John Lescroart - Guilt

The pink shifted, almost imperceptibly, to mother-of-pearl, and she stood in the door, struck by her third revelation this week. The first had been that she didn't love Joe. Then recognizing something deeper – something fundamentally different and better – in the way she and Mark Dooher related, something that would be part of her from now on, of any future she had.

Then, watching her parents, the last illumination – that she was still afraid of the yellow jackets, so wary of being bitten that she was afraid to go outside. That was why she had always settled for her lesser men.

It was so clear now, suddenly, and so wrong-headed: there had always been yellow jackets on otherwise perfect evenings, and she'd never gotten stung. And taking that risk of getting stung put you out where you really wanted to be.

It was the only way, with luck, to get you to where her parents had gotten.

To where she wanted to be.

'Of course nothing happened to you,' Wes said. 'Why did I even feel like I had to ask? In fact, now that I think about it, I'm surprised some fissure didn't open in your backyard revealing a vein of gold.'

'I didn't tell you about that?' Dooher put a hand on his friend's shoulder. 'Just kidding,' he said. 'How's the face?'

Farrell had needed seven stitches and a tetanus shot. He had one bandage under his blackened left eye, another on the side of his mouth. 'Let's go with unpleasant.'

'No, how's it feel?

Farrell gave him a look. 'Funny.'

It was Friday morning a little before noon, the day after the quake, and they were in Wes's office. Dooher took a seat in the ragged armchair. His friend was putting books back on the shelves. Bart, giving no sign that he'd ever been jumpy in his life, slept under the table.

'So how'd your office make out?' Wes asked. 'Don't tell me, it wasn't touched.'

'A little. It's a relatively new building with all the codes up to date. They don't shake much.'

Farrell turned around. 'You mean nothing, don't you?'

'Nothing structural. Couple of bookshelves fell over, like here.'

'Not like here, Mark! Not like here. Here we got cracks in all the walls, maybe you didn't notice, the place has got to get completely repainted, we got plaster in the ducts, the water's out in the bathroom, every single one of my books hit the floor running,' he whirled further around, pointing, picking up some steam, 'that window, check it out, is now plywood…' He blew out a long breath. 'No! No, decidedly not just like here.'

Bart came awake, barked once, went back to sleep.

Dooher, sympathetic as a hangman, held up a hand. 'Du calme, Wesley, du calme.'

'Du calme, my ass. Easy for you to say.' His body sagging, Farrell crossed to his desk and edged himself onto the corner of it. 'I know there's no justice in the world, and nothing happens for any reason, it's all random -I know all of that – but what I don't understand is why all this perverse, random shit happens to me!'

'It's like Grace,' Dooher said.

'And don't give me any of that Catholic stuff, either.'

'Not that Grace.' Dooher crossed a leg, enjoying himself. This lady, Grace, she's born ugly as sin, half-blind, one leg missing, her hair never grows, she gets cancer at thirteen, a mess. Dies horribly and goes up to the Pearly Gates. God looks at her, says, "Grace, you're going to hell."

'"But why?" she asks. "Why, God? I've tried to be a good person, tried to please You, suffered my whole life…"

'"I don't know, Grace," God says. "There's just something about you that pisses me off.'"

Farrell was shaking his head. 'I can understand why that joke would appeal to you. You are lucky. I, on the other hand, am cursed.'

'Oh bullshit, Wes. People-'

'Stop! Stop! I know what you're going to say. That people make their own luck. That is what every lucky person in the world says, and that is bullshit!' He pushed himself off the desk, stepping on Bart's tail. 'Ruff!'

'You, dog, shut up! I don't want to hear anymore out of you.' Back to Dooher. 'Look at me here, Mark. Look at me. My apartment is trashed, my office is ruined, my fucking dog – man's best mauling machine – nearly tears my head off…' he sank back to his corner of the desk, staring at his shoes.

'Wes…'

Tm sorry. I'm just a whining sack, aren't I? But I have to tell you, sometimes the weight of what appears to be random bad luck just gets a little hard to take. It's not like I want something terrible to happen to you, but don't you sometimes wonder when it never does? Does this mean something about me? Jesus!'

'Hey, come on.' Dooher got out of his chair, walked over to his bud, put his arms around him. 'Come on. I love you, Wes, you know that. You need help here, I'll send over some of my associates. You need it at home, some money, whatever, you got it. You want, I'll put a couple of gashes into my own face, bleed a little.'

Farrell looked up, shook his head in disgust. 'I'm a waste, aren't I?' Dooher pinched his good cheek. 'But cute. Come on, let me buy you some lunch.'

It wasn't fancy, but the Chinese food was spicy hot and excellent. There were only six tables in the place, and Farrell took the opportunity to point out that he came here twice a week and never got an empty table.

But Mark Dooher walked in the door, and there was one with his name on it, and no, they didn't mind if the dog came in, too. The owner had a dog looked just like Bart. This led Farrell to wonder aloud if there was any part of Dooher's experience untouched by good fortune.

'For the record, I've got some pretty estranged, screwed-up kids, and you don't.'

'I never see my kids,' Farrell said.

'But when you do, they don't hate you, do they?'

'No. At least I don't think so.'

'Mine hate me. My failed artist namesake son hates me. My lesbian daughter hates me. My skiboard bum son hates me.'

'They don't…'

'Trust me, they do. You know it, too. Now I don't know whether that's luck or not, but it's not good. I must have had something to do with it.'

'Okay, that's serious. Your life isn't perfect. I apologize.'

A macho shrug, Dooher's mini-lesson in handling the pain the way a man should. 'It's life,' he said. 'It hits us all. Which is actually, since we're on the subject, why I wanted to see you this morning. More bad luck for me. But this is business.'

'What business?'

'I want to put you on retainer for a while as my personal attorney.'

Farrell stopped with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth. 'I'm listening.'

'Victor Trang.'

'Okay, what about him?'

'I think the police think I might have killed him.'

'Get out…! You! Are you kidding me?'

'I don't think so.'

'Why do they think that?'

'I don't know. I'm not even a hundred percent sure they do, but this cop Glitsky called me the other-'

'Glitsky?'

'Yeah, that's his name. You know him?'

'He was the cop handling my last case, Levon Copes. Screwed it up completely.'

'Well, that's a relief. He might be screwing up this one, too.'

'He thinks you killed Victor Trang? Why?'

'Take it easy, Wes. I'm not sure. But he's called me back a couple of times, zeroing in, asking questions – where was I, did I talk to Trang, that kind of thing.'

'And you answered him?'

Dooher shrugged. 'Sure. I've got nothing to hide. Why wouldn't I talk to him?'

'That doesn't matter. The first rule is never talk to a cop about a crime in your time-zone without your lawyer sitting there.'

'But I didn't-'

'Doesn't matter. What did he ask? What did you tell him?'