by Chuck Hogan
He vaguely recognized the small-headed kid sucking on an Orange Julius. Three years behind him in high school, they had shared one mixed-grade study hall. A kid in a RUSH T-shirt, copying out the lyrics to “Red Barchetta” on the back of his paper-bag-covered textbook.
Ricky reminded him of this when he caught up with Maven again, two months ago, at Maven’s sister’s funeral. His half sister, three years his senior, Alexis Maven, dead of a drug overdose at age twenty-nine. She and Maven had never been anything other than sworn enemies, but in the absence of his AWOL mother, Maven had been forced to return, ever so briefly, to his hometown, to go through the motions of a graveside observance.
Ricky had seen the notice in the Patriot Ledger. He showed up in a short-sleeved shirt and tie, his left arm hairless and mottled, creased along the underside and withered looking, thinner than his right. He wore his old patrol cap—flat-topped, digital camouflage, his last name on the back—cocked at an angle to hide the bare patch over his left ear where hair no longer grew.
Ricky had gotten him the City Oasis job. Occasionally the headaches were bad enough to keep Ricky away from the store, dropping out of sight for a day or two, but otherwise he lived for their shifts together, for the camaraderie he had been denied when his tour was cut short. One minute he was living in the Green Zone with his asshole buddies, bitching about sandstorms, crap food, the heat; the next he was waking up in a hospital in Germany, looking at his bandaged arm, wondering What the fuck? Mobility restrictions in his left hand, wrist, and elbow earned him a disability retirement he didn’t want, and a one-way ticket home. Ricky appealed, requesting a desk job, anything that would get him back in uniform and back in Iraq. But the medical board denied him, and now he found himself, at twenty-five, a disabled American veteran.
THE NEW BULB CAME ON BRIGHT, LIKE A HOT IDEA. MAVEN CLIMBED down and collapsed the ladder. He felt the emptiness of the store and must have had a funny look on his face because Ricky said, “You still thinking about going back?”
Maven had made the mistake of allowing as much a few weeks earlier. “Not really.”
Ricky trailed him back to the front counter. “Sick part is, you can earn more killin’ and chillin’ over there than you can here. I wouldn’t blame you. I’d go back if I could.”
“I know you would.” Maven poured himself a blue one from the Slush machine and turned to drink with Ricky.
Ricky said, “Here’s to the best job I ever hand. Second best, after this one.”
They tapped puppy-labeled paper cups, and Maven drank until he got that forehead pain. He was thinking about Danielle Vetti, about the card she had given him, nestled in his wallet like a lottery ticket. Wondering about that job.
The door chimed again, and a blue uniform entered. A Quincy cop, a regular, standing in the doorway a moment, sizing up the place. “How ya doin’ tonight?” he barked, and strode off down the center aisle.
Maven and Ricky looked at each other, then Maven went up to take the counter.
The cop came back with a Muscle Milk and one of those meal bars that taste like Sheetrock. “Quiet one, huh?”
“Average,” said Maven. “You?”
“Not bad, not bad.”
The cop was in his early thirties, decent build, cocksure eyes. He had a swagger, even when standing still. Here in Quincy, with a silver shield pin and a fifteen-load nine-millimeter snapped to his belt, this guy was the shit. In Eden, he’d be just another walking pouch of entrails.
“And whyn’t you gimme a Cheri, there,” he said, peeling a few more bills off his roll.
Maven reached into the magazine rack, between Barely Legal and Celebrity Skin, and slid the publication into a flat brown paper bag, sending him on his way.
Ricky came up opening a pack of Sour Patch Kids. “Dickhead brings home sixty K a year, plus details at forty bucks an hour. One-tenth our training. Wonder how he’d stand up if any real shit ever came his way.”
The cop had never got to Maven before, but Ricky was right: how had they come to be stuck here selling candy and cigarettes?
He turned to Ricky. “You ever hear of Danielle Vetti?”
