“Better get up and at ’em, then, kiddo.”
I hung up and scrambled off the bed. I ran for the bathroom, which prompted Dillon to bark and race after me. I popped in my red-tinted contacts, slapped on deodorant and cologne, then did the side-to-side shuffle around Dillon in the doorway, which only got him more psyched. I went to the closet, yanked on a pair of clean briefs and trousers, then hastily buttoned and tucked in a randomly chosen shirt. Dillon barked again while I tossed the one sock over my shoulder and put on a fresh pair. Between realizing we must have been destined for the park, and the fact that one should never keep William Snow and Maggie the Pittie Princess waiting, he’d initiated a countdown on my behalf.
“Yeah, I know, buddy,” I said to the dog. “I can’t—where the fuck did I put my loafers?” I turned from the closet, looked around the bed, even went downstairs to double check my typical drop-and-dismiss locations where my belongings tended to accumulate until Calvin would eventually come to stand beside Shit Mountain, sigh audibly, and then walk away, which would prompt my guilt to go full throttle and I’d clean the entire apartment in order to make amends.
I raced upstairs for a second time and dug out the pair of Chucks that Calvin had bought me last Christmas. I’d worn them exactly twice, because while I liked them for a “lazy shoe day,” I also thought, in no uncertain terms, that even lazy shoes were too cool for me. I pocketed my wallet and phone, tossed my messenger bag over one shoulder, and was out the door with Dillon in exactly thirteen minutes.
Despite the mad dash, Pop was already waiting outside. For a retired man who had as many or as few commitments as his heart desired nowadays, he really was a hell of a stickler for keeping to a schedule. But I guessed that tendency had become ingrained after thirty years of teaching. Anyway, after being bombarded by Maggie, hugging my dad, and Pop’s usual chastising over the state of my hair and stubble and the all too familiar “What have I said about letting Calvin suck your neck?,” we picked up coffees on the corner and made our way to Tompkins Square Park. The dog run was pretty quiet before eight o’clock, and luckily there were benches in the shade of a few old trees so we didn’t have to bake in the heat while Dillon and Maggie chased each other and splashed around in the cooling pools.
Pop sipped his iced coffee, made a quiet content sound, and asked, “How’s Calvin?”
“He’s good. Busy. Got a city to save.”
Pop chuckled. He patted my leg a few times and asked, his tone noticeably more somber, his words layered in meaning, “He’s doing okay?”
I thought of Calvin sitting in the tub, big globs of tears in his eyes as he struggled with sharing the story of losing Ahmed in Iraq. His PTSD wasn’t ever going to magically disappear. The condition simply didn’t work that way. His military service had forever changed who Calvin was as a man. But two years ago he couldn’t even admit to himself that he had a serious problem. A year ago he could hardly say, “I have therapy tonight.” Instead, he’d say, “I’m seeing Dr. Chambers tonight.” So yes, he’d cried at the recollection, he’d allowed that loss in the past to affect his decision-making in the current, but he’d also willingly told me that story. It was huge progress.
I nodded, glancing at Pop. “He’s okay,” I agreed.
“Good.” Pop looked out toward the run again, watching the dogs. “How’s the shop? I haven’t been by in a few weeks.”
“Oh, you know, buying weird shit, selling weird shit.” After a moment of internal deliberation, I added, “I’ve been doing some consultation work.”
Pop’s interest perked. “That’s fantastic.”
“Well….”
“For who? A private collector? Museum? Institution?”
I laughed a bit uncomfortably. “It’s an institution, all right.” I met Pop’s gaze again and clarified, “The NYPD.”
Pop went quiet. He covered his eyes with his free hand, rubbed them, and around a long sigh, said, “Sebastian, for the love of God.”
“No, no,” I said quickly before I could be reprimanded into the next decade. “This is legitimate consulting. I was hired. An invoice will be sent to their accounts-payable department.”
Pop leveled me with The Look.
“I swear.”
“If I call Calvin right now and ask, will he know about this undertaking of yours?”
“Yes. Of course. I mean, mostly because it’s… uh… his case.”
Pop shook his head. “I don’t know how one man manages to be a menace to nine million people, but leave it up tomyson to find a way.”
“Everyone’s been taking serious digs at me this week.”
“What exactly are they asking for your assistance with?”
“Detectives found a wacky antique called a spiritoscope at a murder scene,” I answered.
“And is this like those other times?”
“No,” I said automatically, even though we actually weren’t certain of that. “Dad, don’t worry.”
“It’s hard not to, Sebastian. You’re my only child and you’ve got a well-documented history of making debatable choices when it comes to the longevity of your health and safety.” He sighed again, more irritated this time.
“You asked how I was doing,” I pointed out.
