The Odds (39 page)

“And hot sauce,” her father says.

“You want some of that, too?”

“Well … okay. And let’s call Ronnie—”

But a noise alerts her to the fact that her brother is standing in the doorway. He’s grinning. “Look no further!” he shouts.

Nobody ever guessed when her brother went out into the world that he would loop back home so soon afterwards. Some people just can’t go far, aren’t meant to. Of course, pot allows him some light travel in his mind. Otherwise, he travels only as far as the apartment over the garage behind the house.

Colleen gets up from the table. She and her brother hug each other hard. He backs up, hands out. “Come to arrest me, have you?”

She smiles.

And that’s a life, too. Slower than hers, less “in the world.” Not without merit if you count appreciating the smell of a rose from time to time.

In a way, her churning seems the shabbier choice.

“How long can you stay?”

“Long as this guy keeps escaping me.”

“Well, I hope he runs for a long time,” her father says.

They watch television late into the night with no calls from the Salvation Army.

The next morning, Tuesday, she goes back to the barracks just to make an appearance, just to keep them honest, and then she tries the Catholic Charities. She shows the picture, and while she does, she describes Nick as a man on crutches.

“Oh, yes!” exclaims the woman at Catholic Charities. She’s about thirty, long hair, bony face. “We gave him emergency money. Charles Philips.”

An adrenaline surge makes Colleen trip over herself with questions. “How did he seem? What did you think of him? Anything could be a help. Do you know where he went?”

“Um. He got directions to the Salvation Army.”

“Anything else? Did he seem to be drinking, for instance?”

“I don’t think so. Well, not at the moment and—if you want the truth—if I met him some other way, in some other setting, I would probably have, you know, gone out with him.”

When Colleen leaves Catholic Charities, the sun is shining with decisiveness. Good. The rain is past tense. She makes a few notes, standing at her car, then drives to the doughnut shop. It’s busy again. This time Colleen doesn’t order anything; why add more labor for the old woman working the counter alone? She shows the picture of Nick and knows immediately she is on to something. The old woman hesitates for a good long time, looks about the shop and asks, “He do something bad?”

“No. He needs protection.”

The woman nods. “Okay, then. He asked directions to New Visions. That might get you somewhere.”

“What is it?”

“It’s medical. An addiction place. Over on Walnut.”

“Thank you. Thank you.”

She calls Christie to tell him she’s close. “I want to go to AA meetings and follow up with AA people for the day.”

“Okay. Keep going.”

“What am I missing?”

“Farber
is
going to move tomorrow so long as the tailing works out.”

“Thank God.”

But. There are always
buts
. How can they get everyone? In a big operation, people squeak through. Even from prison Markovic will be able to give orders about who must be silenced. What then?

   IT ISN’T UNTIL TUESDAY night—and a couple of AA meetings later—that Colleen finds a woman who examines the photo and says another woman from AA gave the guy a ride on Sunday.

“Who is she? Was she here tonight?”

“No. Don’t know her last name. First name is Mo. Short for something.”

Anonymous. Right. “Did this woman, Mo, know the guy in the photo before?”

“Nope. Simple case of help-your-neighbor Samaritan thing.”

“I’m closer,” she tells Christie by phone Tuesday night. “Give me tomorrow?”

“Take it. Call. I can’t say what shape I’ll be in. I’ll talk if I can.”

Chemo.

“And what else?” he asks.

“Nothing else. I’m seeing a bit of my family.”

“Good, Greer, good. Potocki is working a drive-by. You talk to him?”

“Actually, not today.”

“Well, when you catch up with him, he’ll tell you about it.”

“The Philips kids?”

“Don’t ask.”

   NICK GOES OUT INTO THE backyard wearing the large funny pajamas Meg bought him while his clothes roll around in the dryer. It’s midnight and he has to be at work early, but that’s okay. Work is something he likes. Order. A schedule. He can hear his new landlord, another AA soldier, a widower, puttering around in the house. He can feel the man at the kitchen window screen, watching him. I won’t stiff you, he thinks to himself; I won’t take anything from you.

He fought, he gambled, he pulled a trigger. But he never did steal.

