when you were born, Drew. He might as well have been. He was a sorry prick, no
argument. I wish he'd gone away sooner. That isn't the point.”

“Then why bring it up?”

“Because I always get this feeling you're making some kind of comparison that isn't really fair.” She quickly held up her palm. “Don't even bother, I know you think I'm full of it. But give me some credit. I'm aware that Lane has issues, okay? There are things he does.”

Caroline scraped a bite off her fork with her teeth and pointed at him with the tines.

“But there's plenty he doesn't do. He doesn't drink. Not so you'd notice, anyway. He doesn't gamble. He doesn't yell. And he'd jump in front of a bus before he raised a hand to me.”

“That puts him in the running for hubby of the year? Those aren't credentials, Care. They're prerequisites.”

“Okay. But you don't know him. Not really.”

“That's funny. He says you tell him the same thing about me.”

“He doesn't listen, either.”

Andrew rolled his eyes.

“Do you want to know what I think? I don't think it's even about you with Lane. I mean, you've always intimidated him, that's no big secret. But that's only part of it.”

“My favorite part.”

“Make fun if you want to. But I think what it really boils down to is, you're like this constant reminder of the Lane he wants to believe he put behind years ago. All of this?” She swept her hand around her head, indicating the redecorated sunroom, but more: the room, the house, the Brentwood address, the bean-shaped swimming pool landscaped into the backyard. “This is Lane trying to prove how far beyond that person he's grown. But here
you come, back from the old neighborhood. The place where he felt like this inadequate little reject growing up. He'd never admit it, but it's the truth. And you remind him that the neighborhood didn't disappear. He just doesn't happen to live there anymore.”

Caroline obviously meant for him to understand what she was trying to explain, so Andrew resisted the urge to scoff.

Back home, the Borland family had lived next door to Caroline and Aunt Judy, his mother's sister. Which made them Andrew's neighbors for a while, when Mom and Aunt Judy had combined what remained of their respective households after the fire. Aunt Judy had been widowed going on six years by then; it had been just her and Caroline since Uncle Phil died of bone cancer, and they'd had plenty of room to spare. After the fire, it only made sense to go to Aunt Judy's. Andrew had been fourteen at the time, Caroline almost nine.

As for Lane—the kid from Caroline's grade the next row house over—Andrew didn't think the neighborhood had been his biggest problem. Lane Borland's biggest problem was that he'd never quite figured out how to be a neighbor. Or a hood. It helped if you could be a little of both, but you at least had to be one or the other.

Andrew couldn't even remember noticing the kid had gone off to college until he came back for Thanksgiving one year, a big shot from California, and surprised everybody by sweeping Caroline off her feet.

“I don't care why Lane doesn't like me, ” Andrew said. “I'm talking about how he treats you.”

“And don't think I don't love you for it. But you don't know everything.” She pointed again with the fork. “Would you like to know how much Lane donated to the shelter last year?” She was talking about
one of the many organizations for which she volunteered: a safe house in Gardena for battered women and their children. “I think you'd be surprised.”

“So he gets ‘philandering’ and ‘philanthropy’ confused sometimes. Big deal.”

“Clever you. But I'll tell you something. Lane helped keep that place operating last year. And just for the record, wifey never asked him to contribute a dime.”

“Let's talk about something else.”

“My pleasure.” Caroline finally put down her silverware and faced him. “It's time you stopped stalling anyway. Tell me what's going on.”

He'd already told her that an LAPD detective had been around to visit that morning. She'd heard a similar story from Lane. Andrew decided not to fill her in on what few details remained, at least not for now. He didn't see the point.

“Is it bad?”

“I have no idea what it is, ” he said.

She didn't say anything.

“But until I find out, I want you to do something for me”

“Anything I can. You know that.”

He reached around his back, pulled the Glock from his waistband, placed it on the table, and slid it across. He'd stopped by the bank again on his way to Brent-wood. For the clip this time.

“I want you to keep this somewhere handy.”

Caroline looked at the gun. She looked at Andrew. She raised her eyebrows.

“I don't want to argue about it, Care. You said you took that class at Lane's gun club, right? So you probably know more about how to run one of these than I do.”

“There's nothing to argue about, ” she said. “Because
I'm not touching that thing. God, what are you thinking, carrying a gun around?”

“Do we really have to make a production out of this?”

“Apparently. Because you obviously know more than you're telling me, and I want to hear it. Right now.”

“I
don't
know more than I'm telling you, ” Andrew said. “That's what bothers me. Something's definitely cooking. If it was going to get bad, my guess is it would have gotten bad already.” He shook his head. “But things aren't adding up. So take the gun until I get it sorted. And if somebody you don't know comes to the door, looking for me …”

“I don't like the sound of this. What did the police want to talk to you about?”

Andrew said nothing. After a beat, he reached out and slid the gun toward her another inch.

“I already told you, ” she said.

He looked her in the eye. “You're the one who convinced me to come out here.”

An opposite coast,
she'd argued.
It's symbolic. Besides. If you really want to start over? Become something new? Sweetie, where else but L.A.? This town reinvents everybody.

“And I'm delighted you did, ” she said. “But if this is your idea of a thank-you gift, let me give you two words for future reference: pearl earrings.”

