I got some coffee and cookies and sat through the meeting. It was all right. The speaker qualified very briefly, leaving the rest of the meeting for discussion. You had to raise your hand to get called on.
Fifteen minutes from the end, Jan raised her hand and said how grateful she was to be sober and how much of a role her sponsor played in her sobriety, how helpful the woman was when she had something bothering her or didn't know what to do. She didn't get more specific than that. I had a feeling she was sending me a message and I wasn't too crazy about that.
I didn't raise my hand.
Afterward she was going out with some people for coffee and asked me if I'd like to come along. I didn't want any more coffee and I didn't want company, either. I made an excuse.
Outside, before we went separate ways, she asked me how I felt. I said I felt all right.
'Do you still feel like drinking?'
'No,' I said.
'I'm glad you called last night.'
'So am I.'
'Call anytime, Matthew. Even in the middle of the night if you have to.'
'Let's hope I don't have to.'
'But if you do, call. All right?'
'Sure.'
'Matthew? Promise me one thing?'
'What?'
'Don't have a drink without calling me first.'
'I'm not going to drink today.'
'I know. But if you ever decide to, if you're going to, call me first.
Promise?'
'Okay.'
On the subway heading uptown I thought about the conversation and felt foolish for having made the promise. Well, it had made her happy. What was the harm in it if it made her happy?
There was another message from Chance. I called from the lobby, told his service I was back at my hotel. I bought a paper and took it upstairs with me to kill the time it took him to call back.
The lead story was a honey. A family in Queens— father, mother, two kids under five— had gone for a
ride in their shiny new Mercedes. Someone pulled up next to them and emptied both barrels of a shotgun into the car, killing all four of them. A police search of their apartment in Jamaica Estates had revealed a large amount of cash and a quantity of uncut cocaine. Police theorized the massacre was drug related.
No kidding.
There was nothing about the kid I'd left in the alley. Well, there wouldn't be. The Sunday papers were already on the street when he and I encountered one another. Not that he'd be much likelier to make tomorrow's paper, or the next day's. If I'd killed him he might have earned a paragraph somewhere, but what was the news of a black youth with a pair of broken legs?
I was pondering that point when someone knocked on my door.
Funny. The maids have Sunday off, and the few visitors I get call from downstairs. I got my coat off the chair, took the .32 from the pocket. I hadn't gotten rid of it yet, or of the two knives I'd taken from my broken-legged friend. I carried the gun over to the door and asked who it was.
'Chance.'
I dropped the gun in a pocket, opened the door. 'Most people call,'
I said.
'The fellow down there was reading. I didn't want to disturb him.'
'That was considerate.'
'That's my trademark.' His eyes were taking me in, appraising me.
They left me to scan my room. 'Nice place,' he said.
The words were ironic but the tone of voice was not. I closed the door, pointed to a chair. He remained standing. 'It seems to suit me,' I said.
'I can see that. Spartan, uncluttered.'
He was wearing a navy blazer and gray flannel slacks. No topcoat.
Well, it was a little warmer today and he had a car to get around in.
He walked over to my window, looked out of it. 'Tried you last night,' he said.
'I know.'
'You didn't call back.'