Sitting under one of the two large trees in the yard is a lounge chair, the kind made of alternating green-and-white plastic straps—a good support for extending his leg. He gets himself into the chair and sinks into a relaxation that is just on the edge of sleep. God, the night is beautiful. The aftereffect of yesterday’s rain is a clear sky. Through the branches of the trees, stars he hasn’t seen since nights on the fishing boat wink at him.

Whatever happens will happen.

In the back of his brain is the count. No alcohol for over a week. Not since the cough syrup and mouthwash. He still wants it.

He can hear the man at the screen, moving, worrying, even before he says, “You shouldn’t sleep out here.”

“I won’t.”

“Would you want a piece of cake? Chocolate with icing.”

“I would.”

“Eat it inside?”

Reluctantly, he leaves the simple beauty of the night.

That night he has a dream so real that when he wakes, he can’t shake it and he forces himself back to sleep to figure out how to save himself.

Part One: He is walking down the street when he hears a motor, turns to see the van pulling up. Moments later Markovic has him by the elbow.

“Man, have I been worried about you.”

“I’ve been laid up.”

“I see that. Where you been?”

“Around.”

“Who—? Who fixed you up?”

Meg, Joel, Laurie, Susannah. He doesn’t say it.

“Come on. Let’s get in the van where we can talk. You had your picture on TV.”

“I know.”

“Man, am I glad to find you. You shouldn’t be out on the street like this. You need some protection. Where you going?”

“Nowhere in particular.”

“God, you kill me, the way you talk. Well, get in. I can take you nowhere in particular.”

“I’m not able to get in a car. I have to extend my leg.”

“Backseat then.” Markovic opens the rear van door. “Do you have any idea how hard you were to find? Just tell me what’s been going on. Tell me how I can help you. Money, of course. Sure, I can guess that much. I can get you money, whatever you need. A place to stay where nobody is going to turn you in.”

Still in the dream he hasn’t moved toward the van. But if he doesn’t get in, Markovic will shoot him on the street.

He wakes and wants to finish the dream. His heart is pounding so hard that for a while he can’t fall back to sleep.

When he does, Markovic greets someone as the start of Part Two. Nick turns, and the man with the weird hair and sideburns is alive again. So now it’s two against one. He needs a trick. Luck. He’s waiting for it. Luck.

Markovic takes the crutches from him.

The man with the weird hair … Earl … pulls him toward the van.

“Take it easy,” Markovic says. “We’re just going to talk.”

He keeps talking. He makes things up. He tells a story about a nurse who fixed his leg. Markovic nods. He keeps talking, waiting for a trick. Finally he wakes up. It takes him a while to be sure he is alone, alive.

   HER MOTHER MAKES HER BACON and eggs for breakfast.

“Wow,” she says. “I’m getting the royal treatment.”

The kitchen door opens. Her brother comes in, saying, “I smelled it. You have enough for me?”

“Why doesn’t he just live here?” her mother grumbles, putting more bacon on.

Already the TV is going, morning news. Her father sits in front of it, reading the paper.

“Don’t you want breakfast?” her mother calls.

“Sure I do. Just a minute.”

Last night, her brother came over again for some TV time with the family. Colleen watched him go back to his place at one point, then return, red-eyed and bleary. She could smell the weed on him when he sat next to her. “Are you going to go back to school? Ever?” she asked as lightly as possible.

“I don’t think so. I think I’m the self-educated type.”

“But it isn’t leading to, you know, the kind of work you could do.”

He smiled. “Now, now. See, here’s how
you
are: You want each day to be different. You probably like to be scared. Right? See, I’m not so dumb.
I
, on the other hand, like routine and I don’t like stress. I think routine is the best thing ever invented. I like the same thing every day.”

Her parents looked at each other. Was this an argument brewing?

“Some routine is good,” she told him. “Everybody needs that. I just meant—”

“I know what you meant.” With that, Ron got up last night and went back to his apartment. She thought she might not see him again, but here he is, sitting down to breakfast.

Her eggs are nice and runny, the way she likes them. The toast, made of bread she wouldn’t choose, goes down fine, oiled as it is with butter.

“I’m not too hungry yet,” her father says. “Maybe just a piece of toast.”

