“Yeah… I get it. I understand.”
They sat in silence for a while.
“So you got clean, huh?” the man asked, an air of doubt in his tone.
“Yeah, been sober for over six months now.”
“Not a drop of nothing?”
“Nothing, not even cough syrup.” He smiled.
Diego nodded, crossed his arms over his protruding stomach, still looking unconvinced.
“Six months ain’t that long, but it’s longer than most.”
“Yeah, not a fan of the twelve step thing but I take it day by day, Diego… day by day. I have a good support system. That is a must.”
“What? You gotta sponsor ’nd meetings ’nd shit?”
“I go to meetings three times a week. Matter of fact, just had one this morning. I also have a supportive girlfriend and people I can call. I have people that believe in me, and people that would probably like to see me fail. The last category of individuals sometimes inspire me the most…real talk.”
They glared at one another, a heaviness taking over the conversation.
The tide had changed; a new dynamic was at play.
“Hey, you want to come to a meeting with me, man? They’re cool…not a bunch of preachy shit. They don’t try to get you to come to church or anything like that, and you come when you want to. It’s real informal and works well for me.”
The man stared down at his shoes, seemingly sorting it out, thinking it through. Nick heard childlike laughter, then spotted two children giggling as they played in the middle of the street. The two little girls crossed the road, getting smaller and smaller, and their voices more and more distant, until he could hear them no longer.
“I don’t know.” Diego shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Well, look, take my number, okay? If you want to talk, call me. If you want me to pick you up and take you, call me. Shit, if you just want to catch up about old times, call me!” They grinned at one another.
“Cool, cool…” The man pulled out his phone with one hand while with the other he held onto the dangling cigarette. “What’s your number, man?”
“917-420-7121.”
“Got it…cool man, cool.” He took another puff of his cigarette, flicked it away like a bastard that had pissed him off, and stomped it hard and heavy. “I might call you and go. I just might.” Diego continued to look off into the distance, fading…fading away, just like the little girls’ laughter. “This my girl’s house.” He flicked his thumb behind him. “She ain’t home right now or I’d introduce you.”
“No problem. Hopefully, I’ll meet her soon. I want us to keep in touch.”
…I NEED us to keep in touch, Diego…
“I’ll call you, man. Shit, you seem like you got some good luck that could rub off on me. The one warehouse I was working at laid me and uh bunch of other guys off…fuckin’ losers, man. I’m kinda struggling right now… Yeah, I could use some good luck.” He offered Nick a miserable smile, one that cracked his heart, made it bleed in his name. “You were always lucky… Suerte dedos pegajosos! ‘Lucky Sticky Fingers’.” He cackled.
“Awww, you remember that shit?!” Nick laughed heartily. “I’ll never live it down.”
“You don’t need to live it down, man.” Diego bit into his lip, looking proud of him. “It was amazing. Like I said, you were a work of art, man. You’d slide in and out and have a bunch of shit in seconds flat. That was fuckin’ amazing… Then, when you became a cop, of course we all laughed, but again, I understood it.” He pointed to himself. “It made sense. You stealing and shit was just survival. That’s what we did…didn’t mean that’s who you actually were. People get that sort of thing twisted all the time.” Diego lowered his head, causing thick, dark brown loose curls to tumble forward. “But, congrats man… you know, on getting back on track.” He slowly looked him back in the eye. “It’s hard, you know? Ain’t shit out here, man…ain’t shit out here…” Diego shook his head as he clasped his large, puffy hands together, no hope in his eyes, no sense of faith or self-trust. Nick knew that look all too well.
“You’re right.” Nick stooped down to his level, wrapped his arm around him real nice and hard, and whispered in his ear, “And that’s why sometimes you gotta make your own shit.”
“My own shit, huh?” The man kept his head down, his words husky and rich.
