Page 94 of Antihero

“Okay,” Mikey said into the phone. “Got it. No worries. We’ll do our legwork, Cuz, get back to you when we got more info.” A pause. “And the cash. Right. The cash.”

B-Roll turned Anca’s wallet inside out and a slip of folded paper wagged out from an inner pocket. He plucked it out, unfolded it. A Joker smile split his face and he shoved the little paper in front of Taz. A buncha words and numbers swam in and out of focus.

Usernames and passwords.

Email, text, iCal, location services, all that shit.

“Game changer right here,” B-Roll said, holding up the paper triumphantly to show the others.

They could get into her stuff. They could get in and see everything and Dirty Pete would know just how to track her. Which meant he could figure out how to track the scary fucking friend, too, prob’ly. Which meant everything was going to another level and there was nothing Taz could do to slow things down or get off the ride.

There was whooping and high-fives all around, and then Finn-Finn said, “Mexican Street Corn counts. I Googled that shit and it’s just as old as Ranch,” and B-Roll threw the remote aside, said, “Kings of Karnage sucks ass anyways,” and Mikey still looked nervous, chewing at the side of his thumbnail, and Taz thought maybe it was time to just give up, swerve off the edge of the skyscraper and tumble into a forever fall. But now his face was in the couch and there were Funyuns bits in the crack between the cushions, like, a lot, and they were all gross and fuzzed with dust and shit and then he saw his saliva drooling into the crack and he thought about Other Blanca and whatever tha hell they’d just agreed to with Dirty Pete and when oblivion came he welcomed it.

38Four-Month Orgasm

Behind the wheel of his F-150, Evan felt more comfortable than he had since he’d last been on the West Coast. The seat cushioning had settled in the shape of his body, the steering wheel smooth beneath his palms. Tommy had given him this version of home, a hermit-crab shell to armor him when he forged out onto the streets of Los Angeles.

The drive from Van Nuys Airport had been shockingly trafficless, L.A. granting Evan one of her small, surprising mercies.

As he coasted through the porte cochere of Castle Heights, the valet leapt excitedly from his director’s chair. With a dimpled chin and surfer locks, he was stuck in Angeleno purgatory, too handsome to be a valet but not distinctively handsome enough to be a TV star. Since Evan never allowed him behind the wheel of his three-ton pickup, he was stuck parking foreign cars with boringly smooth transitions and electric hums.

Evan debated how far he should take what Joey had referred to as his rebranding. Maybe give the kid a shot. Approaching, he slowed, saw the kid’s Endless Summer eyes light up.

At the last minute, Evan’s instincts kicked in and he vroomed past and down the ramp, Lucy with the football, leaving the valet gazing forlornly after him.

He parked between the two concrete pillars, mounted the steps to the lobby, and took his customary pause to reset himself inside his alias: boring resident and neighbor, importer of industrial cleaning supplies.

Steeling himself for the onslaught of neighborly concerns that often awaited him on the other side of the door, he closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths. The smell of Candy lingered on him, sugar and plumeria, bringing him back to the hotel-room sheets and the warmth of her flesh as that country song rasped from the radio.

He pushed through the door, moved swiftly past the mail slots, and ran directly into Mia Hall.

Mia was wearing a sundress.

Another of L.A.’s small, surprising mercies: sundresses in February.

It wasn’t too short but it was just short enough to show the groove of the vastus lateralis muscle at the outside of her thigh. Her chestnut hair spun in loose curls along her cheeks, a heap of it taken up in the back in a messy bun. Auburn highlights turned up the volume on the rust-colored flecks in her eyes. A birthmark kissed her temple.

Also? She was wearing a sundress.

Her ten-year-old boy, Peter, stood behind her, holding a Lego school project on a cardboard platter, his eyes lowered with uncharacteristic shyness. He’d grown some, his limbs not quite matching his body anymore, as if they’d elongated at a separate rate from the rest of him. He made no move for Evan, neither the habitual “Evan Smoak” battle cry, nor the smash-hug, nor the gymnastic leap into Evan’s arms like a golden retriever in a dog-food commercial. Instead he looked at the floor and twisted the tip of his sneaker into the marble like Joey used to.

The boy was growing up.

Mia blinked a few times and Evan tried to think of something to say.

They hadn’t seen each other in months.

And Evan thought to tell the boy, Look up at me. Look at my eyes. That’s how people will know to trust you. But he couldn’t edify him as Jack had once edified Evan. It would’ve been an intrusion. And he thought that’s what community was for. While Evan was lucky to have a few scattered relationships to count after Tommy died, he would never live in a community formed of friendship. And within such a community would be the only context where he’d be able to do that, to tell a boy he should look up at you for his own good.

Instead, Evan said, “Hello H.”

Peter’s forehead furrowed. His croaky voice, a hint deeper: “Why ‘H’?”

“Because, Hall, if I made you Code Name P then I’d have to call you ‘pee.’”

Peter’s eyes twitched once and then they shot up when the joke landed and he looked Evan in the face and brayed laughter and he was recognizable again, still the child Evan knew.

“Okay, E.”