Her mother looks confused, holding a plate full of eggs and bacon.

“I can eat his,” Ron says. “I can eat double.”

“What am I doing?” her mother says fretfully.

“It won’t go to waste,” Colleen tells her.

“Bacon sandwich for lunch,” her father says soothingly.

How easily her mother is thrown. Everybody likes routine, safety. Colleen gets a picture of the vast landscape of America, people comfortable doing the usual morning things, others frustrated because they can’t for one reason or another do what they’re used to, and some— people going on job interviews, auditions, something big at stake— unable to eat because they’re not at home or their stomachs are throwing up all kinds of survival signals.

Ron nudges her. “I’m not angry. I just don’t want you to think I’m nothing.”

“I would never think that.”

“I would. I just don’t want you to.”

A little less weed, she wants to say, but now isn’t the time.

“This is like a vacation,” her mother says, although she doesn’t seem particularly happy. “You’re staying tonight again?”

“I’m going back today one way or another.” She misses her office, her house, her own bed.

“Still didn’t find your man?” Ron asks.

“Um, huh-uh. Breakfast is really good, Ma.”

She goes to her room, where she has already packed up and comes back to the kitchen with her overnight case.

“You aren’t even coming back for
supper
?”

“I’d better not. We have a lot happening today. I need to get back.”

She kisses each of them. All the hugging and hand-squeezing make her want to cry. Her brother, hugging her awkwardly, says, “You be careful.”

She drives to New Visions, where—bam, just like that—she hears, “Hello. I’m Mo, and I’m an alcoholic.”

   IT TAKES ABOUT AN HOUR TO talk Mo into leading her to Nick, but finally they leave the coffee shop where they’ve gone to talk. Colleen follows Mo’s car to an outlying diner.

“Let me go in first. I don’t want to scare him,” the old woman says.

The place has several booths, a counter with a cash register, and a doorway behind the counter that leads to the kitchen. Mo whispers something to Dmitri; he looks at Colleen; Mo whispers something more. The only two customers in the place don’t appear to be paying any attention. Mo gives Colleen the go-ahead, and the three of them pass into the kitchen.

Nick is wheeling around with a plate in hand—he’s saying, “pancakes, side of bacon”—and then he stops, sees Mo Weaver with Dmitri, sees there’s another person behind Mo, then sees who it is.

“It’s okay,” Mo says in a quiet voice. “It’s okay or I wouldn’t have brought her.”

He almost drops the breakfast.

Colleen moves from behind Mo Weaver, saying, “Nick. Take it easy. I’m here as a friend.”

He moves carefully toward the counter workspace and slips the pancakes over to Dmitri.

“I’m here to talk to you. We spoke once before.” She continues formally: “Colleen Greer.”

“Yes.” He says this quietly, with dignity, matching her tone. Good.

“I traced you as far as your friend here. I talked to her for a while this morning and she understands why I need to talk to you.”

“I think she means right,” Mo says.

“Where can Nick and I talk?” Colleen asks them.

Dmitri looks around, trying to help. “One of the booths?” he suggests.

“Backyard?” Mo offers.

“It’s not a yard out there,” Dmitri frets. “It’s all overgrown.”

But Colleen likes the idea of the yard. It feels right. “Is there a place to sit out there?”

“I can get you two old chairs.”

“That’s all we need.”

Mo takes the plate of pancakes to the waiting customer while Dmitri carries two kitchen-style chairs to the yard. He plunks them down and comes back in, passing Nick and Colleen on the way.

The yard
is
terribly overgrown, but she’s happy with the choice. There is no one to overhear them and no noise except the birds scavenging for whatever crumbs Dmitri might have thrown out. She sits.

Nick takes a bit longer to get down the few steps; he sinks onto one of the chairs. Colleen watches him maneuver, still holding on to his crutches, extending his right leg. “I don’t understand,” he says, puzzled. “Aren’t you going to be taking me in? I can’t exactly run.”

There. A little joke. She smiles to encourage him. “There are a couple of people looking to protect you. Mo, up there, is one of them. She’s—”

“She doesn’t know anything about me, if that’s what you’re thinking. She only just met me and tried to help me.”

“She’s not in trouble.”