“Yeah, your own shit, man. Be an inventor of your destiny. It’s a big ass black hole; fill it up with something good, so that something is finally there. You can say that you made something outta nothing… something you can hold onto and call your own, before it’s too late. Diego, it’s not too late for you. If you need me, you know where to find me. Jonathan was my brother, and that means you are, too, man. And I am my brother’s keeper…”
Chapter Twenty-Three
I expected nothing less…
The vast twenty storey building on Warren Street in Tribeca proved to be exactly what his imagination had cooked up several hours before their arrival. North East New York wasn’t on his beat; matter of fact, he seldom ventured in the area but still, he was quite familiar with it from his brief travels. Mrs. Brown, the Queen hostess, better known as his soulmate’s mother, had invited him for brunch. Taryn had been gone since the wee hours of the morning, working her tail off. She’d left dressed in tight black yoga pants and a long coat that swung around her body like flapping wings, eager to get up and at ’em, coffee in tow. After all, she’d landed a decent paying shoot and had plans for the funds before they’d even reached her hands. One of which, she insisted on paying rent… This resulted in a low grade argument, a level 2 on the Richter scale, but it shook the foundation nevertheless. Afterwards though, she phoned him just before going straight to her parents’ home, as it wasn’t located far from her engagement.
He, on the other hand, had spent the morning preparing for the damn event. For he was certain either one or both of her parents would have questions and concerns—he hadn’t forgotten the way both of them looked at him upon their first meeting, especially Mr. Jones with his sallow face, deep set, small, dark eyes, and stern demeanor. Nick didn’t scare easily, but this wasn’t a corner drug dealer on the run after a transaction gone bad, or a half dead body slumped over a passenger’s car seat. No, he could take that like coffee with no sugar or cream, but he had to balance himself, be careful… ever so careful, for these were Taryn’s parents. This was his love life, his future—and what a different world that was to navigate.
Nick stole a stifled breath from his damn lungs. The double-barreled bastards didn’t want to give it up. He ran his hands together as his chest tightened. Taking a deep exhale, he tried to convince himself that he could still sell flames of fire to a soul condemned in Hell. Those days were long gone, whispers of a glib life gone bad, and he wasn’t exactly interested in pulling tricks like some mysterious magician gripping the tattered, mangy rabbit from an old dusty top hat.
Walking straight, erect like a solemn London soldier, he approached the doorman, his chin high and his confidence higher… even if he had to fake it.
“Hi, my name is Nick Vitale. I am here to see Mr. and Mrs. Jones in apartment, I mean…” He slicked a white, folded piece of paper out of his pocket and referred to it, “Number 1750.”
“Of course, they’re expecting you!” the kindly, older gentleman exclaimed, his green eyes full of life and his pale, weathered flesh thin from time and vocational exertion. “Go right in. The elevators in the back of the lobby will take you right up.” He buzzed the door open, allowing him to step forward and be immediately baptized in the mellow and alluring lights of the lobby entrance.
Nick looked above, feeling the presence of something large, hefty, possibly even dangerous from out of the corner of his eye. Upon catching the cause of the distraction, he winced, almost blinded by the light of a dazzling chandelier the size of his entire damn bedroom. He casually looked away from the thing and continued his stride as he buttoned his jacket, enjoying the discernin
g pairs of eyes that looked his way.
