TWO evenings late, in the streets by the river on the South Side, Linc reappeared at the low-rent monument to abandoned delusions that was all his parents had to show for twenty years of drink, drugs, and being suckered into every promise of a quick fix to life's ills that the ad lines had to offer. In the earlier days there had been a succession of "business things" that somebody or other his father knew had had gotten going, inevitably with the assurance to his mother that "you won't believe what's gonna happen!"; except that it never quite did someone, apart from the debts they were left with and another screaming fight that would carry on intermittently for weeks.
Sadie, one of Linc's two older sisters, had left town with a sugar daddy who drove a repo Honda and was going to put her in a penthouse. That had been before the family moved out of the house they'd had off Central. Afterward, the other sister, Marcella, moved in with a creep who fenced electronics and pushed weed in the projects—and whom Linc had once been obliged to visit and "educate" a little after Marcella came home in dark glasses with a swollen mouth and the story that she'd walked into a door. Now only Linc was left to stomp the roaches around the cartons of empties in the kitchen and watch the gaudy furniture coming apart while he served out his time of mandatory social processing masquerading as schooling, to become an aid-program statistic or wage serf on the corporate plantations. At least that was the presumed pattern. Linc Marani, however, had other plans.
His mother was zonked on the couch in the living room with her head in a VR helmet, muttering to herself. Not bothering to rouse her, he went through to the back, showered, and selected a tan zipper jacket and charcoal jeans from his closet. His pocket phone beeped just as he finished changing.
"Yeah?"
"Linc? Clay here."
"What gives?"
Clay and Slam were young muscle from the area, whom Linc had hired as backup for the job. He'd used them before. Clay was black, fast, and mean but liked girls and powder too much to be capable of hanging onto money. Slam wasn't over-endowed when it came to smarts, but he followed instructions with the diligence and predictability of a washing machine, and the size of him was sometimes enough to induce quick settlement of an account with no more than a mild reminder on the meaning of punctuality. It was Friday. Linc had left them staking out Cleary's bar. A twenty slipped to the bartender would give them the identification if Colomada appeared.
"The beard just showed, solo," Clay's voice informed. "He's inside now. Slam's watchin' the turf. Seems we've got ourselves a party in the makin' here."
"I'm on my way over," Linc answered. "Call you when I'm on Griffin. Let me know if the scene moves."
"Gotcha."
Linc disconnected and put the phone back inside his jacket. Then he took down a box he kept on the top shelf of the closet, and from it transferred a pair of thick, leather-backed work gloves to one of his pockets, and a set of brass knuckles to the other. He'd never actually had to use the knuckles, since the sight plus the circumstances had always been sufficient to intimidate a victim into "negotiating." And that was just as well. To Linc the work was a ticket up from life's basement level, not something he did for the love of it. Given the choice, he would prefer to do without messiness.
As Linc came out from his room, locking the door, his father appeared in the hallway. He was wearing his expression of exaggerated friendliness that always set Linc's teeth on edge—partly an apology for intruding, partly that inane grin he put on to show he was harmless. See, I'm not bothering you, it seemed to say. Not asking questions. Don't you owe it to like me a little, at least? It usually meant he wanted a favor.
"Say, Linc, you're back. When did you get in?"
"A while ago."
"Does your mother know you're here?"
"There wasn't any point in telling her. I'm just going back out."
"Oh . . . Okay" A biting of the lip and an awkward momentary flexing of fingers signaled how to bring this up before he leaves? "We, er, had a visit from the school inspector's office. Seems they've been missing you again for a couple of days . . . I didn't tell 'em anything, though. Said I thought you had personal problems you're having to work out, that might be affecting things." See how I'm on your side. We can be friends, eh?
"Okay." Linc shrugged indifferently, looking in the direction of the door.
His father moved a pace closer. "Say, uh . . . something came up, and I didn't get around to cashing my check today. You wouldn't be able to help me out with, say, twenty toward a little drop of something for tonight, would you? Only temporary—till I see Andy tomorrow . . ."
"Andy's out of town. You know he is, because Marcella called three days ago to ask if we had his number. She said then that he wouldn't be back for a month."
"I can tap George at the deli. He owes me—"
Linc waved the rest aside with a shake of his head and peeled a fifty off a roll he produced from his belt.
"Say, are you sure? . . ." But his father was already reaching for it. "I'll have it back for you by—"
"It doesn't matter. Keep it," Linc said curtly.
And he left before the taste in his mouth could get any worse. Bad luck could happen to anybody, and anyone might be in need of a helping hand one day. But to have no pride. That was something else.