Джеймс Грейди - The Best American Mystery Stories 2002

“I think I’m starting to.”

“Atta boy.” The man returned to his notebook. “Now I know what you prolly gotta be thinking, so don’t worry. Happy Joe understands these things. You work with him, make an honest effort, he’s actually a whole lot more flexible than a lot of folks give him credit. So let’s you and me see where we are.”

While Stephen sat, massaging his aching jaw with one hand, the guy who worked for somebody named Happy Joe King flipped a page in his notepad and ran a finger down the next. Soon he gave a low whistle.

“Took a bath on the playoffs, huh?”

Fielder closed his eyes and nodded.

The man flipped a page. “ ’Course, you ain’t been doing too hot at the track, either.”

Fielder sighed. “Not too.”

The man flipped another page. He glanced at Fielder.

“I know,” Fielder said. “I know.”

“No offense, but you must be the unluckiest fuckin’ guy I seen all year.”

“You might say the numbers haven’t been falling my way lately.”

“You might say it a couple times.” The guy flipped another page in his notepad, then closed it. “Okay. I can see we got our work cut out for us, here. Tell you what: you got some markers out at the casino that go back more than ninety days. We’ll start there and work our way forward. That sound fair enough?”

“The casino?” The amount of information in this guy’s notepad was beginning to fill Stephen Fielder with a deep sense of despair. “The Nugget?”

“No, the MGM Grand. Yeah, the Nugget. You know of another one on this river?”

“But Dookie had nothing to do with the casino.”

“No,” said the guy. “No, he didn’t. But Happy Joe King, see, he does. And since he’s consolidating the books, so to speak, it tends to put everything right there in one place, if you know what I mean. Certain patterns become visible where they might, otherwise, maybe not. Sorry to be the bringer.”

Fielder didn’t know what to say. So he just sat there.

“Hey,” said the guy. “Chin up, partner. This is all gonna work out fine.” He stepped forward, leaned over, and stuck out his hand. “Up we go.”

Before Fielder could decline the offer, he felt himself being pulled to his feet. The room wobbled again. He blinked, suddenly enveloped by an invisible nimbus of cheap cologne.

“How you feeling? Chomper okay?”

“I think it’s broken.”

“Aww, come on. I didn’t hit you that hard.”

“If you say so.”

The guy just chuckled, reaching inside his jacket to retrieve a pen. He scribbled something in the notebook, tore out the page, folded it once and stuck it in Fielder’s shirt pocket.

“That’s your number,” he said. “We’ll start out easy. That sound okay by you?”

“I...” Fielder had no words. “Yes.”

“Then we’re all set. I’ll be back in a week.” The guy grinned. Then he nodded darkly toward Fielder’s pocket. “Have it, okay?”

Fielder wanted to look at the paper, but he didn’t have the nerve. So he just nodded.

“Atta boy. I can see we’re gonna get along fine.”

Stephen nodded again. He felt a rough hand clap him on the shoulder.

“Now how about that burger?” the collector said.

The morning after began inevitably.

With telephone calls.

The first came from Fielder’s brother-in-law, Ned, managing owner of six Bronco Burger locations citywide. Fielder let Ned harangue the answering machine while he fed Rhombus, the Labrador he’d owned since his undergraduate days.

Renee rang in by 8:30, close on her brother’s heels.

Hello? Are you okay? Oh, no. Not Renee. The first words out of his ex-wife’s mouth were, I don’t know what you’ve done this time, but you’ve definitely got a hell of a lot of nerve. I told Ned it was a terrible idea, hiring you.

Stephen decided to let the answering machine take that one, too.

Finally, around 10:30, Fielder heard the answering machine pick up for the third time. By now he sat at the folding card table in the kitchenette, reading yesterday’s newspaper and sipping today’s first Stoli.

“Dad? You’re screening, aren’t you?”

This time, he snatched up the cordless receiver the minute he heard the voice on the other end of the line.

“Andrea?”

“Dad. What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, sweetie. Aren’t you supposed to be at school?”

“I’m between classes. And don’t dodge me. What happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“My friend Derek told me you got beat up.”

“Who?”

“Derek. You worked late shift together last night. He just told me some guy came in and clobbered you! Dad, is that true?”

Listening to her, Fielder felt something collapse in his chest. He thought it might have been the last of his pride. “The kid with all the earrings? I thought his name was David.”

“Dad!”

Fielder sighed into the phone.

“Everything’s fine, sweetie. Really. There was a guy, but it was nothing. Some lunatic, that’s all.”

“Derek said he heard the guy say you owed somebody money. Are you in some kind of trouble? Tell me the truth.”

“I’m fine, Andie. Okay? Do me a favor. Tell your friend Derek to mind his own goddamned business.”

“I’m coming over during lunch period.”

“We’re on opposite sides of town. Don’t waste your gas.”

“I’m coming over. Do you even have anything to eat in the apartment?”

“Andie...”

“Never mind. I’ll stop and get something on the way.” She paused theatrically. “Bronco Burger okay with you?”

“That’s not funny.”

“Who’s laughing?” Andrea said, and hung up the phone.

For the next hour or so, Fielder sat at the crappy folding table, listlessly watching the ice cubes melt in his booze. At some point, Rhombus padded over and stood with his big doggy head in Fielder’s lap. Fielder scrubbed him between the ears. They looked at each other. So. What’s new with you?

When Andie finally knocked around 11:30, Stephen drew himself together and prepared himself to play the role of World’s Most Disappointing Dad.

It was demoralizing, but Stephen could live with that. Since the divorce became official seven months ago, any moment he was able to spend in his daughter’s company was a happy gift. Despite the mess he and Renee had made of the family, Andie just kept on growing into this extraordinary human being who never stopped impressing or delighting him. Stephen could live with her disappointment a thousand times more easily than her absence.

So he dumped the last of the Stoli down the sink, rinsed out the glass, stowed the bottle in the cupboard above the refrigerator, and hustled to the door.

Only it wasn’t Andie.

“Stephen Fielder?” said the guy with the tool belt.

Fielder sighed, propping an arm on the edge of the door. “Now what?”

The guy pointed a finger at the manifest in his hand. “Fielder?”

Stephen recognized the cable company logo stitched on the guy’s shirt. “Yeah. But I think there’s been a mistake. My cable’s working fine.”

“Hey, great,” said the dirty imposter, grinning cheerfully as he handed Stephen a fat business envelope embossed with the corporate seal of the university’s law firm. “It’s been a pleasure serving you.”

Sometimes Stephen thought back to last year, just before the holidays, when one of his oldest friends had gone in for a routine physical that turned up brain cancer. Jesus, he’d thought then. How do you handle a thing like that? The poor damned guy had been dead by New Year’s Day.

On the bright side, at least a cerebral lesion the size of a silver dollar was an explanation. Stephen had stopped seeking explanations for his own condition months ago. Each day he simply woke up, took a shower, dressed himself, and shambled off into the same waking dream his life had become — each day a vast Mobius treadmill that began where it ended and traveled nowhere in between.