Freedom Road

by William Lashner

  Oliver nods.

  “And you’re right,” says Theresa, “his little auntie is a bitch. But I’ll tell you something else. Jorge’s mother, she’s worse.”

  Out of that house and back in the truck with the dog, Oliver lets the GPS take him to Delaney.

  The address Theresa gave Oliver is to an abandoned factory in a deserted western sector of the city. Oliver is not yet ready to make a move. The night has grown late and there are things to figure out before he again wields the cleaver. How should he enter? How should he behave? Is there a bribe that might work? And what the hell did Erica want with Finnegan? Tonight is merely about scouting the terrain.

  But the sight of Delaney’s ruined factory, with its smashed windows and great steel ducts slithering in and out of its walls like a ravening serpent, tells Oliver exactly what he’s up against. Oliver sees the jerry-rigged ugliness of the building—a foreboding landscape out of some dystopian nightmare—as a place where nothing matters but the money, where scores are kept and fates are tallied only in dollars and cents.

  He is facing the most merciless of forces, stone-cold capitalism, and not just in the figure of Delaney, but also in Jorge, and the Russian with his pack of brutes, and everyone else who has flayed Frank Cormack with the knife of Cormack’s own ambition.

  Oliver has faced it before, every day of his goddamn life as a matter of fact. It has been Oliver’s fight from that first moment in Chicago when he kissed Helen and saw the possibility of a future different from what he had ever before imagined. Every step of the way since then, no matter how misguided or futile, from San Francisco to the farm to his working-class life on Avery Road, was always an attempt to free himself from the shackles not just of this brutal overseer but of his own wanting and greed. So maybe he failed and failed again, but the fight always continued.

  And now, here, he realizes that he is in that same battle once more, this time not for his own fate, but for the fate of his granddaughter and a man he has never met. It’s a battle that won’t end well, he knows, but it’s a battle that brings a song to his heart.

  As he drives away, and the city night paints his face with streaks of light, the dog looks up and tilts his head in confusion. What’s that on the man’s lips as he heads in search of a bed to sleep on that night? It is something new, something the dog hasn’t seen on the man’s ugly features before.

  It scares the dog to see it, this strange and bitter smile, and the dog is right to be scared.

  25

  FOUNTAIN OF LIFE

  Like a haughty society matron, Oliver Cross leads his dog to the plush environs of the University Club.

  Oliver is wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, both still firmly against the club’s dress code. The dog is naked, which is even better, and Oliver considers following suit. He is looking forward to the inevitable brouhaha when he passes by the doorman beneath the green awning and tries to get past the front desk. He imagines the lackeys shouting about his problematic jeans; he imagines himself saying, “I’ll take them off if that’s what you want,” and stripping right there in the lobby. His bare red ass would let them know exactly what he thinks of them all. Oh, he is ready to huff and puff. He feels almost young and fresh again, full of piss and vinegar. Well, the piss for sure.

  But when he rounds the corner and sees the tall Gothic cathedral of wealth and privilege towering above him, his spirits turn. There stands his father, once again peering down at him. What have you made of yourself, Oliver? Certainly not something worthy of this citadel. So pray tell, boy, where do you belong? But the voice he hears has none of his father’s flat Midwest matter-of-factness; the voice he hears is mysteriously his own, full of bitterness and regret.

  And with that voice now burning in his ears, the University Club and all it represents are suddenly not something he spurned, but something he lost. He considers the life he could have had behind those stained glass windows, a life of wealth and consequence. He would have been listened to in corporate boardrooms, he would have been honored at charity balls, he would have run for the statehouse, the Senate, he would have fulfilled, maybe even exceeded, his brother’s destiny. The world would have known his name.

  And everyone would have been so fucking proud.

  His walk is now no longer assured; every step forward becomes arthritic and full of regret. He would stop, turn around, badger Delaney and end up with a bullet in his head, anything rather than go through this whole dog and pony show with his alternate life, but something keeps him moving forward, as if it is actually Hunter doing the leading. Stinking dog.

