Джеффри Дивер - Ninth and Nowhere

This was because of an incident a few minutes ago.

He’d automatically lifted a cup toward somebody approaching. It turned out to be a fat black kid, around twenty, wearing a combat jacket and jeans. His shoes were bright orange. The kid had seemed edgy himself. He’d walked past Adam, then paused and looked back. Looking at Adam but not seeing him, focused instead on the street in the direction he’d just come from. Frowning. Adam felt uneasy suddenly. The look was like the kid wasn’t completely here, freaked out. Dangerous.

Then the boy blinked and saw Adam, as if for the first time. He dug into his pocket and pulled out some change, dumping it in the cup. Not because he wanted to, but, Adam’s impression, because he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. Why had he stopped? somebody might wonder. Oh, just to give the poor asshole some coin.

“Bless you,” Adam said, cut by the fact that the kid was a lot younger than he was. The kid didn’t respond. He continued to Ninth Street and turned right, with one more glance back.

But that wasn’t what troubled Adam and set the wasps loose. Just after the kid had disappeared, a man in his thirties, a compact black man in a hoodie, strode along the street. The same direction the kid had been walking.

He paused beside Adam, glanced at the cup and then looked around the sidewalk.

“Yo, dog. Punk-ass kid come by here? Orange shoes. Orange like the benches in the McDonald’s over on Taylor.”

The man’s eyes were snide and cold.

Adam said, “No.”

“He come this way. Why you ain’t seen him? Fucking orange shoes.”

“I didn’t see him.”

The man had marvelous gold rings on. One of them bridged two fingers. Adam saw an opportunity. He pointed the cup toward Hoodie Man.

“Fuck.” Hoodie Man continued on and, pausing at the intersection, turned on Ninth in the direction the kid had walked.

Something was happening. Something was going to happen.

The wasps were hovering next to Adam’s ears. Not a buzz but the whine of a power saw cutting fragrant pine.

He controlled his breathing and thought: I need my bottle. He returned to the task at hand. He was tallying in his mind. He had four dollars and twelve cents. He needed only three fifty-two more.

The pedestrians came and the pedestrians went.

“Please, can you help me out?” Adam said to their turned-away faces.

“Have a blessed day,” he said to their receding backs.

Lanie Stone was walking down Ninth Street, her heels making a snappy sound on the concrete.

If it weren’t for meeting Michael here, she wouldn’t come to Nowhere — the name a rip-off on other cities, which would shorten neighborhoods to be chic: SoHo and NoHo in New York or LoDo in Denver. But Nowhere was just that: run-down, scruffy. Like you wanted to take a power washer and scrub the dirt and grime off the sidewalks.

Lanie was always aware of her surroundings. Looking about, seeing nothing of any concern, she was pleased that there were people nearby. Not far away a tall police officer in his late fifties or early sixties walked into a coffee shop across the street. On the same side she was on, a block ahead, was a short, stocky Latino, wearing a red-and-black satin sports jacket, walking toward her. His face seemed troubled. At the curb, a handsome businessman in a blue coat sat in the front seat of his Toyota, looking over what seemed to be a spreadsheet or other business document. He was on his cell phone. She noted beside him on the passenger seat something she’d never seen: an alligator-skin briefcase. She didn’t really approve, though she guessed it was probably fake.

Lanie now walked into the Quik Mart and said good morning to the clerk, who smiled in return and went about his task of putting bakery goods into the glass case next to the register.

She was examining the delicacies. Chocolate chip muffin? Walnut?

Indulge...

She received a text from Michael, asking when she’d be arriving. She texted she’d be there soon. She was getting coffee and a muffin. Did he want anything?

He texted back:

The Eagle has landed... and needs caffeine.

Carlos Sanchez was walking down Ninth Street on his way to a nondescript office he’d been to several times before.

His hands were in the pockets of his Chicago Bulls jacket. This was both because it was cold and because he wanted to keep a grip on the paper bag.

It contained $5,000 in cash.

Am I really doing this?

The money amounted to the vast majority of his life savings. He’d had more at one point but Valeria’s problem had taken much of it. And when she’d decided that she didn’t want his advice or intervention with the drugs and drinking, most of the rest of his money went to fighting the custody battle to keep Luna out of his ex-wife’s household.

The battle was like World War I, a standoff.

Oh, it was obvious that Carlos was the better parent: he didn’t drink and had never done drugs. Since the divorce, he’d dated only sporadically and never brought a woman home when Luna was there.

Val, on the other hand, went to AA meetings for show and would stop in a bar on the way home. Her bed was occasionally occupied by two when Luna was home.

But she was also quick as a snake. She played the mother card, the woman card, the how-can-a-man-raise-a-daughter card.

His lawyer had told him the odds were about 55 percent that he’d ultimately prevail in the custody battle. But you never know about magistrates.

Except that Carlos had a secret weapon.

Alfonse Webber, a storefront lawyer — the man he was now on his way to meet, before he left for his important “nine o’clock.”

Webber had called him a few weeks ago. He’d been out on a few dates with Valeria and had learned about the custody battle. He told Carlos that he’d seen Valeria snort coke when Luna was present, that she’d driven the girl while drunk and that she’d mentioned that one man, who she’d dated for several weeks, had showed “inappropriate” interest in the girl.

Once Carlos had controlled his rage, he was filled with elation — Webber could tip the balance.

Then the twist.

It would only cost Carlos $5,000, cash.

Shit. The guy was lying. But it was a lie that could save Luna’s life.

He’d debated for several weeks, knowing that there was a small possibility that Webber and Valeria were setting Carlos up. Bribing a witness would probably guarantee that he’d lose custody.

But in the end, he’d decided to go ahead with it. He knew in his soul that Valeria was toxic to the girl. Only he could save Luna from a mother who would drag the girl down with her.

He was looking ahead on Ninth Street, noting a convenience store. Quik Mart. A moment ago, a blond woman with a pixie haircut had stepped inside. As he passed, he slowed to catch another glimpse of the pretty woman. What caught his eye, though, was a display of cut flowers. He and Luna had watched a concert on TV a few weeks ago, an Aretha Franklin tribute, and her eyes had glowed when she’d seen people bringing flowers up to the stage for the singer.

Would she be embarrassed if her father brought a bouquet up to the stage at her high school?

He debated.

Whatever. He’d do it anyway.

A businessman in a dark overcoat carrying a fancy briefcase — what was that? Alligator? Crocodile? — arrived at the same time. The man smiled and opened the door for Carlos. “After you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Carlos stepped inside, beelining to the flowers and debating: Roses or lilies?

After opening the Quik Mart door for the short Latino in the Bulls jacket, Brett Abbott walked into the convenience store and looked around.

He noted the Latino heading straight for the fresh-cut flowers and the clerk behind the counter making a coffee.