Джеффри Дивер - Ninth and Nowhere

Am I really doing this?

Then on went the lucky jacket. He stuffed the bag into the pocket and stepped outside into the chill morning, the air fragrant with exhaust.

“It’ll be fine. Imagine it’s an audition for a part in a play.”

“Oh, that’s not making me feel any better,” Brett Abbott said.

“You acted in high school.”

“I hated it and I was terrible.”

“I’m sure you were great.” The petite blond kissed her husband hard.

“Ick,” said Joey, thirteen. Soon he’d be more interested in the ick, though Brett supposed when it came to your parents, there was a perpetual ick factor.

Bev gave the baby some more glop. Brett thought: Now that’s ick for you.

They were in the kitchen of the family’s split-level, in a subdivision just on the edge of town. Brett was polishing his shoes, which he did every morning before he left for work. He hadn’t done this for two months and four days. It felt good.

Bev said, “Mr. Weatherby seems nice.” The couple had met Brett’s new boss — potential new boss — several times, at a fund-raiser downtown, at the country club. And the charismatic man had taken Brett and Bev out to dinner once, as a sort of get-to-know-the-new-employee thing.

Potential new employee.

Bev said, “Maybe he can help us with a loan.”

Brett’s coffee paused on his way to his mouth.

“I’m joking, honey.”

Weatherby owned W&S Financial Services and made good change from loans. And Weatherby himself made good change from W&S. He and the wife had driven a new Tesla, the fancy one, to the steak house.

Brett shrugged. “Ah, he’d laugh if you told him something like that.”

Bev fiddled at the sink. “You’re looking nervous.”

“Really.” Brett Abbott, thirty-eight, generally didn’t give off nervous. He was six two, two-hundred-plus pounds, wide shoulders. He had a slow-moving way about him. He might look upset or angry and cagey at times but didn’t think he ever looked nervous.

“What’s Dad nervous about?” Joey asked.

Brett had learned that nothing gets past kids and when your wife phrases something so out there, well, of course he was going to ask.

“It’s like your first day of school. You’re never sure how it’s going to go. Your dad’s trying out for this job.”

Weatherby hadn’t gotten to be a multimillionaire by paying money to people who weren’t good at what they did. He offered Brett a probationary period. If he performed well, he could look forward to good pay.

Joey said, “Your last job, you took me on that sixteen-wheeler.”

“That was fun.”

“What’re you doing for this new job? Something neat?”

“Do you know what ‘vet’ means?”

“Yeah, where we take Babe and Coffee.” He nodded toward the two labs presently chowing down breakfast in the corner.

Bev and Brett laughed. He said, “That’s true. But it’s a verb too.”

“A word that means to do something,” the boy said.

“Good. Right. ‘Vet’ as a verb means to check people out and make sure they can pay back a loan before Mr. Weatherby’s company lends it to them. Have they paid money back in the past, how big are their assets...?”

This drew a snicker from the boy.

“Joey!” Bev said.

“Dad said it.” Then the boy was losing interest — financial services couldn’t compete with a big truck — and he returned to typing out texts.

You’re looking nervous...

Because he was.

Nervous as hell.

The family was in trouble. They’d foolishly listened to a small-time investment advisor, who’d managed to lose all their savings in two years. They’d run up massive debts. Brett had worked out agreements with banks and credit card companies to pay off the crushing sums that were owed. Bev was working, too, two jobs. But then recently — two months and four days ago — Carelli Transport went under. Brett had looked at bankruptcy but decided no. He would never do that.

He had to do something. There was no margin in their life; they’d just been making ends meet with what Carelli paid him — and even that meant eating lousy food, driving junkers and having no health insurance, neither he nor Bev.

The insurance was a big deal. Bev’s job involved a drive of two miles from home to the school where she worked. Brett’s took him all over the city, sometimes to dicey areas of town. If anything happened to him, an injury or accident, that could bankrupt the family. His brother had a minor heart problem. His two-day hospital stay had cost $65,000. Even now, the thought of that amount made Brett’s stomach twist.

But he was optimistic about today. He’d pulled in some favors from people he’d met through the transport company and got an entry to Ed Weatherby. They’d met and the couples had met and the matter-of-fact man had said he liked the cut of Brett’s jib (he’d had to look it up later). Weatherby would try him out. If it worked, he’d sign on full-time. One thing in his favor, Brett knew: he was very, very good at his job.

Brett looked at his watch, a big gold one that his father had given him for high school graduation. “Better go. Can’t be late for this.”

Bev followed Brett out of the kitchen. They stepped into the front hallway and Brett pulled on his navy-blue wool overcoat.

Coyly, Bev reached behind the other coats in the closet and handed him a shopping bag. It was heavy. “Got you a present.”

He pulled out an alligator-skin briefcase. Beautiful.

His first thought, he was ashamed to say, was how much had she spent. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I got it on eBay for seventy dollars. I held my breath for the last ten minutes of the auction.”

He kissed her hard. “Thanks, babe. Gotta go.” He looked her in the eyes. “It’s going to be okay. I’m going to nail this thing.”

“I know you will. Wait, you didn’t have a bite to eat, only coffee.”

“There’s a place on the way that’s got breakfast sandwiches. I’ll pick one up there. How do I look?”

He turned up the collar of his coat, held the briefcase at his side and cocked his head.

“You can vet me any day,” she whispered.

Adam Rangel had been on the job for a half hour.

The fruits of his labor were not stellar.

He’d been standing outside in the cold, on Waterview Street, with his favorite paper cup and looking hopeful, saying, “God bless,” and, “If you can, please.” People who eyed him may have taken him for a soldier because of his age, build and haircut, but he didn’t play the veteran card when begging for money. Never would.

For more than one reason, of course.

He was still a few dollars shy of wine money. So near, so far. The Quik Mart was around the corner on Ninth Street, just two blocks away, beckoning. Well, he’d keep at it.

This was supposedly a good corner to beg on. It was in shabby Riverside, that is, the Nowhere District, but businesspeople from nicer neighborhoods walked through, to catch busses and trains. This morning, however, they’d all treated him invisible. He’d also tried, “I’m hungry,” which was true, and, “I’m trying to get some breakfast,” which was also true, though the sustenance he wanted wouldn’t involve bacon or eggs.

No generosity from the rich folks or the middle-class folks or the whatever-class. Adam never felt he was owed anything, not a single penny. Those people earned their money and deserved to keep it. They had no obligation to give him anything. But it was simple: he wanted to get drunk and he didn’t know how else to do it.

Maybe he was putting people off because he was a little edgier than normal, fidgety.