  “Yes, sir,” says the uniformed woman at the desk, young and blonde and smooth as silk. “How can I help you?”

  “Lunch,” grunts Oliver.

  “Are you meeting someone?”

  “Would I come to a craphole like this if I weren’t?”

  “Perhaps not,” says the woman, her smile soft with pity. “But we do have a dress code, sir. Jeans are not allowed. And neither are dogs, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ll take the jeans off and put them on the dog, if you want. Is there a rule against dogs with jeans?”

  “I would assume so, yes. And skivvies aren’t permitted either.”

  “At least that won’t be a problem then.”

  “If you let me know the member you were intending to meet, sir, I’ll run up a message.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Cross?”

  Oliver turns to see walking toward them a dark-skinned young man in a ridiculously tight blue suit, with light-brown shoes, gelled hair, and shining teeth.

  “Mr. Prakash?” says the woman behind the desk. “Was this man supposed to be your guest today?”

  “Not my guest, Cecilia,” says Prakash with a slight British accent. “Mr. Finnegan’s guest. This is Oliver Cross. The famous Oliver Cross. His father was a longtime member, Gerald Cross?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Mr. Cross was a fine old gentleman, from what I hear,” says the woman.

  “One out of three,” says Oliver.

  “We assumed Mr. Cross might not remember the dress code,” says Prakash.

  “Oh, I remember it all too well,” says Oliver.

  “And so we asked Mr. Pederson to waive it in this special case, out of respect for Mr. Cross’s father, and he agreed. I have a note here confirming.” Prakash pulls a letter from his pocket and hands it to the woman.

  “Yes, I see,” says Cecilia, as she reads. “But there is still the matter of the dog.”

  “It’s a service dog. Isn’t that right, Mr. Cross?”

  “If service means crapping all over the place.”

  “We would give you the specifics of the medical condition the presence of the dog ameliorates but that could open the club to HIPAA liability, and we wouldn’t want that, would we, Cecilia?”

  “Uh, no, certainly not, Mr. Prakash.”

  “I’ll take Mr. Cross up to Mr. Finnegan, if that’s all right. Thank you for your assistance. We’ll let Mr. Pederson know how helpful you’ve been.”

  “Are you going to let him bamboozle you like that?” says Oliver to the woman.

  “Evidently,” she says cheerfully.

  “You’ll go far.”

  “We can only hope. Enjoy your lunch, Mr. Cross.”

  In the elevator with the very capable Mr. Prakash, Oliver says, “When did I become so famous?”

  “Mr. Finnegan talks about you all the time, Mr. Cross. He admires you so. Whenever he grows wistful, which happens more and more often these days, he inevitably brings up your name.”

  “You work for him?”

  “I work for you, too, Mr. Cross,” says Prakash. “I’m a senior associate in the Trust and Estates section of the firm. Ah, here we are. This way, in case you don’t remember.”

  On their parade through the vaulted grillroom, Hunter pulls at the leash, angling toward this table and that, smelling the steak, the salmon, the lamb chops with their rib bones waiting to be snapped in his sharp yellow teeth. Oliver keeps y
anking him toward the table in the corner where a handsome gray-haired man with a blue suit and a smooth, oily face waits at a table set for two. The man looks like a senator who has been surgically made up for the cameras.

  Finnegan smiles as Oliver approaches, stands, reaches out both arms to give Oliver a hug. Oliver lets Hunter sniff and jump, putting the kibosh on the deranged hug idea.

  “You look good, Oliver,” says Finnegan as he backs away from the dog’s affections.

  “No I don’t.”

  “You’re not dead yet, at least.”

  “Give it time.”

  “And who is this little fellow?”

  “He’s a rescue.”

  “Nice touch bringing him into the club. We all need companions in these later years. Sit, sit,” says Finnegan addressing not the dog but Oliver as he takes his seat and gestures to the chair across from him. “How about a drink? Something festive to celebrate our reunion? Champagne, or is that a bit too festive?”

