that was state law. The same law forbade bartenders to serve doubles. Kevin paid no attention. His idea of measuring was to pour until all the ice floated. He didn't like politicians either.
On slow nights, as most of them were, Kevin would retreat to the far end of the bar reading books that had wistfully pathetic titles such as Starting Over and Jobs on Cruise Ships. But the books started Michael thinking. It was time to consider his options. Where to go from here. A book might have some ideas.
He spent an hour in the Edgartown bookstore at the shelf marked Self-Help. Several of the titles dealt with being fired and how to land back on one's feet. All of them had keep-your-chin-up sections aimed at people in their fifties whose jobs had been their identity and who were scared to death that they might never find another. None of these had much relevance to his situation.
For one thing, they hadn't been blackballed. No one had. set out to destroy their careers. No one had tried to kill them.
And Fallon was, after all, in good shape financially. His investment portfolio was worth almost half a million. Doyle had been managing it for him. And he would inherit a lot more from Jake. There was Jake's house in Brooklyn, a condo in Florida, and all that sports memorabilia, much of it pretty rare. Even after splitting it with Moon, and after taxes, Jake would leave him at least another million or so.
But that was later, this was now. He still needed some one to talk to. That someone became Sheldon Greenberg. Fallon found his book on the bottom shelf.
Greenberg’s book was about big-time stress. Severe emotional trauma. There were chapters devoted to people who've been mugged, burglarized, stalked, and shot at. Most of which fit. There was even a section on people who had lost a loved one to violent crime.
Fallon read the book in one day. It said, basically, that he was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. Well, no shit. He almost tossed it away because Dr. Greenberg promptly began nagging him about getting off his ass and getting treatment. And about boozing with Kevin every night.
“ For one thing, you're turning into a drunk. For an other, Kevin hates you.''
“He hates me? For what?”
“ For having money. For still being young. Face it, Mi chael. You're not going to get much sympathy.''
Fallon realized that this was a little nuts. Talking to a book . Having the book talk back. But people talk to God and dead saints. Why not to a psychologist who isn't nearly as far away?
Anyway, the book seemed to help him. The book and the passage of time. By the end of his first month on Martha's Vineyard, so different, so quiet, New York seemed a continent away. He had almost convinced him self that maybe he'd been running from shadows. Someone is always double-parked on 82nd Street. There were al ways strangers in the building.
Those detectives, however, were real. They were reason enough to get out of town until the city gives them some thing more pressing to think about.
What helped as much as the passage of time was finally being rid of that cast. One evening when he could bear it no longer he pried it apart with his fingers and burned the pieces in his fireplace. The skin underneath was deathly white and had the smell of sewage. Dried blood, not his own, caked the back of his hand. He scrubbed it raw. The muscles had atrophied and he could barely flex the wrist without pain but the arm felt as cool and as light as air. He almost felt reborn.
If that felt so good, he asked himself, why stop with the cast? The next thing he burned was his suit.
He spent a day buying all new clothing. He bought what the islanders wore. Woolrich shirts, crew neck sweaters, Timberland boots and boat shoes. He began running again, working out, drinking less, eating balanced meals. Day by day, the wrist regained its strength. He bought a bicycle and began exploring the island on it. He bought several books about its history, its geology,
On slow nights, as most of them were, Kevin would retreat to the far end of the bar reading books that had wistfully pathetic titles such as Starting Over and Jobs on Cruise Ships. But the books started Michael thinking. It was time to consider his options. Where to go from here. A book might have some ideas.
He spent an hour in the Edgartown bookstore at the shelf marked Self-Help. Several of the titles dealt with being fired and how to land back on one's feet. All of them had keep-your-chin-up sections aimed at people in their fifties whose jobs had been their identity and who were scared to death that they might never find another. None of these had much relevance to his situation.
For one thing, they hadn't been blackballed. No one had. set out to destroy their careers. No one had tried to kill them.
And Fallon was, after all, in good shape financially. His investment portfolio was worth almost half a million. Doyle had been managing it for him. And he would inherit a lot more from Jake. There was Jake's house in Brooklyn, a condo in Florida, and all that sports memorabilia, much of it pretty rare. Even after splitting it with Moon, and after taxes, Jake would leave him at least another million or so.
But that was later, this was now. He still needed some one to talk to. That someone became Sheldon Greenberg. Fallon found his book on the bottom shelf.
Greenberg’s book was about big-time stress. Severe emotional trauma. There were chapters devoted to people who've been mugged, burglarized, stalked, and shot at. Most of which fit. There was even a section on people who had lost a loved one to violent crime.
Fallon read the book in one day. It said, basically, that he was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. Well, no shit. He almost tossed it away because Dr. Greenberg promptly began nagging him about getting off his ass and getting treatment. And about boozing with Kevin every night.
“ For one thing, you're turning into a drunk. For an other, Kevin hates you.''
“He hates me? For what?”
“ For having money. For still being young. Face it, Mi chael. You're not going to get much sympathy.''
Fallon realized that this was a little nuts. Talking to a book . Having the book talk back. But people talk to God and dead saints. Why not to a psychologist who isn't nearly as far away?
Anyway, the book seemed to help him. The book and the passage of time. By the end of his first month on Martha's Vineyard, so different, so quiet, New York seemed a continent away. He had almost convinced him self that maybe he'd been running from shadows. Someone is always double-parked on 82nd Street. There were al ways strangers in the building.
Those detectives, however, were real. They were reason enough to get out of town until the city gives them some thing more pressing to think about.
What helped as much as the passage of time was finally being rid of that cast. One evening when he could bear it no longer he pried it apart with his fingers and burned the pieces in his fireplace. The skin underneath was deathly white and had the smell of sewage. Dried blood, not his own, caked the back of his hand. He scrubbed it raw. The muscles had atrophied and he could barely flex the wrist without pain but the arm felt as cool and as light as air. He almost felt reborn.
If that felt so good, he asked himself, why stop with the cast? The next thing he burned was his suit.
He spent a day buying all new clothing. He bought what the islanders wore. Woolrich shirts, crew neck sweaters, Timberland boots and boat shoes. He began running again, working out, drinking less, eating balanced meals. Day by day, the wrist regained its strength. He bought a bicycle and began exploring the island on it. He bought several books about its history, its geology,
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