“Am I really going to have to listen to this?”
“You know it’s true,” I said again.
“What I know is, you did some pretty incredible stuff and saved my life.”
“If I hadn’t gone after Kevin years ago—”
“Right, you should have just let him walk away from beating a girl to death.”
“What I should have done was let Hal beat Kevin to death.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Wouldn’t that have been better?”
“Who made you God?”
I started to shift on the couch, stopped when I realized there was no percentage in it: comfortable was just something I wasn’t going to be. “Every time I take a case,” I said, “every time I come down on one side or the other without knowing the consequences, aren’t I playing God?”
“If you were God you’d know the consequences.”
“That’s what I said: playing. Like Kevin.”
“No. Kevin was playing because Kevin’s insane. Make sense, Bill. When do we ever know the consequences? Every time you walk out your front door, you could be changing someone’s life. Are you going to stay home forever, then? Except maybe that will change someone’s life. Oh no! Now what?”
I lifted the cigarette again. “I’m too out of it to argue with that.”
“Then try this: I don’t blame you for anything that happened. Neither does anybody else.”
“Mary?”
“Anybody.”
“Anybody.”
“Your mother?”
“You think she knows? Are you crazy?”
“Where does she think you were all day? Or last night when you were at St. Vincent’s?”
“Working, and at Mary’s. Don’t change the subject. No one blames you. But—”
“I knew there’d be a ‘but.’ ”
“But, if you start this stuff again, kicking yourself, doing the it’s-all-my-fault dance? Avoiding me the way you do when things go wrong? Then it’s over.”
“What are you—” Dude? You know what she’s talking about.
“I can’t deal with that anymore. If you disappear to meditate on what a screwup you are, this time you’re gone for good.”
I brought the cigarette up. After such a massive effort there was no point in a polite puff; I drew in a lungful, coughed it out. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, the room seemed sharper, brighter.
“Where are you?” I said.
“I told you. Home.”
“That bakery near you. The Tai-Pan. They still make that great coffee?”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
“Well, could you pick me up one on your way over?”
A pause. “I’m coming over?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My agent, Steve Axelrod
My editor, Keith Kahla
Betsy Harding, Royal Huber, and Tom Savage, for setting me on the right track
Pat Picciarelli, for keeping me out of trouble
Steve Blier, Hillary Brown, Monty Freeman, Max Rudin, James Russell, and Amy Schatz, for years of weekends
David Dubal, for inspiration
Jonathan Santlofer, for support
Nancy Ennis, for coffee
Tom Savage, again, for his way with names
Ed King and Tom Phillips, the world’s best runners-up
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First published in 2010 in the US by St Martins Press as On the Line
Copyright © 2010 by S.J. Rozan
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