“Vetti?” said Ricky. “Sounds familiar. Gridley High?”
“Before your time. A senior when I was a freshman.”
“That puts me in middle school. Why?”
“Thought I saw her somewhere.”
“Yeah? She used to be something?”
“Still is,” said Maven, staring out the window in the direction the cop cruiser went. “Still is.”
He felt something then, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Hope, it turned out, was a very real thing for a convenience-store clerk at three in the morning—as potent an impulse as hunger, or lust.
He was going to call this guy in the morning. As soon as he got off work, first thing.
Ricky broke into his reverie. “I got it. Check this out. How many Iraq War veterans does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”
Maven said, “I give up.”
“Only just one.”
Maven looked at him, shrugged.
Ricky continued, “But, hey, we got over one hundred thousand applications, we’ll give you a call.”
ROYCE
MAVEN. I LIKE THAT. WHAT’S IT MEAN, ‘EXPERT’?”
Maven patted down his napkin. “It means ‘one who is experienced or knowledgeable.’”
“And is that accurate?”
“About some things. I guess.”
Brad Royce appraised him, and Maven felt something in the scrutiny, something he wanted to measure up to. Going in, he didn’t think he’d take to this guy at all, but Royce had won him over early by doing nothing more than talking and listening, and Maven wanted to impress him right back. This guy had a way. The way he wore his jacket. The way he folded his napkin across his leg. The way he sat at the corner table, surveying the restaurant as though it had been constructed to his precise specifications. His easy rapport with the server. His easy rapport with his utensils, with his food—with everything. Maven admired that immediately. Admired that which he himself lacked.
Authority without arrogance. Royce wasn’t putting on a show here. He talked to Maven not as an equal but as someone who one day could be. Royce had ten years on Maven, Maven wondering if it had taken him all that time to grow into himself. And thinking that he would like someday to achieve the same.
No idea what Royce’s game was here, but Maven was content to sit and listen. Danielle Vetti was not in attendance, and Maven tried to stop himself from wondering about them as a couple.
“So what I’m guessing is, based on what I saw in that parking lot, you’ve got some experience and knowledge that is, say, highly specialized. That doesn’t translate all that well to the States. To the here and the now.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“You’re overqualified for peaceful living. Overqualified and undercompensated. Sitting here in this restaurant with your back angled to the door, you can’t relax. You’re waiting for someone to come inside and start something.”
Maven eased back a little, feeling some tension go out of his shoulders.
Royce grinned. “And that’s not a bad thing. In fact, that’s a good thing. There’s not enough of that around. I’m talking about readiness. Readiness is all.”
Maven felt he was being too passive, too quiet. He said, “So what’s this about a job?”
Royce waved his hand as if he were clearing away a puff of smoke. Dismissive, but not rude. The gesture said, We have a ways to go before getting to that.
Chastened, Maven settled back even more. The restaurant, named Sonsie, was fronted with door-size windows that opened out onto Newbury Street and the midday shoppers, art-gallery owners, and day models parading past. He glanced at the mahogany bar, this grand old masterpiece that made you want to order a drink whether you were thirsty or not. Maven had asked for a Coke, like a kid. Royce drank premium water from a green bottle with a picture of Italy on
it. Maven had ordered pizza because it was the only thing he recognized on the menu, but when his meal arrived, it looked like no pizza he had ever seen. Royce was eating a spicy noodle dish called Mee Krob. He had started with an Asian Mizuna Salad with Tempura Shiitake Nori Rolls, and iced market oysters ordered for the both of them. Maven had never eaten oysters before. They were an acquired taste he had yet to acquire.
Royce said, “I spent the bulk of my tour in Germany. We ramped up for the first Gulf War, but, as you know, that was all foreplay and no happy ending. I got over to Kuwait for about five months, just long enough to take friendly fire from some shithead alligator farmer from Florida, and to be surrendered to by three thirsty Iraqis. So I don’t pretend to know exactly what you feel. But at the same time—I know, you know? How long since you rotated out?”
