More than enough to justify a Saturday drive out to Fenton in the morning.
As tantalizing as that possibility was, it was the woman who kept sneaking into his thoughts.
She was obviously sharp. She’d proven that on the fly.
And more than a little good looking.
Which made him wonder if any woman could love him again, after what he’d done to Ashley, what he’d put her through. He didn’t believe in God, but there was some kind of yin and yang thing going on. You mess up over here, you have to pay over there. Flip off a driver on the 101, you’re going to get the finger on the 405. It’s just a matter of time.
Could somebody trust him again, like Ashley had? More to the point, could he justify that trust?
Not bloody likely. His record was not a good one. And what was the point of hopes after all? You only get them smashed like ants under a boot. The cycle repeats itself. It had ever since he was five years old. He was damaged goods, and there wasn’t any God, no warranty from a creator that guaranteed good working order. He knew that even at five, when he’d prayed and got nothing back but a dead brother.
The cycle, the cycle.
He needed something to get his mind off it.
The monkey was screeching and he knew he’d better call Gincy.
But he wanted to handle it himself, which he knew was wrong. Bad move for recovery. The moment the screeches sound in the background, you call your sponsor.
You don’t go play pool. That’s a fool’s gambit.
So naturally it’s the one he took.
His favorite place for a rack was The Cue on Sherman Way, about a mile from his office. It was just past four thirty when he pulled to the curb in front of the place and fed the meter.
It felt good to go in. Here he was among friends. The fellowship of the stick. Here he could shoot around and indulge his fantasy of being a champ at something. Living in a pretend world was a very good thing. When he was snorting, he used to say reality was just an escape for people who can’t face drugs. Now that he was clean, the occasional illusion was the ticket. In a pretend world, the shadows couldn’t get you.
For a while at least.
He scattered the balls randomly on table six and started making kick shots and cross sides and muttering to his phantom opponent, I’m the best you’ve ever seen, Red. Admit it. Up the bet? Sure. Hundred a game?
He was getting ready to put some hard English on the rock when he heard, “Hey, boy, we don’t like hustlers around here.”
Steve recognized the voice. Without turning he said, “How’s it goin’, Norm?”
“You come down here just for me?”
“Right, Norm. We who orbit around you just can’t help it.”
With face stubble and wrinkled flannel shirt, Norm Gaylord looked like one of the roving homeless along Topanga. He also looked like what he really was, an Emmy Award–winning TV writer who couldn’t get arrested. Steve had met him here at The Cue a few years after Norm’s sitcom was cancelled and he was turning to meth to write faster.
Which resulted in the loss of his wife and house. Later, when the cops nabbed him in a buy, he called Steve. Steve got Norm into diversion and out of being prosecuted. Norm was grateful and, like several other clients, still owed Steve money.
“Shouldn’t you be in court getting criminals back on the street where they belong?” Norm asked.
“Shouldn’t you be writing so you can earn enough to pay me?”
“What is it with you lawyers?” In high-pitched voice Norm sang, “Money, money, mo-ney.”
“You write better than you sing, and I’m not even sure how good you write.”
“Thanks, pal.”
“How’s the job prospects?”
“You want to know or you just blowing smoke?”
“Norm, I’ve got a vested interest in your career now.”
“Okay. I got a killer idea. This one’s gonna sell. It’s called The Littlest Mayor. A kid gets elected mayor of a major city.”
“And zany hijinx ensue?” Steve said.
“How’d you know?”
“Wild guess.”
“This one’s got to go. I need it, man.”
“You clean?”
“Of course I’m clean!”
“Good.”
“You?”
“Yeah,” Steve said. Sure. About as clean as a rusty pipe.
“How’s the wife?” Norm asked.
Steve shook his head. No verbal requirement here. He’d let Norm in a little closer than most clients. Recognized Norm was a fellow traveler along the troubled road. He’d allowed it to come out that he and Ashley weren’t likely to make it. Norm knew all about that, too.
“Sorry to hear it,” Norm said. “Really, man.”
Steve said nothing. He pressed the chalk on his cue a little too hard. Like he wanted to rub some thoughts away.
“So,” Norm said, “you want to shoot a ten-game freeze-out?”
Steve put the chalk down with a loud thwack. “You kiddin’ me? You’re betting with what?”
“I’m not gonna lose, so it don’t matter.”
“Maybe another time. After you’ve paid me.”
“Will you drop that?”
Instead, Steve bent over the cue ball and shot the nine in the corner.
“Very nice shot,” Norm said.
“I’ll shoot you friendly.”
“You buying the beer?”
Steve couldn’t help laughing at the audacity, the nerve, the gall. For that reason alone he bought the beers. Norm Gaylord was one of those guys who seemed to be able to charge through life’s minefield and somehow come up on the other side wounded, but having everyone else buy his drinks. Steve could use a little of that same attitude himself.
Maybe tomorrow would be a new day. If he could make it through the night without scratching the itch, maybe tomorrow would be the beginning of a Steve Conroy upswing.
A ten-thousand-dollar upswing.
5
The state prison at Fenton was an hour and a half northeast of Los Angeles. A maximum-security facility, it housed nearly four thousand hard-core felons. A year ago the National Guard had to be called in to put down a riot that left one guard and seven inmates dead.
A racial thing, the news said. Steve knew how true that was. As a deputy district attorney, he’d seen the full racial spectrum pass through the court system and into the jails and prisons. And despite the best efforts and intentions of everyone involved, racial separatism was endemic in corrections.
He thought about this on Saturday morning as he drove up Highway 14, got off on the hot flats where he could see the forbidding brown walls, razor wire, and guard towers of Fenton. As far as he knew, he had only one client here. A three-striker named George Clarke who went down for the full term for stealing a CD player. Steve was hoping he wouldn’t see Clarke in the attorney room. Clarke hadn’t been too thankful for the legal representation he got.
Steve completely agreed with Clarke. Steve was on nose candy back then, and it showed. Clarke had a review pending in the appellate court for ineffective assistance of counsel. He was likely to prevail. Then he’d be out for another trial. And Steve’s name would get speckled with some more mud.