He was still getting used to it, this thing that everybody else walking by on the street took for granted. Choice. He could go anywhere in Chicago, do anything he wanted. Until Quintero called again.
Forget about him, he thought, and the possibility that he may call at any minute. When it happens, it happens. For now, he had the rest of a summer afternoon to kill and he didn’t want to go back to the town house and sit there by himself. He wasn’t about to go to Elmhurst again. Not yet. The next soccer game was there on the calendar, waiting for him. Another chance to see his daughter.
For today, he had enough. One of the last things he ever thought would happen. A date for dinner with a woman not named Gina.
18
As Mason parked the car on Thirty-fifth Street, he remembered an old joke. What’s the difference between Bridgeport and Canaryville? People in Bridgeport take the dishes out of the sink before they piss in it.
Bridgeport’s closer to the ballpark, closer to the river. There’s a little more “diversity,” meaning it wasn’t just Irish American kids hanging out at every corner. There were Latinos and even an Asian community in this part of town. The houses were packed tight on narrow lots, just like in Canaryville, with the detached garages in back feeding out into the alleyways that run between the streets, but the houses were a little bigger and a little nicer. There were a few more neighborhood parks and a few more places to eat. Good deep-dish pizza and those breaded steak sandwiches they made here. That’s Bridgeport.
Jokes aside, if you were honest about it, you’d have to admit it was a step up from Canaryville. You moved from there to here, you were moving in the right direction. Of course, you were still on the South Side. That was important. You move to Bridgeport, it’s not like you went too far north and started rooting for the fucking Cubs.
There was one house in particular that Mason was looking at. One narrow, two-story much like the others on the block, although this one actually had a little fenced-in strip of grass on one side. You couldn’t just reach out from your window and borrow a cup of sugar from your next-door neighbor. Mason wasn’t totally sure he had the right place, so he was sitting out on the street. The Camaro’s engine was off but still ticking as it cooled down.
He saw a little boy come running out from behind the house and into the little side yard. The kid was maybe three years old. Red hair and freckles. He was wearing shorts and a White Sox T-shirt, and he had a big plastic baseball bat in one hand, a plastic ball in the other.
A few seconds later, another boy came running after him. He was an exact copy, same size, same red hair and freckles. He was also wearing a White Sox T-shirt, but a different variation. Maybe that was so people could tell them apart.
Mason watched the two kids for a while. The one with the plastic bat was about to hit the other one when a man appeared on the scene just in time to stop him. He was still short and as solid as a fullback. He had the same coloring as the kids, even if maybe he had a little less hair than he once did. Mason knew him immediately.
He got out of the car and shut the door. The man in the yard looked up when he heard the sound. He had the kid’s plastic bat in his hand and he dropped it when he saw Nick Mason stepping over the curb and approaching the fence.
“Nick? Is that you?”
Mason stood with his elbows on the top of the fence. The two boys stared up at him, sensing something in their father and not sure how to react. Eddie Callahan opened up the gate and stepped out. He grabbed Mason by the shoulders like he was verifying the man was real flesh and blood, not some kind of hallucination.
“What the hell,” he said. “I mean, what the hell.”
“It’s good to see you, Eddie.”
“What are you doing here?” Eddie said, taking a quick look up and down the street. “I mean, are you out?”
“I’m out.”
“How did that happen?” Eddie asked, looking around again.
“It’s a long story, Eddie. But I’m out.”
Eddie’s eyes settled on the car. “And what the hell are you driving?”
“A 1967 Camaro. I didn’t steal it.”
“Stop kidding around and tell me what’s going on.” He looked back at the two boys, who were standing at the gate. “It’s okay, guys. Let’s take you inside for a minute, okay. Let’s go see Mommy.”
He grabbed each of them by the hand and led them around back, taking one more look over his shoulder at Mason as he disappeared around the corner.
Mason stood there waiting for a while. Longer than it should have taken Eddie to put the kids inside. Meaning Eddie’s wife was probably looking out the window at him and asking Eddie a lot of questions. She might even be calling the police, Mason thought, and it spooked him for half a second until he remembered he had nothing to worry about. From the police, at least.
Eddie finally came back out, looking like he’d just gotten an earful. “Sandra’s a little concerned, Nick. Are you on the run?”