He'd made the show, he wouldn't be bullying teenagers for a living.
'A conscious pattern of deception and coercion.' Fogarty had that right. May not stand up in court. Depends on which judge they drew. Might not get to court. Depended on which prosecutor they drew. He wondered who Jenn might be sleeping with. Experience would suggest the station manager. On the other hand, she said she'd changed. She said Dr. St. Claire had helped her be different than she was. Hard to love somebody sleeping with somebody else. Could be done though. He could do it. Hell, he was good at it.
'Nice to be good at something, Oz.'
Hadn't worked with Abby either. She wasn't tough enough, but at least she'd been faithful. Jenn was tough enough. One out of two ain't bad. When he was nineteen, playing in Colorado, he'd been able to do a back flip, like Ozzie Smith, when he ran out to short at the start of a game. He made himself another drink and took a pull.
It wasn't there any more, but he took it back to the counter with him anyway. The truth of it was of course that he hadn't loved Abby. He'd liked her, and he'd tried to love her because he wanted to move on from Jenn. But he couldn't. That was a grim thought, wasn't it? That he couldn't move on from Jenn? Jesus Christ! He'd better be able to. Or, maybe he wouldn't have to. Or, maybe he was drunk.
He looked up at the picture of Ozzie Smith, frozen in midair.
'It's a long season, Oz,' Jesse said out loud.
He drank most of the rest of his glass.
'And it's not like football,' he said.
He emptied his glass and stood and made a fresh drink and brought it to the counter. He drank some and made a gesture with his glass toward the picture.
'We play this game every day,' he said and heard himself slush the Sin 'this.'
FIFTEEN.
Macklin was eating fried chicken and mashed potatoes with a cracker named JD Harter at the Horse Radish Grill on Powers Ferry Road in the Buckhead section of Atlanta.
'How big is big money?' JD said.
He was small and slim with thick black hair worn long enough to cover his ears and slicked straight back. He had a pointed nose and wore rose-tinted black-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a powder blue jogging suit with dark maroon trim and a satin finish. On his feet were woven leather loafers and no socks.
'Everybody gets at least a million,' Macklin said, JD raised his eyebrows.
'Large,' he said.
'How much you get?'
'More than anybody else,' Macklin said.
'Figures,' JD said.
'How much more?'
'Long as you get yours, what do you care?' Macklin said.
JD shrugged.
'I expect to get fucked,' he said.
'Just like to know how bad.'
Macklin grinned.
'Chicken's great, isn't it?' JD said. He was drinking Coca-Cola with his bourbon.
'It is,' Macklin said.
'What happens if I sign up, and after it's over I don't get no million?' JD said.
'What kinda recourse I got?'
'You can try to kill me,' Macklin said.
JD was silent for a moment. During the silence he drank more bourbon and chased it with more Coke. Then he said, 'That'd be recourse, all right.'
'You in?' Macklin said.
'Exactly what kinda electrical work you need done?' JD said.
'Alarms, phones, time locks, power lines, can't say for sure yet, partly because I need you to tell me.'
JD nodded.
'Who else you got?'
'Faye's with me.'
'I'll be damned,' JD said.
'And Crow,' Macklin said.
'The Indian?'
'Yes.'
