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My grandmother sighed, cut a thick slice of blueberry pie, plopped a scoop of French vanilla ice cream beside it, then set the plate in front of Ali.
“Any boy who can charm the pants off the admissions board of a fine school deserves this,” Nana Mama said, and then she handed him a spoon.
It was true. The principal and the math, science, and English teachers at Washington Latin had been waiting when we walked in. The principal introduced herself and the teachers and then asked Ali what he had been up to outside of school, on his own time. That set him off on a description of his epic quest to talk to Neil deGrasse Tyson.
“I could tell they were going to admit him about two minutes after he opened his mouth,” Nana Mama said. “I think they were most impressed at how many drafts of that letter he’s already written.”
“Though at some point he needs to just send it,” I said.
“Soon,” Ali said, his mouth full of blueberry pie and ice cream.
“You do me a favor, sugar?” my grandmother said to me. “Take a twenty from my purse and go on down to Chung’s and play my numbers?”
“The next drawing’s not for two days,” I said.
“Those jackpots are getting big,” she said. “I’d rather get in on the action before the stampede.”
“Get in on the action?” I said, smiling.
“Just laying my bets early, that’s all. Now, are you going to help an old lady out or not, Alex Cross?”
“You knew the answer the second you asked,” I said, and I got the money from her purse.
I went outside, feeling pretty good. The two-hour nap had helped. And it was only early September, but a front had come in and cooled things off. It felt nice to walk, and I did my best to focus on nothing but putting one foot in front of the other.
In my line of work, where I’m often bombarded by details and exposed to the worst of life, I have to clear my mind completely at least once a day. Otherwise, it all gets to be stressful chatter upstairs, an endless series of questions, theories, arguments, painful memories, and regrets. It can get overwhelming.
I was feeling even better by the time I reached the grocery and went inside. Chung’s was frigid, like always.
“Alex Cross, where you been, my man?” cried a woman behind the counter. “I was waiting on you or Nana Mama all day yesterday.”
Chung Sun Chung, a Korean American in her late thirties, sat framed in an arched hole in a plate of bulletproof glass. Sun, as she liked to be called, wore a puffy coat and fingerless mittens. She managed to keep an electronic cigarette in the corner of her mouth while smiling broadly at me.
I walked over to her. “We’ve both been busy.”
“How’s Damon like college?”
“Loves it.”
“I saw your Jannie on the YouTube.”
“Crazy, right?”
“She’s gonna be famous, that one. How many chances will Nana Mama be taking at an unlimited future today?”
“That’s your line?”
“Good one, huh?” She beamed and drew on her e-cigarette.
“Give her ten chances each on Powerball and Mega Millions,” I said, laying down the cash.
My grandmother played only the big-money lotteries. If you’re going to dream, you might as well dream big, she liked to say.
“Same number?” Sun asked.
“Sure. Wait! You know what? Let’s change it up. Five each on her numbers and for the rest, add a one to the last number.”
Sun glanced at me. “Nana Mama’s not going to like that.”
