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“Thanks,” Lucy replied. “I’m going to take you up on that.”
Out of nowhere, her mother hit Lucy with one of the roundhouse punches that were her political specialty. “Are you ready to tell us about him?”
Lucy tightened her grip on her wineglass. “Who?”
Nealy didn’t hesitate. “The man who’s taken the sparkle out of your eyes.”
“It’s … not that bad,” she lied.
Mat’s voice dropped to an ominous rumble. “I’ll tell you one thing … If I ever see the son of a bitch, I’m going to kick his ass.”
Nealy lifted an eyebrow at him. “One more reminder of how grateful we all are as a country that I was elected president instead of you.”
PANDA WALKED AROUND THE BLOCK twice before he worked up the nerve to go inside the three-story brown brick building. Pilsen had once been home to Chicago’s Polish immigrants but now served as the heartbeat of the city’s Mexican community. The narrow hallway was covered in bright graffiti, or maybe they were murals—hard to tell in a neighborhood where bold public art figured so prominently.
He found the door at the end of the hallway. A hand-lettered sign read:
I’M ARMED AND PISSED OFF
WALK IN ANYWAY
Where the hell had Kristi sent him? He pushed open the door and stepped into a room decorated in early Salvation Army with a cracked leather couch, a couple of unmatched easy chairs, a blond wood coffee table, and a chain-saw-carved eagle sitting beneath a poster that read:
U.S. MARINES
Helping bad guys die since 1775
The man who emerged from an adjoining room was about Panda’s age, rumpled and beginning to bald, with a big nose and Fu Manchu mustache. “Shade?”
Panda nodded.
“I’m Jerry Evers.” He moved forward, arm extended, his gait slightly uneven. Panda’s gaze inadvertently strayed to his leg. Evers shook his head, then tugged up the leg of his baggy jeans to reveal a prosthesis. “Sangin. I was with the Three-Five.”
Panda already knew Evers had been in Afghanistan, and he nodded. The Marines in the Fifth Regiment had been hit hard in Sangin.
Evers waved the file he was holding in the general direction of an upholstered chair and laughed. “You were in Kandahar and Fallujah? How’d you get to be such a lucky son of a bitch?”
Panda pointed out the obvious. “Others had it worse.”
Evers snorted and slumped down on the couch. “Fuck that. We’re here to talk about you.”
Panda felt himself being to relax …
BY THE FIRST OF NOVEMBER, Lucy had settled into life in Boston and the apartment she’d sublet in Jamaica Plain. When she wasn’t writing, she was at work, and even though she was tired all the time, she’d never been more grateful for her new job and busy schedule.
“What do you care?” The seventeen-year-old sitting on the couch across from her sneered. “You don’t know nothin’ ’bout me.”
The spicy scent of tacos wafted into the counseling room from the kitchen where, each day, the Roxbury drop-in center served dinner to fifty or so homeless teens. They also offered showers, a small laundry area, a weekly medical clinic, and six counselors who helped the runaways, couch hoppers, and street kids as young as fourteen find shelter, get to school, work on their GEDs, secure Social Security cards, and look for jobs. Some of their clients had substance abuse problems. Others, like this girl with the
beautiful cheekbones and tragic eyes, had fled terrible physical abuse. The counselors at the drop-in center dealt with mental health issues, medical issues, pregnancy, prostitution, and everything in between.
“And whose problem is it that I don’t know anything about you?” Lucy said.
“Nobody’s problem.” Shauna sank deeper into the couch, her expression sullen. Through the window in the door, Lucy could see some of the kids pulling down the Halloween decorations: flying bats, black cardboard witches, and skeletons with red glitter eye sockets.
Shauna took in Lucy’s short black leather skirt, hot pink tights, and funky boots. “I want my old social worker back. She was a lot nicer than you.”
Lucy smiled. “That’s because she didn’t adore you like I do.”
