old, nervous and calm. The youngest person was a woman around twenty; the oldest, a man in his seventies, sitting in a wheelchair. It was also a diverse group — black, white, Hispanic, Asian. Addiction, of course, had no prejudice, no gender or age issues. The size of the group indicated that the holidays were rapidly approaching, and if anything pressed the glowing red buttons of inadequacy, resentment, and rage, it was the holidays.
The coffee, as always, was crap.
'Some of you have probably seen me here before,' she began, trying to affect a tone of lightness and cheer. 'Ah, who the hell am I kidding? Maybe I'm wrong about that. Maybe it's ego, right? Maybe I think I'm the shit, and no one else does. Maybe that's the problem.
Anyway, today is the first time I've really had the balls to speak. So, here I am, and you have me. At least for a little while. Lucky you.'
As she told her story, she scanned the faces. There was a kid in his mid-twenties on the right — killer blue eyes, ripped jeans, a multicolor Ed Hardy T-shirt, biceps of note. More than once she looked over at him and saw him scanning her body. He may have been an alcoholic but he was still most definitely on the make. Next to him was a woman in her fifties, a few decades of heavy use mapped in the broken veins on her face and neck. She rolled a sweaty cellphone over and over in her hands, tapped one foot to some long-silenced beat. A few chairs down from her was a petite blonde in a green Temple University sweatshirt, athletic and toned, the weight of the world just a snowflake on her shoulder. Next to her sat Nestor, the group leader. Nestor had opened the meeting with his own short and sad tale, then asked if there was anyone else who wanted to talk.
My name is Paulette.
When she finished her story everyone clapped politely. After that other people rose, talked, cried. More applause.
When all their stories were exhausted, every emotion wrung, Nestor reached out his hands to either side. 'Let's give thanks and praise.'
They joined hands, said a short prayer, and the meeting was over.
'It's not as easy as it looks, is it?'
She turned around. It was Killer Blue Eyes. At just after noon they stood outside the main church doors, between a pair of emaciated brown evergreens, already struggling through the season.
'I don't know,' she replied. 'It looked pretty hard to begin with.'
Killer Blue Eyes laughed. He had put on a short cognac leather jacket. A pair of amber Serengeti sunglasses were clipped to the neck of his T-shirt. He wore thick-soled black boots.
'Yeah. I guess you're right,' he said. He clasped his hands in front of him, rocked back slightly on his heels. His good-guy, not-to-worry pose. 'It's been a while since I've done it for the first time.' He held out his hand. 'Your name is Paulette, right?'
'And I'm an alcoholic.'
Killer Blue Eyes laughed again. 'I'm Danny. Me too.'
'Nice to meet you, Danny.' They shook hands.
'I can tell you this, though,' he continued, unasked. 'It gets easier.'
'The sobriety part?'
'I wish I could say that. What I meant was the talking part. Once you get comfortable with the group it gets a little easier to tell your stories.'
'Stories?' she asked. 'Plural? I thought I was done.'
'You're not done,' he said. 'It's a process. It goes on for a long time.'
'Okay. Like, how long?'
'Did you see that guy in the red flannel shirt?'
Danny was talking about the older man, the guy in his seventies, the guy in the wheelchair. 'What about him?'
'He's been coming to meetings for thirty-six years.'
'Jesus. He hasn't had a drink in thirty-six years?'
'That's what he says.'
'And he still wants one?'
'So he says.'
Danny looked at his watch, an oversized Fossil chronograph. The move looked just slightly less calculated and rehearsed than it probably was. 'You know, I don't have to be at work for a couple of hours. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?'
She looked appropriately suspicious. 'I don't know.'
Danny put up both hands. 'No strings. Just coffee.'
She smiled. 'Irish?'
'Bad Paulette. Bad, bad Paulette.'
She laughed. 'Let's go.'
They picked a place on Germantown Avenue, sat at a table near the window, small-talked — movies, fashion, the economy. She had a fruit salad. He had coffee and a cheeseburger. Neither would rate Zagat's.
After fifteen minutes or so she held up her iPhone, tapped the touch screen. She did not dial a number, did not send a text or an email, did not make an entry onto her contact list or schedule something in iCal. Instead, she took a picture of Killer Blue Eyes, having earlier in the day deselected the option that attached the sound of a clicking camera to the operation. When she was done she looked at the cellphone's screen in mock frustration, as if something was wrong. Nothing was wrong. The photograph, which the young man could not see, was perfect.
'Problem?' he asked.
She shook her head. 'No. It's just that I can never get much of a signal around here.'
'Maybe you can get a signal outside,' Danny said. He stood up, slipped on his jacket. 'Want to give it a shot?'
She hit one more button, waited until the progress bar made its way fully to the right, and said: 'Sure.'
'Come on,' Danny said. 'I'll get the check.'
They walked slowly down the street, wordlessly window browsing.
'Don't you have to make that call?' Danny asked.
She shook her head. 'Not really. It's just my mother. She's just going to give me shit about what a loser I am. I can wait.'
'We might be related,' Danny said. 'Like closely related. I think we have the same mother.'
'I thought you looked familiar.'
Danny looked around. 'So, where are you parked?'
'Just up this way.'
'Would you like me to walk you to your car?'
She stopped. 'Oh no.'
'What?'
'You're not a gentleman, are you?' she accused him flirtatiously.
Danny raised a hand, three fingers up, Boy Scout style. 'I swear to God I'm not.'
She laughed. 'Sure.'
They turned the corner into a dim alleyway, heading toward the parking lot. Before they took three steps she saw the glint of the revolver.
With a strong forearm Danny slammed her against the bricks and brought his face very close to hers.
'You see that red Sebring over there?' he whispered, nodding toward the Chrysler parked near the end of the alley. 'Here's what we're going to do. We're going to walk over there and you're going to get in that car. If you give me any trouble, make a single sound, so help me God I will shoot you in the fucking face. Do you hear me?'
'Yes.'
'Do you doubt what I say?'
She shook her head.
'I want you to say it out loud. I want you to say 'I understand, Danny.''
'I understand, Danny.'
'Good. Good,' he said. 'Paulette.' He kept a hand on her, leaned away. 'You know, you've got great tits. You wear this loose shit to hide them, but I can tell. And you're a goddamn drunk. Do you know what a plus that
