“This guy writes dark stuff. Seriously dark. Jenny’s all puppies and roses. I’ll take this one.”
Bowen sat back straight in his chair, put both hands on the edge of his desk. “You know, I don’t mind the coffee pranks and the other abuse, but don’t you think you should maybe just once do what I ask you to do?”
DeMarco rubbed his cheek. “You familiar with an old song by Johnny Cash? ‘A Boy Named Sue’? You’re my Sue.”
“So you’re trying to toughen me up, is that it?”
“You can thank me when you make lieutenant.”
Bowen leaned forward and brought his hands together, rubbed a thumb across the palm of his other hand. “Is it because of my dad?”
“Hey, your dad’s a good man. He did what he had to do. And he made the right decision. How is the old goat anyway? Still shuffleboard champ of Tampa–Saint Pete?”
“He says when you were my age, you were ramrod straight. Eye of the tiger and all that. But afterward…it was almost like you wanted to get demoted.”
DeMarco gazed at the ceiling and made a popping sound with his lips. Then he looked down at Bowen again. “Are we done reminiscing here?” He patted his jacket pocket. “Some of us adults have work to do.”
“Go,” Bowen told him and waved him away. “Just go.”
DeMarco reached for the cup. “Thanks for the coffee.”
Five
DeMarco first met Huston at a place called Dino’s, a small, narrow brick building shaped like a diner, its six booths all lined up against the long window overlooking busy State Street. “I don’t often get down this way,” Huston told him. “It’s closer for us to go to Erie for everything. But I like it here. I like the feel of it.”
DeMarco nodded, smiled, sipped his sweet tea. He had recognized Huston from the photos on his book jackets. None showed the writer in a coat and tie, yet DeMarco was still pleasantly surprised by the day’s growth of stubble on Huston’s cheeks, the washed-out jeans and dark blue T-shirt. Except for his six-foot height, he reminded DeMarco of a young Jack Kerouac.
Huston took off his navy-blue baseball cap and laid it on the seat, then finger combed his hair while he considered the sandwich board behind the counter. “What’s good here?” he asked.
“When I come, it’s for the eggplant parm or the junkyard dogs.”
“So how about we split the twelve-inch eggplant parm and an order of four dogs? They have iced coffee here?”
“I’m sure they can pour some of yesterday’s over ice for you, no problem.”
“That’s how I make it at home,” Huston said.
DeMarco leaned back against the booth and allowed himself to relax. He had dealt with academics before and had found most of them either socially dysfunctional or condescending. But here was a respected professor from a private, very expensive college, a critically acclaimed novelist, big-screen handsome, still young—DeMarco felt both envy and a sudden, unexpected fondness for the man.
“So who are the Tigers?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“The baseball cap. Those aren’t Detroit’s colors.”
“My boy’s Little League team last year. I was an assistant coach.”
“Was?”
“They moved him up to PONY League this year. I could’ve helped out again, but Claire, my wife, she thought it was time I take a step back, you know? Time to let him be his own man for a change.”
DeMarco read the look on Huston’s face. “Not easy to do, huh?”
“Fathers and sons, you know? It’s hard to be a spectator.”
This time, it was Huston’s turn to read the subtle change in the other man’s eyes. “You have children, Officer? Is that the proper way to address you, by the way? Or do you prefer ‘Trooper’? ‘Sergeant’?”
“Ryan will do. And no, no children.”
“Ryan is my baby’s middle name. David Ryan Huston.”
“Good name,” DeMarco said.
Huston nodded toward the gold band on DeMarco’s left hand. “You’re married, though.”
“Separated.”
“Sorry, man.”
“Hey. Life,” DeMarco said. He looked down at the table, squared up the paper place mat.
Huston did not allow the awkward moment to linger. “So what’s it like being an officer of the law?”
“It’s great. You get to see humanity at its worst day in and day out. What’s it like being a professor?”
Huston smiled. “You know how many academics it takes to change a lightbulb?”
“How many?”
“Four to form a committee, two to write a report, one to file a grievance with the union, and one to ask the secretary to call the janitor.”
DeMarco smiled.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Huston said. “I love my students. And I get a lot from them. Their passion, you know? That fire in the belly.”
DeMarco started to nod but then stopped himself. What did he know about passion? The fire in his belly had been snuffed a long time ago. “So your new book,” he said, “this one you’re working on. It’s about the state police?”
“A trooper is one of the main characters, yeah.”
“One of the good guys?”
“Good guys, bad guys…it’s all fairly ambiguous, you know?”
“It’s been fairly ambiguous in all of your novels, seems to me.”