"She's being a good sport," Sasha said. "Aren't you, Grace?"
"A good sport?" A plan unfolding all around him while he only grasped at its hanging threads. "What do you mean?"
"You said you knew the plan," Sasha said. "You know exactly what I mean."
"They said if I sat here in this dress by the window," Grace said, in a voice so soft he could hardly hear her, "then I wouldn't face charges."
"Charges," he repeated helplessly. He was so close now but he still couldn't see it, he didn't quite grasp how her presence here fit into any sort of a larger scheme, the story just beyond his reach. "Who said that, Grace?"
"The detective," Grace said. "The detective and Anna."
"Grace," Sasha said, "would you listen to your music for a minute?"
Grace had a tiny plastic purse, suitable for a girl much younger. She zipped it open with difficulty— it was cheap, and the zipper stuck— and pulled out a scratched-up iPod, inserted the earbuds and looked away from them. He could hear the music very faintly but couldn't make out what it was.
"Sasha," Gavin whispered, "I don't know this part of the plan. Could you tell me what's going on here?"
"What do you mean, you don't know this part of the plan? This is the plan."
"She's not— you're not giving her to anyone, are you?"
"Of course not," Sasha whispered. "You know that. She's a decoy."
"So nothing will happen to her?"
"She'll sit here as planned, and at a certain point I'll walk her toward
the back door in full view of someone who will be waiting outside in the parking lot. That's all."
"Why her?"
"She's a runaway," Sasha said softly. "She's facing drug charges. She's at hand."
"So if she sits here as a decoy, the drug charges go away?"
"All she has to do is remain in full view through the windows while a payment gets handed off in the parking lot. It's not such a bad deal. How do you not know all of this? You said you knew the—"
"What happens to her afterward?"
"Afterward? I'll drive her home."
"The home she ran away from."
"It's an imperfect world. Would you rather have Chloe sitting here?"
Gavin was silent.
"Me neither," she said, " Grace made a deal. She knows what she's doing. Nothing will happen to her."
"Then why not have Chloe here?"
"There's always a risk."
"And you think this girl's disposable." Something was welling up inside him. He reached across the table and pulled the earbuds gently from Grace's head. He heard thin tinny voices. She was listening to rap.
"Grace," he said, "do your parents know you're here?"
Grace reached for the earbuds and turned her face to the window. Sasha was glaring at him.
"Gavin, what the hell was that?"
"She's so goddamn young," he said.
"We all were, at one point or another." Sasha sipped her coffee, watching him over the rim. It struck him, watching her, that he'd never realized how hard she was. "And we all survived our youths, didn't we? She fell into our laps. She's a little old for our purposes, but she looks young for thirteen and Chloe's almost eleven. It's plausible." Sasha glanced at her watch. "Are you really supposed to be here for this?"
"No," Gavin said, "I don't think I am." His arm was throbbing, a dull sick pain. The floor lurched alarmingly when he stood, the diner lights too bright. "Will you . . . could you possibly tell me where to find Anna?"
"I don't know where she is," Sasha said. "She just said she was going to another motel."
"If she— if you speak with her," he said, "will you tell her I'd like to talk?"
"I will," Sasha said.
" Thank you." He crossed the room and opened the door with his good hand, walked out of the air conditioning into the heat and the darkness of the parking lot. Long after dark but he still felt heat radiating from the pavement.
A taxi was pulling into the parking lot. Gavin stepped between two cars and watched Liam Deval get out. Deval paid the driver, but he didn't enter the diner. He was walking toward the back of the building, where shadows hung black and the parking lot faded into bushes and weeds, and Gavin didn't want to see any more. When he looked up Grace was still listening to music in the window, her hair falling over her face. Sasha was staring into her coffee cup.
The diner wasn't far from his apartment, two miles, maybe three. Gavin slipped between the parked cars and walked quickly away from there, turned away from Route 77 onto a side street. The beauty of the suburbs at night, streetlight shining through palm trees, the flicker of sprinklers on lawns, strange shadows. The pleasure of being alone outside after all these days of interiors. He was wandering through a new housing development when he realized he was lost. He didn't recognize the name of the street he was on. Half of the new houses seemed vacant. At the far end of the development they weren't even finished yet, skeletal beams against the sky. Raw dirt driveways with tall weeds, an abandoned bulldozer silhouetted black. Does a house still count as a ruin if it's abandoned before it's done? Asphalt soft beneath his shoes. He was aware of his footsteps on the silent street.
