“I know I had no right to ask if you’d do this, JB, and I know you’re doing it mostly for my sister, but thanks, anyway. Angie and Simon would’ve made the drive, but they’ve put up with so much crap from me already, I didn’t want them to have to enroll me in a drunk tank, too, but somebody’s gotta be there to sign the papers with me, so . . .”
“It’s okay, Tommy. Part of this is for Angie, sure, but part of it’s for you, too. When you’re sober, you’re a pretty good guy, somebody I actually like. I wouldn’t mind having that guy around all the time.”
I glanced over at him. He was staring straight ahead, his eyes wide open and shiny.
“What’d you tell the kids?” I asked him.
“Told’em I had a disease, that I reacted different to alcohol than most people do. I said it was like how some people are allergic to certain foods, so they have to avoid those foods. I said I have to avoid booze the rest of my life.”
“How’d they react?”
“Well, when I finished, Abby said, ‘So you’re an alcoholic, Uncle Tommy?’” He shook his head. “Kids, huh?”
“What about work?” I asked. Tommy was a foreman for a local construction company.
“Andy’s been more than fair about this,” he said. “Told me the job isn’t going anywhere, that I should concentrate on getting better. His brother’s a recovered alcoholic, and Andy’s talked to me a couple of times about getting help. He said he’s proud of me.” Tommy stopped for a minute, shook his head again, and said, “Proud of me. Can you believe that, after all the times I showed up drunk or didn’t show up at all.”
“Angie gonna keep an eye on your apartment?”
“Yeah,” he said, “so everything’s covered.”
“One more thing, Tommy,” I said. “When we get there, if you decide to bolt, I’m not stopping you. This thing won’t work if you don’t want it to.”
“I know, JB. Don’t worry about that.” He took a deep breath. “I’m scared, man, but I’m gonna do it. I gotta do it.”
He lapsed into silence, and we both kept our own counsel the rest of the trip, most of it moving north on I-79. After a little over another hour’s drive, I spotted the sign for Havenhurst. I made a right onto a gravel path and drove along nicely landscaped grounds for half a mile to a fairly large building that could have passed for an old colonial inn. As soon as I stopped the car, a medium-sized man in a gray sweat suit came out and introduced himself. Mel Witherspoon, the director of the place. He took us inside, and we disposed of the paperwork in fifteen minutes. Then Mel waited while Tommy walked me back out to my car. After getting his suitcase, Tommy thanked me again and started to hold out his hand, then stopped. I put my hand out, but Tommy shook his head.
“No, JB,” he said. “I haven’t earned the right.”
“Yeah,” I told him, “you just did.”
And we shook.
His grip was firm.
Chapter 13
Most of the time, I wear jeans or casual slacks, with a T-shirt or sweatshirt or maybe an oxford-cloth button-down. Sometimes, though, when I’m working, I’ll wear what someone with a more highly-developed sense of fashion than mine would call situationally-appropriate clothes, especially if I’m trying to get information from people. No sense in antagonizing folks right off the bat by dressing in a manner designed to offend. Angie says I’m already good enough at pissing people off without throwing lousy ensembles into the mix. So when I presented myself at the twentieth floor law offices of Chaney and Cox at nine o’clock sharp the following Monday morning, I was wearing lightweight gray wool slacks, white shirt with gold collar pin, burgundy tie with muted windowpane blue stripes on the diagonal, a silk navy blazer, and recently-shined cordovan loafers with tassels, just to show that I had a bit of whimsy in me. I completed the look with a smile so brilliant that I expected the young woman at the desk in the reception area, she of the extremely sexy voice, to attack me, or, at the very least, beg me to father her children. She decided to take a more indirect approach.
“Do you have an appointment, sir?” she asked.
“Yes, indeed.” I said. “My name is Jeremy Barnes, and, by the way, you look as good as you sounded on the phone.”
“Oh, Mr. Barnes,” she said. “Yes, I remember you.”
They always do.
“Please have a seat. Mr. Chaney and Mr. Cox will be with you shortly.”
“You notice,” I told her, “that I arrived at exactly nine o’clock. There are those who will tell you that punctuality is a virtue.”
She smiled and said, “If that’s the case, then a lot of the lawyers around here are flirting with sin every day.”
“So,” I asked, “how about me?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do I look as good as I sounded on the phone?”
She gave a slight giggle and said, “I’ll have to take the fifth.”
I wasn’t sure how to interpret that, so I just assumed it meant that she was crazy about me, and I took a seat on the forest-green leather sofa across from her desk. Looking around the lobby, I could see that while Chaney and Cox might be a fairly small firm, it was definitely a prosperous one. The walls in the reception area were all dark-paneled oak, the beige-colored carpeting was rich and deep, and the artwork looked both expensive and original. Melanie, for that was the name on the plaque in front of her desk, fit right in with the surroundings. Tall and slender, long blonde hair, artfully-applied makeup, a tan two-piece suit with white, open-necked blouse, gold necklace and earrings, and, I would be willing to bet, the legs to match the rest of the look.
Ten minutes went by. I assumed that the purpose of the wait was to impress