“Nine months now.”
“Shows.” Royce forked some more Thai noodles into his mouth. “No offense, but you’re wearing it pretty heavy.”
Maven had on Old Navy khakis and the collared shirt he had worn to Alex’s funeral. Royce wore a charcoal jacket over dark pants, casual but put-together. Maven could see himself copping this guy’s style. He was on the lookout for somebody to model himself after.
Royce said, “That one-year demob anniversary, that’s the kicker. That’s when you take a long, hard look at where you used to be and where you are now. That’s when you have to decide if you are hacking it away from the discipline. A lot of guys, one year out, all they want to do is re-up. Crawl back inside a tank for three more years. You’re nodding.”
Maven said, “Guys I served with bet me I’d be back in Eden inside of a year.”
“And you’d like to prove them wrong. Send them a fuck-you postcard from Maui or New Zealand or something. From the Playboy Mansion. But here you are. Working in a parking lot.”
Maven sat up a little. “It’s not that bad.”
“No, because you’re on your own, because there’s no boss to fuck with you, and because you’re not some hamster in an office somewhere, scratching at the walls. And maybe there’s a little skim off the top every now and then. When the timing’s right, of course.”
Maven blinked, said nothing.
“It’s only natural.” Royce’s smile said that he was humoring Maven, but also that it was okay: he humored everybody. “I’m not looking for saints. We’ve all got crime in our hearts.” He pointed at Maven’s chest with his fork. “It’s how you manage that, where you channel it, that counts.”
Maven nodded, after a moment. This lunch had a rhythm, and Maven could feel himself falling into it.
Royce said, “You considering reenlisting?”
“Not seriously.”
“That’s a yes. What’s your current living situation? Apartment, right? Let me guess. Outside the city?”
“Over in Quincy.”
“Uh-huh. Nice building? Doorman? Bowl of mints in the lobby?”
“Not quite. A converted two-family.”
“Illegal apartment, you’re probably in the attic. Three-flight walk-up, galley kitchen, closet-sized bathroom. Split the utilities with the freaks downstairs, stoners growing marijuana in a spare closet, heat lamps threatening to burn the old place to the ground. What you pay, three fifty a month?”
Maven squinted. “Three ninety.”
“To answer what you’re thinking, yes, I am in real estate, but only tangentially. And, no, that is not what this”—indicating the lunch, the meeting, the interview—“is about. High school graduate, equivalent?”
“Graduate.”
“Grew up around here?”
“In Gridley.”
“South of here, right?”
“About thirty minutes.”
“Any family?”
“No.”
“Nobody?”
Maven shook his head.
Royce liked that answer. “What about friends, roommates?”
Maven shrugged. “I got a buddy I work with at my other job.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it right now.”
“No girlfriend?”
“Not really.”
“Not surprised. Belt should match the shoes, by the way. At least look like you want to get lucky.”
Maven checked: woven black leather belt, brown boots.
“You’re too alone,” said Royce, patting the table. “Gotta get some people around you, keep your head straight. You’re what, twenty-seven? No infirmities?”
“No.”
“Not a scratch?”
Maven shrugged. “I got scratched. I was lucky overall.”
“Good. Good to be lucky. Honorable discharge, of course.”
“Sure.”
“You’d had it?”
“I don’t know. Seemed like I needed to try something else.”
“They let you go?”
“My contract was up. I could be recalled.”
“You will be recalled, don’t kid yourself. Hell, I’m twelve years out, they better not come back for me. You got a short window here, maybe real short, you should make the most of it. Post-traumatic stress?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Loud noises? Crowds?”
“Getting better now.”
Royce set down his fork and pushed back his plate to lean closer to Maven. “So. Let me ask you this then. Why’d you run off ?”
Royce’s scrutiny made an already uncomfortable question even more uncomfortable. “I don’t really know.”
