T. Boyle - Talk Talk

When he'd got what he wanted he shut down the computer, went out to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich. For a long while he stood at the counter, his jaws working mechanically, gazing at the Mexican tile, the pottery and baskets and whatnot Natalia had picked up to give the place a little charm, the new microwave, the Navajo rugs. The light played through the windows and rode up the walls. It was exclusive light, the light of the sun reflected up off Shelter Bay, rippling and fluid, and there were times when he could just sit for hours with a cocktail and watch it move and transform like an image on a screen. He was going to miss it. Miss the fog too, the way it wrapped itself around everything in the visible world, like snow in suspension, making and remaking itself all over again. All the anger he'd felt earlier was gone now-if he felt anything, he felt drained.

But he wasn't going to let it get to him. He had things to do. He rinsed the plate, stuck it in the dishwasher, then dug his gym bag out of the closet. Working out always cleared his head, the endorphins flowing, the reps on the weight machine his own kind of zen, almost unconscious, counting off, counting off again, his breathing deep and steady. When it went well, when he got into the rhythm of it, he almost felt as if he were rooted to the bench-or no, as if he were the bench itself, no more aware than a slab of steel. And after he worked out, he was going to look at that car, and then he had to stop at the market. Tonight it was veal cordon bleu, and he had to pick up the boneless chops, the prosciutto and the Emmentaler he liked to use (pound the veal, bread it, lay on two wafer-thin slices of the ham and two of the cheese, wrap it up, pin it with a toothpick and bake at 350), and he was thinking maybe he'd do gnocchi with a white sauce and a quick sauté of baby zucchini on the side. Or maybe fava beans in tomato and basil. And he'd pick up two bottles of that Orvieto Natalia liked, and if he was in the mood, and if he had the time, he might whip up a couple of almond tortes. That would please her. And some spumoni for the kid.

He went out the door, bag in hand, and didn't look back.

For what he wound up paying for the attorney he could have spent a month in the best hotel in Manhattan, no expense spared, room service, show tickets and bar tab included, but the man got him a shrink to testify before the judge that what Peck had done to Stuart Yan (and the ancillary damage to his wife's car and to the not-so-innocent bystander) was an aberration, the result of temporary insanity, and that it would be ridiculous to say he was a threat to society when in fact he was no threat at all. The attorney talked of mitigating circumstances-the defendant was only trying to protect his family from this interloper, this stranger, Yan, whom he saw, rightly or wrongly, as threatening his wife and child, and he'd over-reacted in the heat of the moment. He accepted his culpability. He was contrite. Willing to make full restitution. Further, he had a clean record and he was a successful small business owner whose incarceration would deprive the community of his services and put at least seven people out of work. But the assistant DA came right back at him, claiming that this was a case of attempted murder or at the very least assault with a deadly weapon likely to produce great bodily harm-the defendant was a black belt in karate, after all, and knew perfectly well what he was doing in attacking Mr. Yan, who, incidentally, had temporarily lost the use of his voice due to damage to his larynx and could very well suffer permanent incapacitation.

Peck had to sit there and take it, but he was seething. Under other circumstances-outside in the street, a bar, anyplace-he would have taken the man apart because he'd never felt such hatred for anybody in his life, not even Yan or Gina. Who “was” this guy? What had he ever done to “him?” As it turned out, though, it was just posturing on the assistant DA's part: neither side wanted to take the case to trial. The outcome-and it could have been foreordained given what it was costing-was a plea bargain.

The judge, a skeletal little dark-skinned man in his forties-his name started with a “V” and went on for six unpronounceable syllables-gave him a five-minute lecture, rife with sarcasm, as Peck stood there trying to hold his gaze. Yan was in the back of the courtroom, wearing a neck brace, and Gina and her parents were there beside him, looking like Puritans ranged round the ducking stool. About the only thing Peck could be thankful for was that Sukie was at a friend's house, because as unforgiving and vituperative as Gina might have been, even she realized there was no point in having her witness her father's public humiliation, not after what had happened to the window of the car and the rain of those splinters of safety glass and the way her father had fired up the Mustang and scorched the pavement till the tires smoked and all the birds blew out of the trees. The judge gave him three years probation and imposed a restraining order enjoining him from coming within five hundred feet of his wife. The order further prohibited him from having any contact whatever with her, not by telephone, e-mail, the postal service or through a third party, except as arranged by the court according to family law and visitation rights for his daughter. At the end of it, the judge leaned forward, and in his high clipped Indian accent, asked him if he understood.

“Yes,” Peck said, though it was wrong, all wrong, and he was sick with the aftertaste of it. “I understand.”

“Good,” the judge said, “because I sincerely hope you do. If you obey the directives of this court and keep out of trouble-any trouble whatsoever-this felony charge will be reduced to a misdemeanor upon completion of probation and payment in full of restitution to the victims.” He paused. The courtroom was silent but for the faint distant moan of the air conditioner. “But if I see you here before me again, no matter what the charge, you'd better have your toothbrush with you because I will remand you directly to jail. Do I make myself clear?”

Peck remembered feeling like something scraped off the bottom of somebody's shoe, even though the attorney seemed pretty pleased with himself and to everyone's mind the incident was closed. His mother was there, with one of her sack-like friends, both of them probably drunk already though it wasn't yet noon, and two of his own drinking buddies, Walter Franz and Chip Selzer, from the ex-bar at the ex-restaurant, had turned up to show support. Lunch, people wanted lunch and a celebratory drink or two, his mother grinning, Walter and Chip crowding in on him, but he wasn't having it. “Hey, congratulations, man,” Walter crowed, throwing an arm round his shoulder. “It's over, huh? Finally over.”

They were out in the hallway, a crush of people coming and going. Fat people. Stupid people. The dregs. And then he saw Gina and her parents pushing through the swinging door at the end of the corridor, Yan trailing behind them like a retainer, and he couldn't help himself-he shoved Walter away, a shrug of the shoulder that knocked him up against the wall, and when Chip moved in, his palm spread wide for the high-five, he just turned his back and stalked out the door.

For the next few weeks he put his head down and tried to forget about it. Focus on the business, that was what he told himself, shake it off, straighten things out. Though he'd never let it show, the legal convolutions-the endless meetings with the shrink and the lawyer, the postponements, the general level of harassment and pure unadulterated crap-had really got to him, and Pizza Napoli wasn't what it was or what it should have been. Sales were flat, people cooking out and going to the beach, and they just didn't think pizza as much in the summer as when school was on and the kids were sitting there at the kitchen table every night screaming to be fed. For the first time ever, and against his better judgment because in his eyes it reduced the place to the level of Pizza Hut or Domino's, he gave in to Skip and offered a two-for-one coupon in the local paper.