  Oliver, still standing, says, “Did you see her?”

  “Maybe Scotch? That always works.” He motions for a waiter. “How are you readjusting after prison? It can be difficult, I am told. I suppose the dog helps.”

  “Did you see her, Finn?”

  “Yes, I saw her. Ah, Wesley. I’ll have a Scotch. What about the Macallan Rare Cask, with ice.”

  “Very good,” says the waiter.

  “And you, Oliver? The Scotch is a bit oaky, but otherwise quite brilliant and fiendishly expensive.”

  “Beer,” says Oliver as he drops into the chair.

  “Oh come on, this is my treat. Live a little.”

  “Beer.”

  “We have some wonderful IPAs on tap,” says the waiter.

  “Old Style.”

  “Coming right up.”

  “And two bowls,” says Oliver. “One with water, one with meat.”

  “Give him the aged New York strip,” says Finnegan. “Rare. It’s a nice cut. Please slice it into small pieces, Wesley, we wouldn’t want the old thing to choke. And we might want to get some food and drink for the dog, too.”

  “Very good, sir,” says the waiter.

  “How did she look?” says Oliver when the waiter has departed.

  “You have a lovely granddaughter. And she reveres you.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “Well, ‘revere’ might have been a bit strong.”

  “What did she want?”

  “She asked for help. I gave it.”

  “When was this?”

  “A few days ago. Right here, as a matter of fact.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “If she wanted you to know, Oliver, don’t you think she would have asked you for the help?”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Finn.”

  “I’m just trying to be polite. You called me, remember?”

  “Okay. Let’s be polite. How’s life?”

  “Grand.”

  “What number wife are you on, now?”

  “Four. And they keep getting younger. How does that happen? But it’s really not my fault. You have to catch them while they still want to have sex. When they reach a certain age they just don’t care anymore. And the older I get, the younger they need to be to still want to have it with me. Have you dated since Helen? I mean other than in prison.”

  “What did Erica want?”

  “Money.”

  “And you gave it? Without asking me?”

  “It wasn’t your money I gave to her. I drew it out of my personal account. Believe it or not, even after the divorces there was still something left.”

  “I’ll pay you back.”

  “Of course you will. In fact I brought an estate check. Ah, the drinks.”

  They stay quiet as Wesley places the glasses before them, an amber liquid surrounding a great ball of ice in Finn’s cut crystal rock, a tall tapered pilsner filled with cheap Wisconsin beer for Oliver. He puts a bowl of water on the ground for the dog, who ignores it.

  Finn takes a sip, lets out a satisfied sigh. “You know what it tastes like, Oliver? It tastes like money, limned with sex. A taste that never gets old. I hope you don’t mind meeting at the club with all its tender familial echoes, but I so love it here. It was everything I aspired to when I was young. Your father sponsored me, and brought the other two nominators on board. I’ve always appreciated that. Pretty heady stuff for a Loyola grad. I’ve tried to pay it back. What do you think of Divit over there?”

  “Prakash? His suit is too tight.”

  “The young these days have their own ways. But he’s quite a brilliant lawyer, and such a people person. Divit Prakash will be a partner in two years and running the firm in seven. Who knows after that. Mayor, perhaps? I wouldn’t put it past him. I sponsored him here. So it goes. One passes on the life.”

  “Tell me, Finn, when did you become such a pretentious asshole?”

  Finn leans forward, stares into the glass as if it were a magic eight ball. “I don’t know,” he says, finally. “One day it was like a switch turned. I think it’s something the club puts in the water, not that I drink too much of it.”

  For a moment Finn looks so stricken, Oliver doesn’t know how to react, until something unbidden and unfamiliar rises from his chest and startles him. And then Oliver Cross begins to laugh, for the first time in how long he doesn’t remember. And the dog, hearing an unfamiliar sound, yelps twice before he stands and starts tonguing the water bowl. And then Oliver’s old friend Finn begins to laugh with him, ruefully at first, and then more openly. And as the two old men laugh, years melt away like drying tears.