“You want me to tell you?” Royce waited patiently for permission. “You ran off because you almost killed that guy. Because you wanted to kill him, and you were going to kill him.” Royce swiped his mouth gently with his linen napkin before laying it down next to his plate. “And that scared you.”
Maven didn’t answer. He didn’t move.
“Muscle memory is all that is. Doesn’t mean anything. You’re not some twitchy Vietnam vet. It’s your training. You were attacked. You responded.”
Maven nodded.
“What you are now, you’re like a guy who doesn’t know his own strength anymore. Like an astronaut back from the moon, dealing with gravity again. You know how when you go into the refrigerator for a gallon of milk sometimes, and you pick it up expecting it to be full, and you hit the ceiling of the fridge with it because it’s basically empty? Your hands are too big for your arms. Am I right?”
“You’re right.”
“It’s clear you’ve had Special Forces training. And I don’t care where you served, what battalion, who with. Because it doesn’t apply here at home, and because fuck you what you did, everybody did something. Guys who think they’re owed something, those guys are the ones fucked from the jump.” Royce shook his head. “This isn’t about any of that. This is about now.” He scanned the other diners, checking for eavesdroppers. “So. Being honest now. You miss the action?”
“I don’t know.” Maven exhaled. “Maybe.”
“Meaning you do, but you wish you didn’t. Because you think it’s taboo to admit it.” The contradiction made Royce grin. “So admit it.”
Royce’s grin pulled one out of Maven. “I miss the action.”
“You’re damn right you miss it.”
Royce pulled back, scanning the other diners yet again. This time his gaze settled upon one in particular. Maven glanced over his shoulder at a man sitting alone, bald with an immaculately clean scalp, a little smudge of sandy hair beneath his lower lip, wearing a sage green jacket and thumbing through messages on a BlackBerry. The man’s napkin rested next to an empty pasta bowl.
“So,” said Royce, pulling Maven’s attention back to their table. “You’re home now, you made it in one piece—no small feat. Big question is, now what? What are you going to do with the rest of your life? A cliché for everyone else, but for you, right now, a critical question. Looking ahead. What is it you want out of life?”
Maven knew he should have an answer. “I don’t really know.”
; “What’s your passion? Obviously it isn’t food.” Royce pointed to the basil pesto pizza sitting left on the round warming stone. “A goal. In the distance. Gotta be something.”
Maven said, in order to say something, “A house.”
“A house.”
“Yeah. Nothing big, just … something not rented. An actual house on actual land. Ownership.”
Royce finished his glass of Italian water. “Good. That’s good. It’s tangible. Most guys, nine months out—I’m serious—they say, ‘Rock star,’ you know? ‘I just wanna get my raps heard …’” Royce drew a neat wad of U.S. currency from his pants pocket, peeling off two fresh fifties and a twenty, tucking them into the leather booklet without even looking at the check. “U.S. military is putting out more Eminem wannabes than firemen and cops.”
Maven pulled his eyes off the cash roll, playing a hunch, glancing back at the guy in the green cashmere jacket.
He was laying a credit card faceup into his leather booklet.
Royce said, “You done?”
Maven looked at his pizza. It was rude not to eat more. “I guess I should …”
Royce pushed back from the table, nudging Maven’s arm as he stood. “You’re done.”
Maven watched Royce start away from the tables, wondering what was happening. Had he flunked the test?
He stood after a moment and followed Royce out, catching him on the sidewalk outside. Royce was feeding his ticket to a black-vested valet, who took off jogging toward Mass. Ave.
“Look around you, Maven,” said Royce, putting on a sleek pair of sunglasses.
It was a sunny November afternoon, a break from the late-year chill, probably the last warm day until early spring. The fashionable street crowd milled past carrying oversize shopping bags and grande lattes.
Royce said, “You look at these people, and you think, ‘This is who I went over there to protect?’”
A heavy woman in a too tight business suit passed them, spooning candy-studded ice cream into her mouth.
“Grazing on sweets, wandering around a major city like kids inside a resort hotel. This guy.”
