The Twelve Lives of Samuel Hawley

Hawley took a seat at the counter and ordered some eggs. He’d just finished a string of jobs in Florida—two that went well and one in Gainesville that went bad—and now he was making his way back up the Eastern Seaboard in a stolen car. He’d made it as far as North Carolina, but the southern heat still had him sweating. Once this favor for Jove was finished Hawley didn’t have a plan, but his gut told him to keep going north, maybe all the way to Nova Scotia. He’d never been there before but he’d seen pictures. He’d started having dreams of cold water and rocky shores.

At long last he was going to meet Ed King, Jove’s old friend from prison. Since King got out he’d been handling security for a few high-end gangsters and running deals, collecting lost merchandise. As cover he owned a boxing gym and occasionally fixed fights on the side, banking on the gloves he’d worn himself back in the day. King had had a reputation for punching opponents so hard in the head that it sheared the nerves from one side of the brain to the other. The men who’d fought King would have to relearn things—how to walk, how to talk, who their wives were. Finally he had killed a guy in a bar and had been sent to jail for manslaughter. That’s where he’d met Jove. Hawley had never been to prison but he knew that men who did their time together were like soldiers who served in the army—bound for life, even if they didn’t like each other that much.

Jove was in jail again now, doing two years for possession of a stolen firearm. He’d been picked up right after delivering Talbot’s watch, running through a red light in downtown Seattle. It was Jove’s fault for not being careful but Hawley still felt bad about it. So when he got the message through Jove’s lawyer, telling him where to find the key to a safe-deposit box and asking him to make the drop at the diner, Hawley wrote back a postcard saying he’d take care of it. This was a big bet, nearly all the savings Jove had, on a fight Ed King was calling. Enough to finally get that sailboat on the Hudson if it came through, and it would come through—it was a sure thing. Jove encouraged Hawley to put money in, too, but Hawley bet only on games where he was holding the cards.

The cook put the eggs and toast in the kitchen window. The waitress picked up the food and slid the plate in front of Hawley. She gave him silverware and a napkin and brought a mug and filled it with coffee.

“You want milk and sugar?” she asked.

“I’m sweet…”

Hawley remembered saying the same words to Talbot’s wife, and before he knew it, he was thinking about her milky eye. He still felt sorry about her, and he still worried sometimes about Talbot tracking him down. But nearly a year had passed and he’d stopped looking over his shoulder.

He’d meant for things to be different after the job on Whidbey, after the whale had left them and they got the engine started and made it back to Seattle. But once they tied the dinghy up at the dock and delivered the watch and got their payment and parted ways at the train station, Hawley bought his ticket as planned and went on to Oklahoma for the next job. It was easier to fall back on what he knew than try to change, even though he understood things weren’t right anymore. At night he had strange dreams, and Maureen Talbot snuck into his thoughts, holding a metal pitcher suspended over his cup of coffee and asking him if he needed milk or sugar.

“…I’ll take it black.”

The waitress put the pitcher down and went back to wiping the tables and Hawley started in on the eggs. He hoped King would show up soon. He wanted to get on the road again and it was nearly 11 A.M. The neon clock shone like a beacon, the second hand running smoothly from one number to the next.

The door opened, chiming the bell, and a girl walked into the diner. She was in her twenties, with dark hair and a narrow waist and a pair of hips that she nearly had to turn sideways to fit through the entryway. She was wearing a black dress and heels and gloves that came to her wrist and a small hat with a sprig of black veil that fell across her eyes. She walked through the diner, swinging one hip and then the other, and then she slid those same hips over the edge of a stool by the counter, right next to Hawley.

The girl took off her gloves and unpinned her hat and set it beside her purse. Her hair was a mess of tangles; it made her look like she’d just gotten out of bed. Hawley had to force his eyes back to his plate so he’d stop imagining it: her long hair tossed over a pillow and her naked back and that pair of beautiful peach hips slung sideways underneath a clean white sheet.

The waitress was outside smoking. The cook stuck his head through the kitchen window and asked the girl what she’d like to eat. She ordered a hamburger and a glass of water and the cook said it would be right up. While she waited, the girl read the menu and then she kicked off her high heels and started spinning around and around on the stool. Hawley tried not to watch but he couldn’t help it. Each time she turned, her knees nearly touched him and then he shifted a little and they hit.

“I’m sorry,” she said. But she didn’t look sorry at all. And she didn’t stop spinning.

“You’re going to lose your lunch.”

“Haven’t had it yet,” said the girl, and started turning in the opposite direction. She pushed off with her toes and spun in a circle, smooth as a carousel.

“I love these seats,” she said. “I love that no one can move them.”

He’d never really thought about it before, but Hawley had to admit there was something nice about the bright-red stools, all bolted in place and lining the chrome edge of the counter.

“Where you headed?” he asked.

“Oh,” said the girl, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You live here, then?”

“Nope,” she said. “Guess again.”

“I’m not so good at guessing.” Hawley moved the duffel bag with all of his things and the smaller satchel with Jove’s money in it, shoving it between his stool and the counter. He took a sip of coffee and another bite of eggs. There were mirrors angled in the corners of the diner, one over the kitchen window and another at each end, so the waitress could keep an eye on the tables and the door when her back was turned. Most diners were set up this way. It’s why he liked eating in them. That and he could sit alone at the counter and no one would think it was strange.

The cook brought out the girl’s hamburger and the water and she stopped spinning. The cook was an old guy, wrinkles all the way up his forehead. He wore an apron and a hairnet, even though he didn’t have any hair. He set out some mustard and ketchup and then he went back to the kitchen. After a minute he stuck his head through the window and asked the girl if the food was okay and the girl said it was more than okay, it was great. She was a careful eater, cutting the burger into fourths and picking up a corner at a time to chew, taking slow sips of water in between.

“There’s supposed to be a meteor shower tonight,” she said.

“That so?” Hawley said. He picked up his coffee, but didn’t drink it. “I saw one out in Wyoming one time.”

“Was it a Geminid?”

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