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I could see all the ways that might go wrong, so I said, “I guess it would be a tough thing to make work.”
“A lot of people would knock off their parents given the chance.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” I said.
And it was, but it also wasn’t. It did seem like a good place to end things though, so I said good-bye. I promised Ronnie I’d bring home dinner, so I hurried out, jumped into my forest green Jeep Wrangler, and stopped at Star of Siam to pick up two pad thai, a green curry with shrimp, and a beef and noodle dish. The two of us didn’t need four entrees, but we lived with two roommates and I never knew who was going to be around for dinner. Plus, the leftovers were better than you’d think.
While I waited, I began thinking about Owen Lovejoy, Esquire. When had Richland told me he was gone? Six years ago? I had one friend from my days in Chicago who still sent me cards. Unmarked by agreement. I wondered if he knew. He might not. I couldn’t remember if they’d ever even met.
Memory was a crazy thing. Sometimes it punched you in the gut like a heavyweight champ, other times it was as ethereal as smoke. Owen, his body, his voice, his betrayals, all of that was a punch in the gut. Who knew who and when they knew them, that was smoke.
Thinking about the old days made me wonder if I was being ridiculous. Maybe after eleven years I could relax and not be so careful about people knowing who I was.
But then I remembered that when I left Chicago I owed Deanna Hansen a hundred thousand dollars by my estimation—though I hadn’t asked her for the money—and a quarter of a million by hers. A quarter of a million that would have grown substantially over a decade. I didn’t remember her as the sort to forget a debt like that.
And then there was the small matter of the man I killed. That wouldn’t matter to Deanna, but it might matter to the Chicago Police. Sure, it was self-defense, but I ran so I didn’t expect to be believed. In fact, I ran because I didn’t expect to be believed no matter what.
Andit would matter to a nasty piece of work named Rita Lundquist. She’d already tried to kill me once. I didn’t see why she wouldn’t try again if she knew where I was. No, it didn’t feel safe for me to let people know my true identity. Not at all.
Our house was on 2nd Street, a nearly century-old, two-story, five-bedroom Craftsman with a partial wrap-around porch. We’d had it painted sage green with cream and purple trim. The colors were architecturally correct. Ronnie was working on getting us a historical plaque, which he figured would up the value of the house by at least twenty thousand.
Walking through the front door, I found him, my lover, sitting in the living room with both of our roommates: Junior Clybourne and John Gallagher. They were each drinking a cosmopolitan. Ronnie had bought new over-sized martini glasses at the Crate & Barrel Outlet downtown and was desperate to use them. He jumped up off the loosely slipcovered white sofa and came over to me.
“Thank God, you’re here. We’re starving.”
He stood on his toes and kissed me. Small, Eurasian and much younger than I was, there were times when I could barely take my eyes off him—and that night was one of them. He took the bags from me and scurried out to the kitchen. I followed him like a puppy.
As I reached our kitchen, I heard Junior say, “Hello, Dom! Nice to see you too.”
“Hi, Junior,” I called out but didn’t turn around. I watched as Ronnie got the dishes out and set them next to the bag of takeout. I took the boxes out of the bag.
“This smells amazing,” he said. “How was your day?”
“We’re starting a new case. Three, actually. Rapists.”
“Three rapists? Yuck.”
“Well, not rapists actually. Sorry, I shouldn’t say it that way. The DNA doesn’t match. So they’re not rapists.”
“Of course. You don’t actually defend real criminals. I like that about your job.”
“How was your day?”
“Busy, busy, busy. I got an offer on my listing in California Heights. One-ninety-five.” He began dumping the boxes into big bowls. The food was still steaming.
I knew the house he was talking about. It was a Spanish-style three-bedroom in desperate need of an update. The offer was good. Maybe the market was picking up.
“Good for you. Is that all that happened today?”
There was something unspoken hanging between us. His mother had walked out of his life more than a month before. I was sure she’d come back; he was sure she wouldn’t. I’d asked if he’d heard from her a few too many times. Now I just asked leading questions.
“I got a call about joining the board at The Center.”
“Don’t you have enough to do?”
“I do, but it’s such a good way to meet potential clients.”
“You have clients.”