A stranger… Oh my…
His baby told him to be there for brunch at 11; it was 10:46 and he sure as hell hoped they didn’t mind. He finally reached the elevator, stepped inside, and looked about the mirrored enclosure. Searching the panel of buttons, he selected the 18th floor and the strong scent of cherry cigars filled the space when the doors closed. Cocking his head to the side, he rested his shoulder against the corner and relaxed a bit on the long ride up, accompanied by a jazzy rendition of Whitney Houston’s, ‘Dance with Somebody.’ His brain collected thoughts, wove them together like a seamstress in some sweat shop. Some of his deliberations were rather silly, such as imagining himself bursting through the door and doing a fast paced tap dance, equipped with a smile and exclaiming, ‘Cha Cha Cha!’ Others proved more sinister, such as Mr. Jones glaring at him and saying, “I’m sorry you came all this way. You can leave now.” And him responding, “I’m sorry you’re such an uptight asshole, but you can fuck off now…’
He knew when the man had laid eyes on him at Firststone, he didn’t care for him; matter of fact, there was a man-to-man thing going on that neither Mrs. Brown nor Taryn were the least bit privy to. For he’d seen the look before—a conversation had occurred in those fleeting seconds and if the man were able to speak his mind at that moment, he would have said something to the effect of, ‘I know you’re messing around with my daughter. Leave her alone or I’ll kill you, you fucking loser.’ Yet, he hadn’t rebutted; he’d kept his peace…but the words were communicated to him, regardless of the fact that the man’s mouth didn’t move to utter them aloud. The message had been smeared all over the bastard’s face and his posture. Nick knew better than any goddamn body that the human form tells stories, dead or alive, and they’re always the truth. Such truth always manifested in the eyes, in the way the body moved and reacted, or simply remained still, without one tendon or muscle twitching below the fragile human flesh.
The elevator doors opened, shoving him away from his thoughts. Like curtains pushed aside, they revealed another breathtaking view. As he navigated past the golden hallway vases and décor, smaller scale chandeliers and lavish sitting areas in emerald green and rich ivory fit for royalty, he paced himself, figuring his way through, sorting everything out during these final seconds to the moment of reckoning.
Do I turn left right here? Yeah… these are even numbers…
He looked to and fro as he gained his bearings and approached the double walnut doors. After leisurely rapping on the thing, he stood there, looking around with his hands in his pockets, feeling dry lint and a rouge dime that had escaped his clutches the other day to feed the face of a greedy meter. Strong aromas drifted to him, hinting at delicious food on the other side. The scent rolled out from under the doorway, an invisible hand ushering him closer, teasing him so. Suddenly, one of the vast doors swung open, startling him a hair. Rather than being met by a butler or maid, Taryn appeared in front of him. He immediately broke out in a smile, relieved to set his eyes upon her.
“What took you so long?” she teased as she grabbed his hand, free and easy as she was, a breeze with long, gorgeous legs. She led him inside. The woman was now wearing black flared pleated pants and a pale golden top with a rather dainty, ultra feminine collar. She’d been working on his fashion sense as of late, though he pretended to resist and not be interested in her sartorial advice.
“I’m always fashionably late,” he joked, causing her to laugh lightly and toss him a perfectly timed wink from over her shoulder. At that, he caught sight of her earrings. They swung as she bounced about, each step joyous and full of all the shit happiness is made of… Busy bee, at your service…
“They’ll be out in a second. My brother isn’t here right now but he’ll be by in a minute.” She pointed lazily ahead as she led him to a long, white contemporary couch. The thing looked like something created for Heaven, and placed inside of the condo for the Browns to borrow. He smirked at his silly notions as they both took their seats.
“I like your hair… The stylist do that?” He ran his fingers through the front, unable to resist reaching for her like his old cigarette habit.
“Yeah, they blow dried it out. Can you believe that? My hair can actually be blown dry.” She cackled as she scratched the back of her tapered neck, looked down into her lap for a spell. “I had tried so many times to grow it out, you know? Then, it fell right back out.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m surprised it’s not doing any more peek a boo bullshit. I had the most difficult time with it… Hopefully it’s here to stay. If not, I might just smear some seeds on there with a tiny spatula and see if I can be a human Chia pet.”
They both burst out laughing. After they’d settled, and their fingers touched, his heart opened a bit further, causing a damn chain reaction.
“You know I had grown out my hair for you in treatment.”
She cocked her head to the side, bewilderment on her face. “I’ve heard of people shaving their heads for others that have undergone cancer treatment, you know, chemotherapy, but not growing it out.” She intertwined their fingers, turning his hand just so.
“Yeah, well, that wasn’t it. I had a little something different in mind. As soon as I graduated from Firststone, I went and got it cut before I came to see you.”
“…And it looked nice.” She smiled at him, and he couldn’t help but to smile back.