He crossed an expanse of weeds to the next cul-de-sac, an older neighborhood where the houses had people in them, out onto a wider commercial strip. A 7-Eleven was shining like a beacon ahead. He went in and bought a map. His thoughts were scattered. He didn't think he'd wandered that far from Route 77, but it took Gavin and the 7-Eleven counter guy a solid five minutes to find themselves on the map. All the streets looped and circled back on themselves and crashed up against grids, the grids broke into a spaghetti chaos of freeways and came back together on the other side and then disintegrated into loops again, and also the 7-Eleven guy was stoned.
Gavin found the intersection closest to his apartment after a while, but the loops and circles of the outer suburbs made for a confounding route and the 7-Eleven guy was distracted by the way all the streets converged, man. Gavin thanked him and set off in what he thought was the correct direction, but it wasn't easy to tell and all his thoughts were of Anna, Chloe, the girl in the diner. He kept realizing that he'd been walking without thinking, taking random turns. He wandered in and out of three cul-de-sacs. All the houses looked the same to him. Dogs barked occasionally. A shadow in the middle of the street turned into the silhouette of an animal he couldn't identify, then ran off into the bushes. An iguana, he decided a few blocks later, and he wished the street had been bright enough to see its skin.
Gavin lost track of where he was on the map, so he resolved to set his course by the stars. It was a clear night and in theory he was trying to get home again, but it seemed to him later that he'd really just wanted to keep walking and stay alone with his thoughts, away from the diner where at this moment a glassy-eyed runaway in a frilly dress was playing the part of his daughter and a plan that had a gun in it was moving into action. He was trying to understand and something was pulling at him, a memory of a story covered years ago by the New York Star, something about a lost child. Gavin found the North Star and kept it over his left shoulder, or tried to, but the streets wouldn't cooperate.
Af t e r s o m e time Gavin came upon a wider road— a semitrailer roared past in the darkness— and ahead were the bright signs of chain restaurants, a shopping mall that he recognized. The mall had faux-Greek pillars around the entrance, a banner reading summer midnite madness!!!
sagging over the glass doors.
Gavin walked blinking into the mall's winter chill and found a bench under a plastic-and-fabric palm tree. It was a mall filled with elevators and mezzanines. He found himself gazing blankly up at the levels of other people, these stragglers under the spell of a late-night summer sale, sales clerks smiling fixedly from store entrances. What was the Star story? It had been published years ago but there was something in it that he thought might somehow pull everything together, if only he could remember the details. There had been a lost boy in the Bronx,
a transaction. He hadn't worked on the story but he remembered his editor and another reporter talking about it, and what was startling was that after all these months, here under the halogen lights of this distant southern land, in this unrecognizable life, he still had his editor's cell-phone number programmed into his phone. He scrolled through the names, all these ghosts from his vanished life, let her name slide past on the screen three times before he summoned the courage to press the button that sent the call through the satellites to New York.
"I almost didn't pick up," Julie said. He imagined her in the night quiet of the Star newsroom, her stocking feet on her desk and her hand on her forehead, the far-off look she always had when she talked on the telephone.
"Hello, Julie," he said. He hadn't seen her since an afternoon months earlier, a different lifetime actually, when he'd risen from a conference-room table with her and the editor-in-chief and the directors of the personnel and legal departments staring at him and walked out of the Star building for the last time.
"You know where I work now?" Her tone was studiedly casual. "A website, Gavin. There isn't even paper involved anymore."
"You lost your job?"
"Most of us did."
"I'm sorry," he said. "I can't tell you how sorry I am." He could think of nothing else to say. He closed his eyes against the mall's cool light and pressed the palm of his hand against the plastic bench.
"I'm not even going to ask why you lied in your stories, Gavin. Nothing you could possibly say would make it better."
"I wasn't myself," he said. "I came a little undone."
"Just like that," Julie said, but she sounded deflated, the fight fading from her voice. It was, after all, one thirty in the morning. She sighed audibly and he reformatted his image of her into another, imagined office. What kind of space would a website occupy? He pictured a loft, an open workspace, her feet up on a different desk, the ceiling so high that shadows gathered up above her.
"Julie, I have to ask you something. It's about a story."
"You know, I've often wished over the past few months that you'd
come to me to ask about stories," she said. "But it seems a little late now, doesn't it?"
"You have no reason to believe me," he said, "but it's important. I wouldn't have called if it wasn't."
She was silent, but she didn't hang up.
"Do you remember two years ago, maybe two and a half, the paper covered a story about an abandoned boy in the Bronx? You worked on the story. I think there'd been a shootout or something, and the kid had somehow been part of it. There was some kind of drug connection."
"Theo," she said, after a moment. "Theo Cordell. He was seven."
"Will you tell me about it? I was thinking about it just now."
"You called me at, what, one thirty-five in the morning," Julie said, "to ask about a story I worked on two years ago?"
"I knew you'd be up."
