You think I did that? I say tapping a window. How the hell did I get in?
The man gets quiet, looks genuinely puzzled, and considers the window like he’s never seen it.
All right, maybe it wasn’t you, he concedes. But it was someone. Someone must have had one of those things tow companies use to open locked cars. One of those sticks they slide down the door and snap open the lock.
You’ll find your radio in a pawn shop, I say.
You wouldn’t get much for it. I know pawn shops, he says, opening the door and reaching under the front seat. The radio was one of those removable kinds. I always put it under the front seat but it’s not there.
He has trouble standing back up and leans heavily on the door. His breath smells of coffee and booze and for a second I feel light-headed. I wouldn’t call it a contact high, but the smell sure put me back on Sixth Street at Fred’s Liquor Store.
The man pushes past me and walks back to his porch, leaning a little to one side.
At least they didn’t take your wallet, I tell him.
He turns around, holding his mug.
What’s that?
He comes back to the car and sets his mug on the roof. I point at the passenger seat and he opens the door and grabs his wallet. He picks up his coat too, revealing a small, square, black radio beneath it. He hesitates, holding his wallet and coat.
Goddamn radio, how’d it get there?
He opens his wallet, makes a show of counting his money and credit cards, but his fingers shake and he drops the wallet on the pavement. I hand it back to him.
I always put it under the seat.
I didn’t take it.
I know. I’m sorry for what I said earlier. I respect what you’re doing, getting sober. Really. I know. How long’s it been?
Not long.
But it feels long?
Yeah. Yeah, it does.
That’s how I felt. I made fifteen years. Fifteen. Jesus. It got too long for me and I just fell off. Man, I stopped drinking, made my meetings and then I just fell off and now I’m messing up.
He looks away and I see his eyes tearing up.
Look at me. I couldn’t find my goddamn radio under my goddamn coat. Christ. Don’t you just hate yourself sometimes?
I don’t know about that. I wouldn’t say hate. Not yet anyway.
Wait’ll you do the fourth step, the man says. Wait’ll you start making amends. You’ll see.
He sniffles and I hear Cart Man pushing his load away from the curb. The rusted wheels grate on their axles and the bottles and cans click, clack, click as he moves forward.
The man doesn’t pay him any attention. He holds his mug in one hand and jams the radio, coat, and wallet under his other arm. He’s still a little weepy.
You take care, he says. Take it easy.
I begin stretching again. I reach for my toes, trying to keep my knees locked. Then I straighten and twist from side to side, faster and faster. I lean back and roll my head. Stars explode when I blink my eyes.
Fifteen fucking years, I think. Fifteen. Jesus.
I start running. I pass Cart Man and a woman walking her dogs. A bus stops at Haight and Masonic and I listen to traffic somewhere far away. I splash through muddy puddles that stain my pants as I pick up my pace. I pump my arms harder. Moonlight carves the street into shifting, jagged shapes. Leaves stick to my shoes. The sound of my running bounces off houses, my breath coming in gasps until the ache in my chest is too much. I stop, bend over, hands on my knees, sucking in air. I hear Cart Man behind me and look back. I see the dark outline of the carts approaching, hear the noise of the cans like the tolling of bells, and I watch my neighbor walking up the porch steps, one hand on the railing. He looks out at the street like someone stranded on shore. He backs up, switches off the outside light, enters the darkness of his house, and closes the door. I hear it shut. The night closes around me and I start running again.
Tom
Raymond lost Martin’s money.
What are you talking about?
Laird goes: Martin told me. Raymond told him and then Martin told me. I still buy him breakfast, you know, to make sure he eats, and we talk.
Getting Martin breakfast, that’s really nice of you, I say. Have him over to your bachelor pad, do you? You cook those Egg McMuffins yourself?
Laird ignores my dig. He had sort of adopted Martin. At least that’s what he wanted people to think. Like he was Martin’s Mother Teresa. Look at me. Look at how I’m doing more for Martin than anybody else. Then Raymond stepped in and did for Martin what Laird hadn’t, and he didn’t boast about it either. Raymond’s a minister. He preaches on Sundays at a storefront church a few blocks south of here near Civic Center Park. Not some guy with a matchbook degree, but a real minister with a real degree from the University of San Francisco hanging above his desk inside a frame nice enough to know he didn’t buy it at Walgreens. That frame and diploma are the only unhumble things about Raymond.
Raymond was handling Martin’s money through a friend at a bank, Laird says. You didn’t know that?
I don’t answer. I look up at the sky, feel the sun on my face, and let out a long breath. Of course I knew. Everyone knew. Martin talked.
I got a meeting with McGraw, I tell Laird.
I don’t really. I just want to get away from Laird. It’s barely past nine in the morning. I got in ten minutes ago. I need coffee. Lots of coffee.