“Thanks. I’d started growing it out after I fell in love with you… decided it would be a good idea.” He looked away for a moment, collecting himself as those old feelings of watching her sleep on his tiny twin bed after the first time they’d made love flooded back into his psyche. “It’s now being made into a wig for some kid…”
Gasping, Taryn placed her hands to her lips, covering one of his most favorite parts of her. Her eyes glossed over like a brand new baby doll’s, fresh out of the package. Reaching over, he pulled her back to him and kissed the top of her head. However, he simply couldn’t stop there. He then stole a kiss on the side of her neck, which was simply too fucking pretty to resist.
“Come on, baby. Don’t cry now.” He smiled. “It was supposed to make you happy, not turn on the waterworks.” The woman said nothing, only gripped two fistfuls of his jacket in her palms, twisting and turning the leather. He gently ran his hand up and down her back, suddenly wishing they were alone. Could he snap his fingers and make the world disappear? Perhaps if he were still a thief, and could steal the hands of time…
No, it was far too late for that. Commanding steps soon approached from the near distance along the glossy walnut floors. He didn’t look, but he could tell by the gait the person was tall, heavy, and reserved. He’d spent too many seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, and years watching people move. He’d watched them when he was stealing, lifting expensive wares from a department store or from a shelf way in the back of a refrigerator filled with ice-cold beer in a bodega.
Later in life, he watched people when predicting if a perp was going to take off running, cause him to get his daily dose of a heart pounding workout. He watched them when he was privy to an investigation, getting his bearings for what he sought, a key inside the world he wanted to enter. He’d even lent his own advice on how to deal with certain suspects that were not involved in any of his cases. Yes, all people were different, but the way the body moved under times of stress, anger, and happiness was easy to peg. Drifting away from his reflections, he heard a clicking noise. Suddenly, the cream colored solar shades opened, exposing the sun’s obscenely graceful light show for all to eat up and warm to.
“Hello,” came the masculine voice, glazed in a monotone pitch, obvious from simply one word uttered. Nick released his flower and looked to his right, then got to his feet. The two simply looked at one another, a smirk on their faces. Breaking the eye lock, he studied the man before him, who stood wearing deep burgundy pants and shiny dark brown shoes of an indeterminate brand that, no doubt, cost a pretty penny. Navigat
ing his way back to the eyes, he did what came naturally—extended his hand.
“Hello, Mr. Jones. It’s nice to see you again.”
They shook hands heartily, and though the man had a slight smile, he knew that shit was manufactured from some toy shop inside of the guy—plastic, fake, mass produced, and in need of batteries for the rest of its short life.
“Dad.” The flower in the room broke the tension by dropping one of her petals, better known as her alluring voice, and let it drift close to their listening ears. “Nick did the most amazing thing.” She sniffed, sucked back happy tears as a grin grew impossibly wider across her face. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!” She suddenly grew angry and gave him a gentle punch against the shoulder as they stood side by side, like some team.
Shit, we are a team, right? It’s me and you against the world…
Nick grinned and nonchalantly shrugged. “Well, I wasn’t going to say anything but when you started talking about hair growth, I just kind of blurted it out.”
“What’s this all about?” the man inquired, crossing his arms over his chest and looking rather serious, slamming on the brakes of the ‘feel good’ festival that played out before him.
“Dad,” she said, pushing herself in front of him. “Nick had grown his hair out in rehab. I didn’t know why at the time; he never told me and I didn’t question it,” she explained. “I figured he was just going for a new look. Anyway, come to find out, he did it for me.” She shot him a glance then turned back to her father. “He was growing it out so that he could donate it to a child that lost their hair due to illness.”
“Well, isn’t that nice,” the man said insincerely, his lip lifted in a rascally grin. Nick simply stared into his eyes and nodded, refusing to let the guy get the best of him. “Where’d you donate it?” the man asked as he pointed back towards the couch, an invitation for them to all sit down.
In the Nick of Time Page 45