"You knew I'd be up. Fine," she said, "why not? Let's tell each other stories. A seven-year-old boy was found wandering in the Bronx after a shootout. Turned out the boy's father was one of the men who'd been shot. He'd taken the kid along to some meeting, I can't remember all the details but it was a drop-off of some kind, at the other party's request."
"But why would the other person request that? Wouldn't a kid just get in the way?"
"The deal was, if either the product or the count was off, I can't remember which it was, the other party would take the kid."
"Was it off? The product, or the count?"
"One or the other," Julie said. "I can't remember now. The kid escaped in the confusion."
"So the kid came along to the transaction," Gavin said, "as, what, a kind of insurance policy?"
"Exactly," Julie said. "That's exactly it." She was animated now, the exhaustion fallen from her voice. She had a passion for people, for drama, for news. It seemed to him that she'd perhaps forgotten whom she was speaking to, or perhaps they'd managed to slip back through some invisible doorway into a time when he hadn't yet given her cause to despise him. "The detective told me it's not that uncommon. The theory is that people who'll risk their own lives won't risk their kids."
"Except Theo's father did."
"Well," she said, "you can't choose your parents."
"What happened to him?"
"To Theo? He went into foster care. I don't know what happened to him after that."
" Thank you for talking to me," he said. He wanted the call to end before she remembered who he was and became angry again, and also he was feeling ill.
" Good-night, Gavin."
He disconnected. His head was pounding and his arm was throbbing, an ache that he was afraid might stay with him forever. It was nearly two in the morning. He'd left Sasha and the girl at the diner two hours ago and whatever had happened there was almost certainly over by now. It was too late to do anything but he thought he finally understood.
How does this play out? A man from Utah arrives in a parking lot. Through the window he sees a girl in a white-and-pink dress. She's thirteen but she's small for her age, she could be ten, she could be Chloe, especially in that getup with her hair falling over her face, especially from a slight distance. Someone speaks to him and the arrangements are made. He sees through the diner window that the girl is being led toward the back door, his insurance. Someone's giving him money tonight. He's confident that the amount will be correct because the girl will be standing there when he counts it. And then?
The pain from his arm was overwhelming. Gavin left the mall and in the parking lot he realized that he was closer to Jack's house than he was to his apartment, so he set off walking in the direction of Mortimer Street.
Twenty-Three
Jack had been playing the saxophone on and off for a long time before he became aware of movement at the edge of the yard. Gavin was coming through the bushes at the side of the house.
"Don't stop," Gavin said. So Jack continued, eased back into another long loop of melody. George Gershwin's "Summertime." Music for a place where it was almost always summer. He knew an arrangement that kept the song looping around and around and he improvised inside it, leaving the melody and wandering away and then coming back to the tune again, and the living is easy, long and slow and meandering, soft and low under the orange tree. Jack always imagined a singer's voice when he played this song, a woman soothing a child to sleep on a porch in the southern lands that lay north of Florida, Alabama, Mississippi, a summer afternoon with the air heavy around them, a breeze through tall grass. He stopped all at once because the daydream and backyard had converged and he was momentarily disoriented, caught between the two. There was a soft wind moving through the grass around him, and the lawn hadn't been mowed in so long that the grass rippled. Gavin was watching him with that look he always had since he'd come back from New York. Anxious, something desperate about the eyes.
"That was beautiful," Gavin said.
"Thanks." The instrument felt inert in Jack's hands now that the music had left it. He tried to lean the saxophone against his lawn chair but it toppled over and fell into the grass, an empty shell. He decided to leave it there for the moment. There was a high silent whine in his bloodstream, sweat on his forehead, he needed another pill. Gavin sank into the chair beside him and closed his eyes.
"What happened to your arm?"
"Bar fight," Gavin said. "You should see the other guy."
It seemed to Jack that there'd been a time when Gavin would have just answered the question. "I miss everything sometimes," he said. He meant high school and the Lola Quartet, his life before South Carolina, but he realized as he spoke and as the flicker of confusion crossed Gavin's face that he didn't want to have to explain all this, so he spoke again quickly. "You like that song?"
"I always liked that song," Gavin said. " There was a guy who'd play 'Summertime' on his saxophone on the street near Columbus Circle, Broadway and 61st, maybe 62nd Street. I used to stand there and listen to him sometimes on my way home
from work."
"I knew a girl who thought it was about death," Jack said.
"Death? When I hear that song I always sort of picture a woman rocking a child to sleep. I always thought it was peaceful."
"That bit in the middle," Jack said. "The lyric about rising up singing into the sky."
"I thought that part was about leaving home."
Jack reached into his pocket. The shivering in his blood was getting
worse. "This girl, Bernadette, she knew her stuff," he said. "She studied a lot." He swallowed a pill, quickly. He didn't think Gavin noticed. "She said that part was about dying."