  They order, they eat: filet for Finn, a mushroom soup and salad for Oliver, the cut-up strip steak for Hunter. And the two men remember together the years long ago when everything seemed possible, when everything was possible. And now here they are. So, how was it? Not like I expected. Another drink? Sure, what the hell. Would you do it again? Fuck no, except, well, you know. Yeah, I know. And they both think, at least I didn’t turn out like you.

  And then, in the middle of some inconsequential memory that makes them both shake their heads at the stupidity of the young, Finn leans forward and says, “What the hell are you doing, Oliver?”

  “Eating lunch?”

  “I mean here, in Chicago. I mean breaking parole to chase after your granddaughter who obviously doesn’t want to be found.”

  “She’s in trouble.”

  “Of course she’s in trouble, she’s on the road with a folk singer. That’s the definition of ‘trouble.’ I’m sure Helen’s parents thought the same thing about you, even though you had the voice of a frog.”

  “It’s worse than that, Finn. Trust me.”

  “She said you had spoken of me fondly, your old friend Finnegan. I was touched.”

  “Did she say why she needed the money?”

  “She didn’t want to say exactly, but I asked enough questions to learn that she intended to buy back her boyfriend from some thug he owed money to from his last time in the city.”

  “And you gave her the money and let her go? Just like that?”

  “Calm down, Oliver. I didn’t let her go at all. She’s the granddaughter of my oldest friend. What kind of animal do you take me for? I sent Divit instead.”

  “Prakash? With the gelled hair?”

  “Of course. It was a negotiation and Divit is a crackerjack negotiator. In fact, he already spoke to your lawyer in Philadelphia about this parole violation.”

  “What? Prakash spoke to Don?”

  “Your lawyer said Divit could speak to the DA if he wanted to, and so he did.”

  “I’m not going back.”

  “Divit also talked to your parole officer. Who is it, a Jennifer Post? He put me on with her. She sounded nice.”

  “Nice as a pitchfork in the neck.”

  “She says if you go back right away she’ll speak up for you at the hearing. And the DA is inclined to follow her recommendation. Divit doesn’t think you’ll
be sent back to prison.”

  “I’m not going back.”

  “Go home. Enjoy your money. Buy some wine, some hookers. Three’s a good number. One’s good but three tastes like the Scotch.”

  “I’m never going back.”

  “Then what are you going to do?”

  “Go forward. Like always. So? What happened, Finn? Finish the story.”

  “Divit worked it out.”

  Oliver turns in his seat and spies the young man in the tight suit lunching with a pretty woman. He is leaning back, regaling her with an anecdote. His ease makes Oliver feel so very old.

  “He made a deal with a man named Delaney. From what he says he had to turn over a spare tire filled with something illicit and some additional money for the vig, so to speak, but the boy was released. A bit worse for wear, I can tell you. When Erica and I saw him, finally, it was like he had been in a twelve rounder with Sonny Liston. Remember Sonny Liston? No one else does.”

  “Christ. You couldn’t have told me all this right off? So they’re out of the city?”

  “After a quick visit to the hospital so a doctor could look at one of the boy’s legs, which wasn’t quite working anymore, I gave Erica some more money, not too much mind you, but enough to travel on. So yes, they’re gone. And you’re welcome, Oliver.”

  “Where’d they go?”

  “Away. Don’t you think it’s best to let them work it out for themselves? My guess, from the looks of it, is she’ll be home within a few weeks. This has all been more than she bargained for and she wasn’t quite looking at him with goo-goo eyes when Divit brought him around.”

  “They’re still being chased.”

  “I assumed. He was anxious to get back on the road.”

  “And he robbed a convenience store.”

  “Kids these days.”

  “It’s easy to be cavalier when it’s not your granddaughter.”

  “Here’s the thing, Oliver. You want to save her, I know you do, but I don’t know if she wants to be saved. At least not yet.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Your father tried to save you from a life among the rabble. How’d that work out?”