Chuck Hogan - Devils in Exile

“So you’re a bystander.”

Maven shrugged again, not overselling it. “Why — who is she?”

Lash didn’t answer, didn’t give anything away. “Too bad she didn’t stick around, say thank you. She beat it out of here pretty quick. Kind of ungrateful, don’t you think?”

“You should ask her.”

Lash’s eyes narrowed, looking him over. “You a vet?”

Maven was surprised. “I am.”

“Back how long?”

“Little over a year now.”

Lash nodded. “I’m out since ’75, longer than you’ve been alive. And I can still spot a brother-in-arms. Something about the discipline, standing for questioning. Always thinking you can put one over on your CO.”

Maven shook his head. “No, sir.”

“You look like you’re doing pretty good for yourself.”

“I’m getting by.”

“Those aren’t exactly ‘getting by’ threads. But you don’t know nothin’ ’bout the girl, right?”

“That’s right.”

On a folded piece of paper, Lash was copying down Maven’s name and address from his driver’s license. Maven’s ID still had his old Quincy address. On Royce’s advice, he had never registered his move with the post office, never forwarded his mail.

Maven heard the opening beats of the Ultramagnetic MC’s “Traveling at the Speed of Thought” and reached for his mobile. It was gone from his jacket pocket.

Lash drew Maven’s old-school-rap-playing phone out of his jacket pocket. “Oh, is this yours?” He opened the flip top. “I found it on the floor out there.” He opened the text message. “Who’s Samara?”

He tossed the phone to Maven. “My girlfriend,” said Maven, reading the text: I’m asleep — y r’nt u???

Lash said, “The girl you were fighting over know that?”

Maven put his phone away. “I told you, she wasn’t my girlfriend.”

“You sure fought like she was.”

After letting Maven go, Lash unfolded the paper on which he had scribbled down Maven’s vitals. It was a photo printout from an ATM surveillance camera, date-stamped November 9 of last year. The dead Venezuelan, Vasco, back in his walking and talking days, withdrawing cash while a woman waited just inside the door. A tough angle, high and from the side — but it was her. The woman this Maven kid had been fighting over. A lot of fucking clubs he’d hit over the weekend, but sometimes, late on a Sunday night, you get lucky.

Lash pocketed the photo and the address, thinking about Mr. I’m Getting By.

Maven rounded the corner and popped the battery from his phone, slipping both into a trash can. Outside the Tam across from the dark marquee of the Cutler Majestic Theatre, the door to an idling taxi van opened. Maven ducked inside, sitting next to Royce and across from Danielle.

Royce said, “What the fuck happened?”

Maven glanced at Danielle, just a half second, enough to read that she had been playing dumb.

“Nothing. There was a cop in the manager’s office.”

“A cop?”

“Random thing. Couple of questions.”

“Well? Was it nothing, or was it nothing?”

“It was nothing.”

Royce sat back with a frown. He knocked on the partition and the driver pulled away.

“I guess we’re done at Precipice for a while.” Royce turned, watching Maven. “Fighting on the dance floor? That’s something I expect out of Glade, not you. What the fuck happened to staying out of trouble? What’s wrong with you?”

Maven looked at Danielle. She was looking out the window.

Maven said, “I don’t know.”

Samara wanted to buy him a sweater. “I don’t know why, I just think it’s going to be a cold fall.”

They were walking through the Center Court of the Prudential Center in shorts and T-shirts. “No girl has ever bought me anything before.”

“Something nice. So you have to promise me you like it. No politeness.” She was going through her bag for something, but instead came upon a crumpled envelope and pulled it out. “Oh — and having mail sent to my place?”

It was from the Massachusetts Registry of Motor Vehicles. His motorcycle registration. He didn’t want the Marlborough Street addy linked to him on paper, and needed a street address for the bike.

“I meant to mention this,” he told her. “The insurance is much higher if I garage this in the Back Bay than in Allston.”

“Really? I would think it’s the other way around.”

“Insurance fraud is a year upstate, tops. I know you’ll take the fall rather than rat me out.”

A passing voice said, “Is that fucking Cipher?”

Maven didn’t stop right away. His first impulse was to keep on walking.

The suit threw him off. As did the haircut, parted on the side, a few inches longer than regulation.

“You fucking pussy,” said the guy. Big smile on his face. “Ho-lee shit. Cipher in the flesh.”

“Clearwater,” said Maven. “Jesus Christ.”

They hugged in the middle of the shopping arcade, the older man in the pin-striped suit, Maven in cargo shorts. The backslaps came hard and loud until Clearwater shoved him off. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Fucking minding my own business. What about you? You were supposed to be a lifer.”

“My twenty was up. I work in the Pru tower. Forty-fourth floor. Investments.”

Maven said, “What, you have a career or something?”

“Or something. Jesus, you got fat.”

Maven smiled. Clearwater was in good shape for a twice-divorced vet in his forties. Maven remembered Samara and introduced her.

“Apologies for the profanities,” said Clearwater. “Army buddies.”

“I figured,” she said.

“It’s just that I can’t believe I’m back in civilization standing here with fucking Cipher.”

“Cipher?” said Samara.

Clearwater said, “This kid. So fucking quiet when he came in. Borderline challenged, you know what I’m saying? We took bets on him, either this kid would be a total washout, crying into his pillow at night, or else the ultimate killing machine. I lost money on his ass, but he did us proud. Did us goddamned proud.”

Maven shook his head, wanting Clearwater to shut up.

“Fifteen minutes,” said Clearwater. He turned to Samara. “Gimme fifteen minutes with him, to catch up. You come too. I got stories that’ll straighten your hair.”

She smiled and shook her head. “I’m going to go cruise Saks. You guys catch up without me.”

“Twenty minutes,” said Clearwater.

“Fifteen,” she said, blowing Maven a kiss and walking off.

Legal Sea Foods was nearest, the S-shaped bar empty at three o’clock, overlooking Boylston Street at the end of the arcade. Three quick shots of Hangar One led to a lot of shoulder squeezing and many more fuck s.

“I looked up to you, man,” said Maven. “We all did. You had it fucking figured out. You knew your shit. Mr. Been There, Fucked That.”

“It was the uniform, boy. I put it on, I became that guy. Look at this fucking uniform now.”

“Still getting it done though. Forty-fourth floor?”

“I’m just starting out. My brother-in-law, he brought me in.”

“Whoa, hold up. Fucking married again ?”

“Why the fuck you think I’m here clinging to you now?” Clearwater pushed away their glasses, loosened his necktie, ordered two more. “So what about you? No work on a weekday afternoon?”

“Flexible hours.” The vodkas came, Maven’s swimming pleasantly in his view. “Working for another vet now. Reminds me a little of you.”

“Handsome feller, hm? What’s his name, maybe I know him.”

“Royce.”

“Royce. Like a Rolls? That’s his first name?”