said. “I mean, the opening, it’ll be there, and it’d be good, you back here again.”
“I don’t think,” Ben said slowly, “that’s in the cards right now.”
“Jesus Christ,” Andy said. “No offense, Ben, but Patrol? What exactly you think you’re doing down there?”
When Ben didn’t reply, Andy started ticking off some of the major homicides they’d closed when they’d worked together. “No reason that has to stop,” he added.
“I can think of a couple,” Ben said. “Father Sarko not pressing charges being one.”
“Water under the bridge,” Andy said and fired up the Zippo again.
“A little more than that,” Ben said. “Thanks to you.”
“Yeah, well,” Andy said. “Ok.” He paused, then asked, “You getting out at all down there?”
“What?” Ben said.
Andy sighed. “Look, you know you got the tendency since Diane and all to shut everyone out, go to ground, and not even mean to or notice that’s what you’re doing, and then if you’re not careful, you get jammed up.”
“You’re calling,” Ben said, “because you’re worried I’m going to try to shoot myself or someone else, is that it?”
Ben waited to see if Andy would add an again .
“All I’m saying, you’re alone, it’s easy to get jammed.”
“I’m doing ok,” Ben said.
Andy went quiet.
There were bets you made with the world, Ben thought, and those you made with yourself. If you were lucky, they turned out to be the same ones.
If you weren’t, you ended up with your days having dwindled to the half-life of a prayer and a chambered .22 semi-automatic.
“The thing is,” Andy said finally, “you can’t watch your own back. Nobody can. I know you miss her. You can’t help but. Hell, we all do.”
“I’m doing ok,” Ben said again. He crossed the living room and paused before the sliding glass doors leading to the patio, his reflection appearing, then disappearing in the lightning-like stutter of the faulty halogen parking lot light.
“Ok then,” Andy Calucci said. “I hear you. I was just getting worried we might be looking at some serious déjà vu action here.”
“No déjà vu,” Ben said. “I’m doing ok.”
FOURTEEN
JACK CARSON was at the kitchen window, the early morning sun slow and just starting to snake through the tree lines and over the neighboring rooflines. He was in a brown terrycloth bathrobe and a pair of old slippers. He held a plastic glass covered in cartoon figures. Jack Carson was trying to remember if he’d already drunk what the glass held or if he needed to go on and fill it.
At eye-level to his right, between the sink and refrigerator, was a calendar topped by a glossy colored photograph of a dramatic series of rapids, all dark jutting rocks and white veils of spume, and a heavy salmon suspended like an apostrophe mid-leap above them.
Jack Carson looked at the month and ran his fingers over the days.
“Look, we’ve already covered this ground,” a woman said. “You need to come straight home from school and watch your grandfather.”
On the other side of the kitchen was a brown-haired woman in a starched white shirt and dark blue jeans. She held a compact in her palm and tilted its cover so that the mirror let her follow the path of the make-up she was applying.
Below her, at the kitchen table, was a girl sitting in front of a bowl of cereal. Her hair was ponytailed tight against her scalp. Hanging from the back of her chair was a red and blue bookbag.
“Jennifer’s,” she said, pointing her spoon at the woman. “I was supposed to go over to her place after school. It’s important.”
The brown-haired woman said something about a Mrs. Wood and her having to leave early so that Paige needed to come home right after school.
“It’s not like Jennifer asks just anyone over to her house,” the girl said. “Her dad’s a surgeon, and her mother’s beautiful enough to be a model.”
The brown-haired woman said she was sorry and then
“I don’t think,” Ben said slowly, “that’s in the cards right now.”
“Jesus Christ,” Andy said. “No offense, Ben, but Patrol? What exactly you think you’re doing down there?”
When Ben didn’t reply, Andy started ticking off some of the major homicides they’d closed when they’d worked together. “No reason that has to stop,” he added.
“I can think of a couple,” Ben said. “Father Sarko not pressing charges being one.”
“Water under the bridge,” Andy said and fired up the Zippo again.
“A little more than that,” Ben said. “Thanks to you.”
“Yeah, well,” Andy said. “Ok.” He paused, then asked, “You getting out at all down there?”
“What?” Ben said.
Andy sighed. “Look, you know you got the tendency since Diane and all to shut everyone out, go to ground, and not even mean to or notice that’s what you’re doing, and then if you’re not careful, you get jammed up.”
“You’re calling,” Ben said, “because you’re worried I’m going to try to shoot myself or someone else, is that it?”
Ben waited to see if Andy would add an again .
“All I’m saying, you’re alone, it’s easy to get jammed.”
“I’m doing ok,” Ben said.
Andy went quiet.
There were bets you made with the world, Ben thought, and those you made with yourself. If you were lucky, they turned out to be the same ones.
If you weren’t, you ended up with your days having dwindled to the half-life of a prayer and a chambered .22 semi-automatic.
“The thing is,” Andy said finally, “you can’t watch your own back. Nobody can. I know you miss her. You can’t help but. Hell, we all do.”
“I’m doing ok,” Ben said again. He crossed the living room and paused before the sliding glass doors leading to the patio, his reflection appearing, then disappearing in the lightning-like stutter of the faulty halogen parking lot light.
“Ok then,” Andy Calucci said. “I hear you. I was just getting worried we might be looking at some serious déjà vu action here.”
“No déjà vu,” Ben said. “I’m doing ok.”
FOURTEEN
JACK CARSON was at the kitchen window, the early morning sun slow and just starting to snake through the tree lines and over the neighboring rooflines. He was in a brown terrycloth bathrobe and a pair of old slippers. He held a plastic glass covered in cartoon figures. Jack Carson was trying to remember if he’d already drunk what the glass held or if he needed to go on and fill it.
At eye-level to his right, between the sink and refrigerator, was a calendar topped by a glossy colored photograph of a dramatic series of rapids, all dark jutting rocks and white veils of spume, and a heavy salmon suspended like an apostrophe mid-leap above them.
Jack Carson looked at the month and ran his fingers over the days.
“Look, we’ve already covered this ground,” a woman said. “You need to come straight home from school and watch your grandfather.”
On the other side of the kitchen was a brown-haired woman in a starched white shirt and dark blue jeans. She held a compact in her palm and tilted its cover so that the mirror let her follow the path of the make-up she was applying.
Below her, at the kitchen table, was a girl sitting in front of a bowl of cereal. Her hair was ponytailed tight against her scalp. Hanging from the back of her chair was a red and blue bookbag.
“Jennifer’s,” she said, pointing her spoon at the woman. “I was supposed to go over to her place after school. It’s important.”
The brown-haired woman said something about a Mrs. Wood and her having to leave early so that Paige needed to come home right after school.
“It’s not like Jennifer asks just anyone over to her house,” the girl said. “Her dad’s a surgeon, and her mother’s beautiful enough to be a model.”
The brown-haired woman said she was sorry and then
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