The Crime Writer

"I listened when you talked about her earlier."

"Thanks for the clarification."

He smiled his broad Chic smile, proud of himself, pleased with the world. "This life leaves you behind, Drew-Drew. There's no way around it. Everyone. The singers, the actors, the shortstops all look younger than you. Okay, fine, you can get used to that. But then you take a ten-year nap and you realize that you're pushin' forty and Jimi Hendrix was twenty-five when he recorded 'Purple Haze.' "

"Twenty-seven when he died."

He tapped his temple. "You was always gonna be the one guy who'd do it different. Live up to your i-dee-lized self. Wudn't gon' get stained by mediocrity or domesticity. Keep reachin'. Keep fightin'. Have that affair with Sue from Accounts Payable. There's them and us, and then there you are. Beer gut." He tapped his washboard stomach. "TV watcher. Coupla rib joints. Slow-growth mutual funds. It hits you you ain't gonna raise no monument or have your mug stamped on a coin. You're you and you can't avoid it. But I tell you this when it quiets down, when you're done fussin' over how you miss the big paychecks and your shot at the Hall of Fame or wherever I was gonna wind up if I kept up a lifetime. 302, the one thing you got is that woman next to you in bed. None of it matters. Nuthin'. Monogamy been tough on me I never denied it. You give up the smile at the stop sign. The locked eyes in the elevator. Movie romance marriage ain't never that good. It ain't never that good, but it's better, too. It's been ten years since I stepped out on Angela, and I ain't never gonna step out on her again. Because I'm not afraid anymore 'bout what's passin' me by."

Chic's wisdom, as usual, came in baffling guises. I'd kept up with about half of what he'd said. His alteration between first and second person, while seemingly as sloppy as his free association, struck me as no accident.

Before I could not respond, a yellow Camaro passed us, then locked on its brakes and reversed back to us speedily. A guy with thick hair and a track suit hopped out. "Chic? Chic Bales?"

Chic eyed him warily, accustomed to the drill. "The one and only."

The guy ran over, jiggling happily beneath his clothes, and embraced Chic. "I love you, man."

Chic patted his back. "Giants fan?"

"That's right. Thank you."

"Glad to give something back."

The guy did a double take at me, then frowned at Chic. "Nice company you keep." He climbed into his car and screeched off.

We returned to a picnic table literally bowing under the weight of the food. The workers were packing up at the curb. My gaze pulled from the laden table across the expanse of the yard to the newly erected play structure, and I couldn't help note the contrast between here and the cramped little space at the back of Hope House. I wandered off from Chic toward who looked to be the foreman.

"Hey," I asked, "how much does a play structure like that cost?"

"The Romp-n-Stomp? Thirty-five hundo."

"I'd like you to send one to this address." I jotted the Hope House address in my notepad, tore the page, and handed it to him. Tucked into one of the credit-card slots in my wallet, I kept an emergency check, which I unfolded and filled out.

The guy asked, "You want to write down a message, something?"

"Naw, say it's an anonymous donor." The guy shrugged and climbed into his truck. I saw a shadow and turned to find Chic standing behind me. "We don't want it tainted," I said.

Chic stared at me knowingly. "Right." As we headed back, he added, "You don't got no money."

"I got more than those kids."

"Still."

"I'll sell my cappuccino maker."

"Huh?"

Angela was waiting for us at the table. She kissed Chic on the neck. "How's my Drew?" she asked.

"Contemplative," Chic said.

"Hi," I said, "I'm right here."

We sat elbow to elbow, mowing through tortillas and chips. But I didn't feel relaxed and safe as I usually did at the Baleses' table. Every time I'd get distracted into a teasing match or a domestic squabble, Morton Frankel would seep into my thoughts. The gloomy factory interior, lit with flames and sparks. His dangerous eyes. Those too-long teeth, like fangs that he didn't have to bother to sharpen up.

Occasionally swatting a child's reaching hand, Angela listened quietly as I told her about the four days since I'd seen her last.

"That Junior," she said, "he sound like a nice boy."

"For a multiple offender."

"And the woman in charge of him? Ms. Caroline. He lucky to have her."

"She might be too smart for her own good."

"I know, baby." Angela shifted her attention to Jamaal. "Tell your daddy what you wanted to tell him."

Jamaal said, "Okay okay oka-oka-oka-oka "

"Deep breath," Chic said.

"I want to go out for the team next year."

"Nuthin' wrong with that."

"Soccer. Not baseball."

Chic dropped his fork.

"And the scars," I added quietly, to Angela. "I'm not sure I could get used to them."

"I know, baby." Angela's eyes didn't leave her husband.