Gregg Hurwitz - Prodigal Son

He made his way downstairs, fortunately dodging any Castle Heights residents, and drove into Westwood Village. He pulled over at a drugstore and wincingly walked the aisles, finding the pet section. A dog bowl decorated with skulls and crossbones caught his eye.

He paid and exited.

En route to the truck, he passed through the scents of the college town—French roast and hookah pipes and gyro meat wafting from doorways.

Halfway up the block, he spotted a young man sitting on a park bench with a college girl lying beside him, her head resting on his thigh, blond hair spilled across his lap.

He did a double take at the kid.

Bridger Bickley, aka “Bicks.”

Evan stopped, facing them, his shadow falling across Bridger’s face.

Bridger started at the sight of Evan, the girl uncoiling from his lap and rising. Evan wondered if she was Sloane of karaoke-filibuster fame.

Evan said to her, “Can you please give us a moment?”

She looked to Bridger, who gazed back at her fearfully. That was enough for Sloane, who rose and hightailed it away, her leather saddlebag knocking against her hip.

Bridger’s hands lifted, palms exposed. “You gonna threaten me?”

Evan said, “No.”

“She was just young,” Bridger said. “Joey. And really smart. It’s hard to date a chick who’s the smartest one in the room, you know. And … I dunno, kinda too tough.”

Evan said, “Too tough for you.”

Bickley looked at his hands. “I guess, yeah.”

“So you disappeared. Never called.”

“It’s not like we were engaged.”

“True,” Evan said. “But you took your own insecurity and put it on her. That weakens her. And it weakens you. You treat a young woman like that with respect. If nothing else it’ll teach you about yourself, teach you who you want to be whenever you’re ready to be that person. Understand?”

Bridger gazed up at him, his face glowing yellow beneath the streetlight. “Yeah,” he said.

Evan turned to walk off.

“’Scuse me?” Bridger was on his feet behind Evan. “Uh…” He stood, one sneaker on end, grinding the toe into the sidewalk. “Thanks,” he said. “No one’s ever talked to me like that.”

Evan gave him a nod and kept on.

Standing in her doorway, Joey stared down at the dog bowl in her hands. “What is this?”

“I’m trying to buy your affection,” Evan said.

He waited for her to look up, those emerald eyes glowing through the sweep of her bangs. She bit her lip. “I like the skulls and crossbones.”

She stepped back from her front door, leaving it ajar, as close to an invitation as he ever got.

“But I don’t know what’s wrong with the Red Vines bowl,” Joey said. “Dog likes it.”

Over on his plush bolster bed, the Rhodesian ridgeback lifted his head at the mention of his name.

She walked past him, set down the bowl, and transferred the water from the Red Vines bucket. “There.”

Dog wagged his tail. Then rolled onto his side, his head flopping clear of the bed, collar tags clinking against the floor.

Evan watched her staring down at the dog, her arms crossed. She caught him looking. “What?”

“You don’t have to pretend you don’t like him.”

“I don’t like him.”

“Jack had a joke he used to tell.”

“Oh, great. The only thing worse than Jack telling a joke is you retelling a joke Jack used to tell. It’s like dad humor on steroids.”

“If you lock your wife and your dog in the trunk of your car for twenty-four hours, when you open it, which one’s happy to see you?”

A laugh escaped Joey. She covered her mouth with her fingers. “That’s awful. And, like, super sexist.”

“Same holds for husbands.”

“Fair enough.” She stared down at Dog, her expression softening. Then she sprawled out on top of him. At a hundred-plus pounds, the ridgeback was sturdy enough to take her weight. His tail thwacked the floor a few times. Joey rose and fell with his ribs.

“If you lie on him, he growls real low,” she said. “Like a purr.”

Wincing against his sore muscles, Evan sat down next to them with his back to the wall and listened.

Sure enough there it was, the faintest purr accompanying each exhalation.

For a time he and Joey stayed like that, listening to the big boy growl gently with contentment.

Finally Joey flopped off Dog and rolled to sit next to Evan. Side by side they stared at her little apartment.

“That’s why you got him for me?” she said. “So I’ll always have someone who’s happy to see me when I come home?”

“Dogs are feedback loops for positive emotion,” Evan said. “They’re happy to see you, which makes you happy. Then you pet them and they’re even happier, which makes you even happier. They…”

She cocked her head. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s stupid.”

She banged a bony elbow into his sore ribs, and he tried to act like it didn’t hurt. “C’mon, X. Spill the tea.”

He cleared his throat. “They teach you the love you deserve.”

Her voice was open and curious now, like that of a girl or a young woman—none of the usual teenage testiness. “Why?” she asked.

“So maybe you can learn how to give that love back,” Evan said. “I’d like you to learn that. I never did. Not the right way.”

Joey leaned her head on his shoulder.

“You do okay,” she said.

70Dark Road

Evan paused on the quaint footbridge, taking a moment to gather himself.

Veronica had reached him earlier in the afternoon on his cracked-to-hell RoamZone and told him he’d better get to the Bel Air house. She’d beckoned Andre as well.

She said she wasn’t sure she had much time.

Barry the movie producer didn’t come home from location, but he’d had the decency to lend her the house for her final stretch. Matías didn’t make the trek either, but he’d sprung for a hospice nurse, a skeletal Hispanic woman who answered the door now. She offered a warm hand, and they shook. “It’s good you’re here,” she said. “You have to understand how it is moving forward.”

“How is it moving forward?”

“Think of it this way. Every day her best day was yesterday.”

Andre was already there, sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the union of his folded hands and doing his best to ignore the rat dogs sniffing at his shoes. He looked good, well rested even, color returning to his face.

He seemed relieved to see Evan.

“She’s having a nap.” Andre nodded at the nurse, who was jotting on a medication schedule on the fridge, and lowered his voice. “I think she thinks I’m here to fix the dishwasher.”

The nurse turned to them. “I’ll take you back now.” She gave Evan a bright smile before turning a skeptical gaze to Andre.

Andre shook his head as they padded down the hall to the master.

The giant suite was bright and airy, with glass sliding doors that accordioned open to let onto a terrace. A garden and a swimming pool unfurled beyond, seeming to stretch to the horizon.

It was shocking how much more Veronica had deteriorated over the past few days. Oxygen tube beneath her nose, skin a sickly yellow, her collarbones and the points of her elbows pronounced.

Andre hesitated in the doorway, but Evan led him through. Her suitcase and purse rested on an upholstered bench at the foot of the bed, and it occurred to Evan that this was their final stop. A candle flickered in the bathroom, breathing sandalwood into the room. It smelled expensive. Beneath it the faintest trace of lilac.

The smell of his mother.

Veronica tried to lift her head but couldn’t, so she rolled it on the pillow to take them in. “You look like hell,” she said to Evan.