Marcus Sakey - The Blade Itself

“I felt like I owed it to you.” Picking his words carefully. “To have someone there.”

“Seeing as I was taking a solo fall, you mean.” Evan’s eyes hard again. “I thought maybe you just wanted to see if I’d drop your name.”

“I knew you wouldn’t.” And he had, too, known that Evan would do the time cold, even though Danny had walked out, even though a word might have saved him years.

Evan nodded. “Got that right.”

The music was repeating “I’ve got to get away from here,” and part of Danny knew just what the singer meant. But he was surprised to realize that another part of him was enjoying this.

Thing was, some nights, lying in bed in his safe neighborhood, he pictured a round metal door a foot thick, like a bank vault. Inside waited a dim room with racks like safe deposit boxes. He’d step in, close the door behind him, slide open one of the little boxes and remember the electric-dicked thrill of drag racing stolen cars down the Dan Ryan at four in the morning. Or the soft, almost sexual yielding of a lock to his picks. His fist in the air in St. Andrew’s, lungs raw with howling as Evan fought in the finals of the Golden Gloves.

It was his little secret, and it didn’t change anything. There was a reason he walled off those memories behind a foot of imaginary steel. But talking to Evan, the real guy, not the symbol from his dreams, it was like visiting that vault.

“So you got out early.”

Evan nodded. “They needed to clear some bunks. It was my first fall for a violent crime. And inside I kept myself to myself.” He shrugged.

“Simple as that.”

“If you say so.” Their eyes met again, feeling each other out. Danny sipped his beer, more aware of the taste than usual. He didn’t know what to say next, looked at Evan, looked back at his drink. A moment passed in silence.

Then Evan spoke. “You hear about Terry?”

Danny could picture him, stringy hair and bad breath. The last time he’d seen Terry was when he’d tipped them off to the pawnshop. A lifetime ago. “No.”

“I met one of his old dealers inside. Apparently Terry cleaned up, quit using. Managed to talk someone into letting him middleman product, God knows how, fucking track marks on his arm. He was doing well, selling to college kids wanna walk on the wild side. Then one day, he decides to take a little blast himself, for old times’ sake.”

Danny shook his head.

“Soon he’s cutting his stuff to skim for his own supply. Isn’t long before he’s selling milk sugar. Even the college kids can tell the difference.

He has to hit the street. Only now his habit is back, and shorting is the only way he can supply himself.”

Something about this story felt familiar. Not the specifics, but the structure. The course of it. The illicit thrill of the conversation began to evaporate as Danny guessed how the story would end.

“One day he sells a couple of weak grams to a Mexican kid. The guy turns out to be a baby banger, a Latin King trying to earn his stripes.” Evan took a sip of beer. “So Terry bled out in the basement of a tar house on South Corliss.”

A wave of rolling nausea washed through Danny. Of course the story had seemed familiar. He’d heard it before in a thousand variations. It was the story of what happened if you stuck with the life. Terry had been a junkie, but that wasn’t what killed him. It wasn’t even the gangbanger he’d cheated. What had killed him was the inexorable fact that there was only one ending to stories like his. He’d died because he was too weak to stop. To escape. Danny found himself remembering his earlier thought, the question of what Evan meant to him now. He realized he knew the answer.

Nothing.

It was time to go home.

“Listen, brother, it’s good to see you, but I’ve got to head out.”

Evan’s expression hardened, and he turned to the bar, one hand on his pint. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, you know, I’m a civilian now. I’ve got work.” He stood up, reached for his jacket. “Construction.”

“Just like your dad.”

“Sort of. I work in the office, though.” A voice inside him told him to shut up, not to go any further, but the words slipped out. “I’m a project manager.”

Evan nodded, still not looking at Danny. “Good for you. Beats shoveling shit.”

“Yeah. Hey, congratulations again.” He fumbled for his wallet, took out a couple of twenties.

“You don’t need to buy my beer.”

“Shit, it’s my pleasure. Least I can do.” What was he saying ?

Evan sat silent.

The voice inside whispered that this was all wrong, that the tightrope was swaying and he was off balance and the darkness was hungry, but between the booze and the music and the thought of junkie Terry bleeding to death on dingy concrete, he pushed it away. All he wanted was to get out.

Evan kept staring straight ahead as Danny took a half step toward the door. Danny knew he should say something, but had no idea what. Finally, he put a hand on Evan’s shoulder, feeling the stone-carved muscles rigid beneath. “Good luck.”

Evan only nodded.

Aroar from Wrigley Field drifted up through the autumn air. The Cubs must have scored. In Bridgeport, they’d have been rooting for the White Sox. Danny, he didn’t much care one way or the other, but he loved the way the sun fell on his fire escape, and he loved the tree-lined streets that spread out beneath it.

Come to think of it, he loved the whole damn place. Loved their condo, a second-story flat with hardwood floors and a working fireplace. He even loved weekend afternoons spent repairing crown molding or laying tile. Evan would have howled to see it, Danny on his knees, painting trim with the delicate care he’d once used to pick locks. The thought of his old partner gave him a momentary chill, but he pushed it aside. It didn’t matter what Evan would think. He had no place in Danny’s life anymore.

Laugh it up, buddy. Just don’t expect me to care.

“What are you still doing here?” Karen stepped out, smiling as she pulled her hair back into a ponytail. “Didn’t you promise me a date?”

He grinned and drew her close, feeling the soft tension of her muscles, the way her body nestled just so. All those years, and still not tired of the way she felt in his arms. He slid his palm down the small of her back.

“Easy, Romeo.” She stepped away from him with a teasing smile. “Isn’t your boss expecting you?”

He groaned. “Richard can wait.”

“Quit stalling. Go take care of business. Then take me to the zoo and buy me cotton candy.” She turned to go inside, stopped, and glanced over her shoulder with a flirty look. “Who knows? You might get lucky.”

He laughed, and followed her in.

It took thirty minutes to make it out to the North Shore. In a neighborhood where half a million dollars bought two bedrooms, Danny’s boss had five. Located a block from the lake, the house was an English manor with a sprawling lawn. In front stood a mailbox built as a miniature replica, down to the paintwork. The mailman would hook the bay window and pull open the house.

Danny parked on the street, hopped out, and found himself in the midst of a domestic explosion. Tommy, Richard’s twelve-year-old son, burst through the front door, yelling and pointing. “Why not? Everybody has one.”

His boss followed, meaty face red. “I don’t care. I’m not buying you a damn PlayStation so you can rot your brain.”

“What do you care?” Tommy glared at his father. “You’re never even here .”

“Don’t you talk that way to me, young man. I’m still your father.”