“I thought you said you weren’t an alcoholic.”
“I’m not,” said Gamache.
“Then that was a pretty good guess on your part,” said Bob with a guffaw.
“Do many people have one of these?” Gamache asked.
“Sure.”
Bob produced a shiny coin from his pocket, and looked down at it, his face softening. “Took this at my first meeting. I keep it with me always. It’s like a medal, Armand.”
Then he reached out to Gamache’s hand and folded it in.
“No, sir,” protested Gamache. “I really can’t.”
“But you must, Armand. I give it to you, and you can give it to someone else one day. Someone who needs it. Please.”
Bob closed Gamache’s fingers over the coin. Before Gamache could say anything else, Bob broke away and turned back to the long table.
“You’ll also need this.” He held up a thick blue book.
“I already have one.” Gamache opened his satchel and showed him the book in there.
Bob raised his brow. “You can use one of these, I think.” He gave Gamache a pamphlet called Living in Denial.
Gamache brought out the meeting list he found in Lillian’s home and got the look from his new friend he’d so quickly come to expect. Amusement.
“Still claim not to be an alcoholic? Not many sober people carry around the AA book, a beginner’s chip and a meeting list.” Bob examined the meeting list. “I see you’ve marked a bunch of meetings. Including some women’s meetings. Honestly, Armand.”
“This doesn’t belong to me.”
“I see. Does it belong to a friend?” Bob asked with infinite patience.
Gamache almost smiled. “Not really. The young woman who introduced us said that men should stick with men. What did she mean?”
“Clearly, you need to be told.” Bob waved the meeting list in front of Gamache. “This isn’t a pick-up joint. Some guys hit on women. Some women want to find a boyfriend. Think that’ll save ’em. It won’t. In fact, just the opposite. Getting sober’s hard enough without that distraction. So men speak mostly to men. Women to women. That way we can concentrate on what’s important.”
Bob fixed Gamache with a hard stare. A penetrating look. “We’re friendly, Armand, but we’re serious. Our lives are at stake. Your life is at stake. Alcohol’ll kill us, if we let it. But I have to tell you, if an old drunk like me can get sober, so can you. If you’d like help, that’s what I’m here for.”
And Armand Gamache believed him. This sticky, disheveled little man would save his life, if he could.
“Merci,” said Gamache, and meant it.
Behind him a gavel hit wood with several sharp raps. Gamache turned and saw a distinguished older man sitting at the front of the room at a long table, an older woman beside him.
“Meeting’s started,” whispered Bob.
Gamache turned back and saw Beauvoir trying to catch his eye, waving him to an empty seat beside him. Vacated, presumably, by Jim, who was now sitting across the room with someone else. Perhaps he’d given up on Beauvoir as a hopeless case, thought Gamache, smiling and making his way past others to take the empty seat.
Bob had stuck with him and was now sitting on Gamache’s other side.
“How the mighty have fallen,” Gamache leaned over and whispered to Beauvoir. “Last night you were the art critic for Le Monde and now you’re a drunk.”
“I’m in good company,” said Beauvoir. “I see you’ve made a friend.”
Beauvoir and Bob smiled and nodded to each other across Gamache.
“I need to speak to you, sir,” whispered Beauvoir.
“After the meeting,” said Gamache.
“We have to stay?” asked Jean Guy, crestfallen.
“You don’t have to,” said Gamache. “But I’m going to.”
“I’ll stay,” said Beauvoir.
Chief Inspector Gamache nodded, and handed the beginner’s chip over to Beauvoir, who examined it and raised his brow.
Gamache felt a slight pressure on his right arm and looked over to see Bob squeezing it and smiling. “I’m glad you’re staying,” he whispered. “And you even convinced that young man to stay. And you gave him your chip. That’s the spirit. We’ll get you sober yet.”
“How very kind,” said Gamache.
The president of Alcoholics Anonymous welcomed everyone and asked for a moment of silence, to be followed by the Serenity Prayer.
“God,” they said in unison. “Grant me the serenity—”
“It’s the same prayer,” said Beauvoir under his breath. “The one on the coin.”
“It is,” agreed Gamache.
“What is this? A cult?”
“Praying doesn’t make something a cult,” whispered the Chief.
“Did you get a load of all the smiling and shaking hands? What was that? You can’t tell me these people aren’t into mind-control.”
“Happiness isn’t a cult either,” whispered Gamache, but Beauvoir looked like he didn’t believe it. The Inspector looked around suspiciously.
The room was packed. Filled with men and women of all ages. Some, at the back, shouted out every now and then. Some arguments erupted and were quickly brought under control. The rest smiled as they listened to the president.
They looked, to Beauvoir, demented.
Who could possibly be happy sitting in a disgusting church basement on a Sunday night? Unless they were drunk, stoned, or demented.
“Does he look familiar to you?” Beauvoir indicated the president of AA, one of the few who looked sane.
The Chief had just been wondering the same thing. The man was clean-shaven, handsome. He looked to be in his early sixties. His gray hair was trim, his glasses were both classic and stylish, and he wore a light sweater that looked cashmere.
Casual but expensive.
“A doctor, do you think?” Beauvoir asked.
Gamache considered. Maybe a doctor. More likely a therapist. An addictions counselor who was responsible for this gathering of alcoholics. The Chief wanted to have a word with him when the meeting was over.
The president had just introduced his secretary, who was reading endless announcements, most of which were out-of-date, and trying to find papers she seemed to have lost.
“God,” whispered Beauvoir. “No wonder people drink. This’s about as much fun as drowning.”
“Shhh,” said Bob, and gave Gamache a warning look.
The president introduced the speaker for that evening, mentioning something about “sponsor.” Beside him Beauvoir groaned and looked at his watch. He seemed fidgety.
A young man slouched to the front of the room. His head was shaved and there were tattoos around his skull. One was a hand with the finger up. “Fuck You” was tattooed across his forehead.
His entire face was pierced. Nose, brows, lips, tongue, ears. The Chief didn’t know if it was fashion or self-mutilation.
He glanced at Bob, who was sitting placidly beside him as though his grandfather had just walked to the front of the room.
Absolutely no alarm.
Perhaps, thought Gamache, he had wet-brain. Gone soft in the head by too much drinking and had lost all judgment. All ability to recognize danger. Because if anyone screamed warning, this young man at the front did.
The Chief looked at the president, sitting at the head table, keenly watching the young man. He at least seemed alert. Taking everything in.
And he would, thought Gamache, if he was sponsoring this boy who looked capable of doing anything.
“My name’s Brian and I’m an alcoholic and addict.”
“Hi, Brian,” they all said. Except Gamache and Beauvoir.
Brian spoke for thirty minutes. He told them about growing up in Griffintown, below the tracks in Montréal. Born to a crack-addicted mother and a meth-addicted grandmother. No father. The gang became his father, his brothers, his teachers.
His talk was littered with swear words.
He told them about robbing pharmacies, about robbing homes, about even breaking into his own home one night. And robbing it.
The room erupted into laughter. Indeed, people laughed all the way through. When Brian told them about being in the psych ward and having his doctor ask how much he drank, and he told him a beer a day, the place went hysterical with laughter.