“I just remembered what I wanted to tell Eric when I got shot.”
“What’s that?”
“I was lookin’ at a book that had the word
Minas put down his drink and lowered his head, pondering the words from his stepson.
“You want to go to the Rib Joint for dinner?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
I n th e past six years Thomas had shambled past the restaurant from time to time. Fontanot had bought the buildings on either side of the original eatery and added a second floor to the primary structure — you could smell barbecue smoking for three blocks in any direction. But Thomas never went in to say hello. The place was too big, and he doubted that his mother’s tall friend would remember him. And even if Fontanot did remember, Thomas knew that no one would let him just walk in. People dressed for street living were blocked from entering any place fancy, like restaurants or department stores.
Fontanot knew Thomas at first sight. He folded the young man in his arms and kissed his cheek.
“Boy, you are a sight for sore eyes,” he bellowed. “Look just like your mother. You sure do.”
They crowded into the kitchen and ate catfish and 2 8 5
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sausages. Thomas couldn’t eat too much, but he was happy at the loud entrepreneur’s special table.
Ira had married a big Texan girl named Coretta.
“Got some meat on her bones,” he told the doctor and his son. “But she ain’t fat. No, no — just bullheaded. When she told me she wanted to live together, I said that I wasn’t ready for that, so the next night when I got home she had all her stuff already moved in. I tried to th’ow her out an’ she rassled me to the floor. I couldn’t break her grip ’cause I was laughin’ so hard. Now, you know if a girl gonna make you laugh like that then it’s all ovah. We got married in Vegas the next weekend.”
Thomas didn’t remember ever feeling so happy or so safe as he did in Fontanot’s kitchen.
“Mr. Fontanot?” Thomas said after many stories.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think you might have a job here that I could do? I have washed dishes for men’s shelters before, and I know how to clean up.”
“I could use a good man on my smokers,” the big man said. “You know, I only put men I could trust out in the backyard.”
“You can trust me.”
“Then you can start tomorrow.”
That n i g h t Th omas was sitting on his old bed (Eric had moved back to his original bedroom) thinking about working for Fontanot. At the Rib Joint he felt that he could make a new life and maybe things would be all right. He’d have a job, and no one was looking to put him back in jail; he could get a license to drive and maybe even get a used car. That way 2 8 6
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he’d have an ID with a picture and an address. And then he could take a train back East and visit Clea at NYU when Fontanot gave him vacation. Maybe even Monique’s husband would shake his hand and smile.
The knocking at his door was very soft.
“Come in,” he said, knowing that it was Ahn.
The nanny-turned-housekeeper had on a boy’s blue jeans and T-shirt. She also wore round wire-rimmed spectacles.
Thomas glanced at the hem of the T-shirt to see if there were old bloodstains there, but all he saw was bright white cotton.
“Hello, Tommy,” she said, leaning forward slightly with just a hint of a bow.
Tommy moved toward the end of the bed, and she sat next to him.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes. I’m going to work for Mr. Fontanot. I’m gonna be a rib smoker.”
“Dr. Nolan and Eric tell me that you were shot one time before,” she said, frowning.
“A long time ago. I don’t hardly ever even think about that.”
“Was that before you called me?”
“No. I got shot later.”
“I could have saved you, maybe?”
“Prob’ly not, Ahn. I was in trouble, and nobody could have got me out. You know, it’s tough in the streets of L.A. I knew this guy once from down in Mexico, illegal, you know.
And he told me that if he was sick he’d be better off at home because down there there was always somebody to give you some beans an’a tortilla, someplace to sleep at least.”
“But I could have fed you then. But I told you not to call.”
