Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

“He’ll love it. He’ll think you’re the best old man a kid could have.”

A hint of pain in his eyes now. Maybe this present wasn’t just for graduation. Maybe this was a guilt present of some kind. “Then let’s do it.”

On my lunch hour I drove over to the facility where Pete was staying. I’d talked to the woman in charge. Natalie was her name. She said that Pete was showing some progress with his cocaine problem and that she was afraid of what might happen if he went to the party. I’d convinced her that I would take care of him. I reminded her that he listed me as his only friend. After his years of living in a coke dream, his family had bid him goodbye.

At one time, the Victorian house had been fashionable. Easy to imagine Packards pulling up in the driveway and dispatching men in top hats and mink-wrapped women laughing their way to the front door fashionably late for the party.

Now the house was a grim gray and the cars were those dying metal beasts that crawl and shake from one traffic light to another.

Natalie Evans answered the door herself. The odors made me wince even before I crossed the threshold. All the friends I’ve had in places like this — bad food, disinfectant, old clothes, old furniture, old lives — despite what the calendar says.

“He’s in the parlor. He got up and worked for three hours this morning helping to clean out the garage. I’m really hoping he can keep going this way. That’s why I’m nervous about tonight.”

Natalie was one of those sturdy women who know how to run just about anything you care to name. Competence in the blue eyes. Compassion in the gentle voice. She was probably just a few years older than me but she was already a real adult, something I’d probably never be.

I’d seen Pete only two weeks ago, but for an unexpected moment there I didn’t recognize the fragile but still handsome twenty-nine-year-old who sat deep in the stained arms of a busted-up couch. The smile was still there, though. John had the voice, I had the licks on the guitar. But Pete had the classic good looks of old Hollywood. Pete had been a heartbreaker since the three of us started Catholic school together in the first grade. He played a nice rhythm guitar, too.

“Hey,” he said. I could see that he was thinking of standing up but decided against it. His three hours of work had apparently exhausted him.

The parlor was a receptacle for stacks of worn-out records, worn-out CDs, worn-out videotapes, worn-out paperbacks, worn-out people. An old color TV played silently, a pair of hefty cats yawned at me, and an open box of Ritz crackers and a cylinder of Cheez Whiz had to be moved before I could sit on the wooden chair facing him. Junkies and junk food.

“I don’t know, Michael.”

He didn’t need to say any more. The apprehension, the weariness in those four words meant that I’d done the right thing by checking in with him before tonight.

“I talked to God, Pete.”

He smiled again. We’d been kidding each other since we were six years old. We knew the rhythms and patterns of our words. “Yeah, and what did God have to say?”

“He said he was going to be muy pissed if you didn’t go.”

“God speaks Spanish?”

“He could be an illegal immigrant.”

He rolled his head, laughing. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Look who’s talking, compadre.”

He leaned forward, sunlight haloing his head. He’d been the most mischievous of us. I’d never seen him turn down a dare, no matter how crazy. He wasn’t tough, but he sure was durable. But not durable enough to stand up to a coke habit that had taken over his life six years ago. Cost him his health, purpose, hope. And it had cost him Kelly Keegan, the girl that both Pete and John had loved since she’d come to St. Matthew’s in sixth grade. John walked away with Kelly and his career. She’d been living with Pete. After that, Pete’s habit got even worse.

“You’re strong enough, Pete. You look great.”

“I look like shit.”

“Okay, you look like shit. But you’re strong enough.”

“I really look like shit?”

I got up out of the chair, walked over to him, and swatted him upside the head. He grinned and flipped me off. I went back and sat down. “You jerk-off. Now c’mon. I’m picking you up at seven and we’re going to the party.”

He lifted his right leg. Pulled an envelope free. Glanced at it. Tossed it to me. “From Kelly. Came yesterday.”

It was indeed from Kelly. It read:

Dear Pete,

I made a terrible mistake. I still love you. Please come to the party. John’ll be surrounded by people. We’ll be able to talk.

Love,

Kelly

“Wow.” I pitched the letter back to him.

“That’s what I’m nervous about.”

“I thought they were so happy. With the new baby and all.”

“So did I. I mean, I’m still in love with her. I always will be. But I’ve been so strung out I just never considered the possibility—” He lifted the letter from his lap and stared at it. “I almost feel sorry for John.”