“Please.” He nodded once toward the Glock. “For me.”

Caroline eyed him across the table for a long time. Eventually, she looked at the gun again. “This would make you feel better.”

“Not better enough. But better than nothing.”

“I'll say it one more time for the record. I don't like this. Not one bit.”

“I know.”

Caroline watched him. She glanced again at the gun. After a minute of silence, the corner of her mouth twitched.

“What's the matter?”

“Nothing, ” she said. “I was just imagining the look on Lane's face when he sees me cleaning a handgun when he gets home.”

Andrew grinned back at her. “That's my girl.”

BUT
he kind of wished he still had the gun when he finally returned to the beach house after dark.

The faint smell of leather was Andrew's first clue that he had company. That, and the light that turned on when he came in.

He hadn't bothered flipping any switches; he'd come straight up from the garage and headed toward the kitchen, making his way by the last of the dusky light still seeping in through the blinds. He was tired. He wanted a beer.

He stopped in his tracks instead, car keys still in hand.

Reading lamp. The one beside Caroline's antique wooden rocker near the dark empty fireplace. Andrew identified the source by the sound of the pull chain, the low-wattage corona suddenly rimming the boundaries of his peripheral view.

He tensed, mind suddenly roaring. He tried to imagine the layout of the space behind him. He prepared to move.

“Torch, ” a familiar voice said. “I was starting to think you weren't ever coming home.”

A
mean Baltimore night, cold and wet.

Torch stood outside a warehouse down by the docks. A razor wind raked his back, spun salt and spring frost through his hair. He stared at the grimy door for almost twenty minutes before he finally took a breath and grabbed the handle. Rusty wheels wailed in their tracks as he slid the big door open and stepped on through.

He heard the hammer clicks a half-second before he felt cool metal pressed in three places against the back of his skull.

“Blink, ” somebody behind him said. “Wiggle something.”

The place smelled like oil, dust, wet steel. A single fire burning in a trash barrel provided the only light inside. Slowly, Torch raised his hands where he stood.

First came silence. Then a laugh.

“Man, we figured you was stupid. But this settles it.”

Without turning his head, Torch spoke to the gun under his left ear. “How you doing, Louis?”

“Better'n you, I guess.”

Torch said, “Guess so.”

Something popped inside the trash barrel and pinged against the can's metal hide. Flames lapped above the rim, trailing acrid smoke toward the high open windows above. As Torch's eyes adjusted to the dimness, he could see the rest of the crew hanging in the shadows, slouched against shelving and crates.

The tallest of them straightened and detached from the others.

“Look who's here, ” Eyebrow Larry said, stepping out of the flickering gloom and into the light of the fire.

They called him Eyebrow because he had only one left. Torch had burned off the other himself with a Zippo, and it never had grown back.

It was hard to believe they'd once been like brothers, but it was true. He and Larry had watched each other's backs and rambled together for years. All that remained of those days now was the legendary pale twist of scar above Larry's left eye.

“Thanks for meeting me.”

“Get to the point, Torchie. This is getting boring fast.”

Torch dropped his hands. “I'm out. For good. That's not what I came to tell you, I just figured you'd be interested to know.”

“I'm interested to know where you scored whatever you were smoking when you decided it'd be a good idea to come down here just to say hey.”

Torch heard chuckles from the boys with the guns behind him.

“ 'cause I gotta tell you, Torch.” Larry crossed his
arms. “You got me a little concerned for your mental shit right about now.”

“Save it. I'm only here because I never told you I was sorry for burning off your eyebrow that time.” He shrugged. “That whole thing … that just got out of hand.”

The snickers started again behind him, this time spreading to the peanut gallery like an oil fire. Larry just shook his head.

“Retiring, ” he said. “You don't say.”

“I do.”

“Mama Mingo know that yet?”

“I assume she'll put it together eventually.”

Larry nodded along. Torch waited patiently.

“So, what? Gonna move to Florida? Open up a bait shop? Screw cocktail waitresses?”

“Something like that.”

“And you just woke up and decided this, I guess.”

“It's been a while coming, ” Torch said.

“Burnout's a bitch, huh?”

More snickers from the shadows.

“I'm just getting out. That's all.”

To this, Larry offered the thinnest of grins. “Hate to be the one to say it, Torch. But you ought to know better than that by now.”

“That's not my name anymore. The rest is my problem.”

“Bold words coming from a guy who just crossed his own name off the protected species list.”

“This doesn't have anything to do with that.”

“You don't think?”

A long moment passed.

“Look. I just wanted to tell you I was sorry. It needed to be said. I said it.”

At first, he'd thought Larry's nod was for him. But then he felt the muzzles lift from his scalp. All around the warehouse, Larry's crew erupted with loud hoots and gibes.

Torch watched his old pal Larry take off his long leather coat and drop it in a pile by his boot.

A hand shoved Torch forward. He tripped on his own feet but managed to untangle himself before he went down. Somebody howled; somebody else echoed. Soon the warehouse thrummed with the sound of fists pounding on shipping crates all around the fire can.

Torch tuned out the noise. He concentrated on not falling down. When he finally recovered his balance, he couldn't help but note the Louisville Slugger on which Larry now leaned.