So he had come to the Nighthawk to draw up his last will and testament. Such as it was.
When the waitress took his order, Gibson asked if Toby could stop by his table. Even if the Nighthawk was slammed, Toby always had a nod for Gibson when he came through the door. Toby had barely acknowledged him today. It had left him anxious, and when the food came, he picked over it, appetite gone. Toby slid into the booth while Gibson was paying the check. They stared at each other across their burned bridges. Toby’s eyes held the weary gloss of a parent who’d changed the locks on his own child. Gibson started to speak, but Toby cut him off, his face hard and remote.
“The police came to my house. Asked to see the room where you slept. We were given a number to call if you came in.” Toby turned a business card over in his fingers before handing it to Gibson. It belonged to Detective Jim Bachmann. On the back was written a cell phone number.
“What about?” Gibson asked.
“As if I would know. I am just some trusting fool. Why would I know anything?”
“I’m sorry.”
“He stops by almost every day now, your detective,” Toby said.
“Has he been by today?”
“No, not today.”
“Did you? Call him?” Gibson asked.
“No. Should I have?”
“Yes, probably.”
“What have you done, Gibson?”
In the past, Gibson had confided in Toby only with a sanitized, network-television version of events. Whether that was to protect Toby or Toby’s perception of him, Gibson couldn’t say. Toby had always had a hopeful indulgence for Gibson’s impulsiveness. As if Toby saw something in him that Gibson himself did not. That faith, from someone so fundamentally good, had always made Gibson optimistic about the future. It was hard not to want to live up to Toby Kalpar’s expectations. Gibson could see in Toby’s expression that he had not, and more than that, he had finally exhausted his friend’s considerable patience. This time there was no sanitized version. He’d crossed a divide, and not even Toby Kalpar would be able to find a silver lining.
“Why did you come?” Toby asked when it became clear Gibson would not answer his question. “Clearly it is not for more useless advice.”
“Toby, I—”
“Please do not. What is it you want from me?”
“Would you keep this for me?” Gibson indicated the box. “If Ellie ever comes looking for me, will you give it to her? I want her to have it.” He searched Toby’s face. “Would you do that for me?”
Toby looked at the box a long time before meeting Gibson’s eyes. “No. I will not involve myself with this any longer. I cannot.”
Gibson nodded and couldn’t stop. He let out a whistling sigh. “I understand. Sure. Probably for the best.”
He counted out money to pay the check and gathered up his things. Toby looked away into the middle distance. Gibson stood and rested the box on the corner of the table. Toby had not moved.
“Thank you,” Gibson said. “For everything. I’m sorry I let you down.”
“He is here,” Toby said.
In the reflection of the window, Gibson saw Detective Bachmann speaking to Sana. She stood so that Bachmann’s back was to them, although the detective glanced around as they talked.
Gibson and Toby looked at each other. Toby’s face was a mask to him. Gibson held his breath.
Toby said, “Go out through the kitchen. The back will be unlocked. He won’t see you. Go quickly.”
“Thank you.”
Toby nodded once to acknowledge Gibson. “Do not come back.”
Gibson walked aimlessly for blocks, lugging his cardboard box. His Yukon, tucked into a back corner of the Nighthawk parking lot, was trapped until Bachmann left. It was the second time someone he cared about had told him to go away and stay away. First Nicole, now Toby. His ex-wife and his ex-champion. A smart man would take the hint.
He paused outside a FedEx office. Inside, the lights were still on, and a sleepy employee leaned against the counter. Gibson went inside and asked Greg—according to his name tag—how much to ship the box to Seattle. Greg weighed it and quoted him a price. Gibson agreed. While Greg filled out shipping information, Gibson borrowed a pen and wrote a long, rambling letter to Nicole. He read it over, crumpled it up, and started again, this time keeping it short and to the point.
Nicole, I got your e-mail and agree. I wish I didn’t, but as usual you are right. This box is for Ellie. Someday. If you think she would want it. If you think she should have it. I’ll leave that up to you. You were the best part of my life. I can only say that I am sorry that I’ve become the worst part of yours. I hope you find your best part out there. Take care of our girl. Yours, Gibson He read it over again and still didn’t like how it sounded, but Greg said he needed to close. Gibson handed over the letter and watched him tape up the box.
“You okay, bro?”
“What?” Gibson said.
Greg pointed to his own eyes and made an awkward expression. Gibson put a hand to his own face. It came away wet. He hadn’t known he was crying.
“Allergies,” he said lamely.
Greg nodded sagely. “Zyrtec. That shit’s the bomb.”
Gibson thanked him for the advice and dried his face on his sleeve. An electronic chime announced a customer’s arrival.
Greg said. “Sorry, dudes. We’re closed.”
“It’s all right. We’re here for him.”
Cools and Sidhu stood in the door. They wore matching winter overcoats with the collars flipped up, looking like a couple of cinema gangsters from an old black and white. Gibson thanked Greg for his help and went out the door. Calista’s men parted to let him pass and then fanned out on his shoulders. Gibson turned in the direction of the Nighthawk and his car, but Cools blocked his way. Gibson squared up to him, filled with joyous anger to have someone tangible to vent his frustrations upon.
“You know, I appreciate the escort, but it’s been a long day. Why don’t you fuck off?”
There were two of them. He should have kept that in mind.
From behind, Sidhu drilled him in the kidney. It was a precise, expert blow, and only his puffy winter jacket saved Gibson from pissing blood for a week. As it was, it felt like a bottle of hot sauce had shattered inside him. His knees gave out, but Cools caught him before he could fall, spinning him around and pinning his arms to his sides. Sidhu stepped in close and delivered several shots to his midsection like a boxer working the heavy bag.
“Enough,” Cools said.
Sidhu stepped back as Gibson slipped to the sidewalk and rested his face on the cold concrete. It felt heavenly. Sidhu grasped Gibson by the chin, forcing his head up.
“What did I tell you about cursing at me?”
Gibson couldn’t muster enough breath to reply.