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We eat while we watch the baseball game. We’re quiet, except for occasional comments on plays. Bricker and I are both Angels fans, and we make some superficial jokes about how tough it is in a city of Dodgers die-hards. Rooting for the same team makes it easy to forget we play for different teams at work.
Almost.
When Bricker’s phone rings, he glances at the screen, frowning, and stands up. “I just need a minute,” he says, stepping out of the room.
I’m left alone with the flickering light of the TV and a tempting idea. I stand up, stretching, and remind myself of the positions of the cameras around the room. But Bricker can hardly object to me wandering around the dimly lit living room to stretch my legs. He told me to make myself at home, after all.
I stroll over to the side of the room where a few shelves hold photos and knickknacks, and I take in the details of his life.
There are photos of Bricker with various friends, arms around each other, laughing. He seems carefree in these captured moments. I move on to the objects: a signed baseball cap, a stack of dog-eared Stephen King books, an old record player with a small collection of vinyl albums. Each of these things tells me a piece of Bricker’s story, but not enough for me to understand him.
There are no signs of Fabi Soldano here. No photos. No mementos. Nothing to indicate Bricker ever thinks about that man rotting in prison because of me.
No pictures of his mom, either, so far as I can tell. I never met her. I wrote to her after the trial, told her I’d like to help out, but I never heard back. In fact, there are no family photos at all, I realize, as my eyes fall on a picture of Bricker with a man I recognize as Van Delligatti from his crew. They’re both dressed in military uniforms, arms draped around one another, faces flushed and laughing, and they’re both a good deal younger than they are now.
Interesting.
I lean in for a closer look, careful not to touch anything, but I hear a soft shuffle behind me. I turn to find Bricker watching me, holding a beer in each hand.
“Everything okay?” I ask, hoping to distract him from whatever he sees on my face.
He holds up one of the beers. “Everything’s fine. Thought you might like one of these.”
“Thanks.” I take the offered bottle and settle back on the couch with Bricker. The game continues to play on the TV, but I couldn’t tell you the score with a gun to my head. My mind is on other things.
“Cheers,” Bricker says, raising his bottle to me before taking a long swig.
I follow suit.
“So, Pedretti, you got family? Blood, I mean. Not the Castellanis.”
I see an opening. “No. No siblings. Parents passed a while back. What about you?”
“My mom’s around, but…” He gives a shrug, and I assume that means he doesn’t see her much, or maybe he has a bad relationship with her. “I have a younger half-brother.”
It’s nice to know his mother moved on after Fabi, though I’m sad to think she and Bricker aren’t close. Although I never knew her—Fabi and I always kept our private stuff private, less chance for the Feds to break us down if we ever got caught—I always felt bad for her, whoever she was, with her man in prison and a young kid to support. Proud, too, she must’ve been, to ignore my olive branch. Or maybe just smart.
Or an upright citizen, which would explain her cutting off Bricker,ifthat’s what happened between them, and ignoring me.
And it hasn’t escaped my attention that Bricker hasn’t mentioned his old man at all.
“I saw you checking out my photos,” he says suddenly, his tone light but carrying an undercurrent of seriousness. “Having a little look-see while I was out of the room?”
“I didn’t touch anything. Just stretching my legs.”
“Relax,” Bricker replies with a laugh. “If I really wanted to keep things private, I wouldn’t leave them lying around in plain sight, would I? I would’ve cleaned up before you got here.”
He didn’t seem to know I’d be staying with him, but I don’t point that out. “I see you served. With Delligatti?”
“We got kicked out in almost-record time, actually.” Bricker grins. “My greatest regret is not getting that record.”
The game on TV has become more of a background noise than anything else, and it’s clear that Bricker is interested in getting to know me. I can’t say I mind the attention. He’s charming and easy to talk to—when he wants to be—and I find myself opening up to him more than I usually would with someone I barely know, especially when I’m halfway through the second beer.
He asks a lot of questions, and not all of them are designed to dig out intel. Some seem to be genuine curiosity, and hell, it’s flattering the way he keeps letting his eyes wander over me. I’m not going to do anything about it, of course, but it’s nice to be appreciated, especially by someone who looks like Bricker does.
As the night wears on, we finish off a six-pack, and commiserate on the inevitable Angels loss. We seem to be closer on the couch, too, as if it’s gotten smaller—or maybe the whole room has grown smaller, because all I can find to look at is Bricker.
For a second, I let myself entertain the notion of reaching out, brushing that stray lock of hair from his forehead—
