for a youth organization. Our goal was to help impoverished communities achieve greater independence. It was hard work, but unbelievably rewarding. Then I hooked up with Amnesty and went to India, Burma, the Sudan, Borneo, Honduras… and here I am. Ten-second update.”
“Wow.” Morris didn’t know what else to say.
Randall had been twenty-two when they’d last spoken, and he certainly hadn’t been anywhere near as composed and articulate as he was now. Of course, he wasn’t hurling insults at the moment.
“Are you planning to visit long? When do you have to get back?”
“I’m not going back,” Randall said, and Morris’s heart leapt. “I’ve had my fill of sleeping in tents and pissing in the dirt for a while. Don’t get me wrong, it’s been an amazing experience, but I’m burned out.”
“That’s understandable.” Morris felt an immense sense of pride, and a thought popped into his head. “Hey, why don’t you come work for me? I can find you something. You could start next week. I’ve got lots of room here and-”
“Dad.”
Morris stopped. “Sorry.”
Randall chuckled. “Some things never change.”
Morris settled into his chair. “Okay, no more talk of that. So what brings you to Seattle?”
“Well, you, of course.”
Morris grinned.
“And I do have friends here, believe it or not. One in particular.”
“Of course.” Morris’s grin widened. “What’s her name, and is she cute?”
“His name is Kyle, and, yes, I think so.” His son’s gaze was steady.
Morris blinked. “Oh. Wow. Okay.” He paused, searching for the right words. There weren’t any. “So, you’ll stay awhile?”
Randall let out a breath and smiled. “That’s the plan. I’m going to see about an apartment today. Seattle has a great vibe and I thought it would be a nice place to settle down. And good for us. You and me, I mean. What do you think?”
“I think that’s the best news I’ve heard in weeks.”
Randall touched his arm. “Listen, Dad, I heard about your fiancee. I’m really sorry. I heard you got sober but…” Randall sighed. “I’m not here to bust your balls. Been there, done that.”
Two identical grins lit the room.
“Phillip told Mom you haven’t heard from Sheila in a while? What happened?”
Morris rubbed his head. His ex-wife had heard? Great. “I don’t know where she is. And frankly, I’m really worried.”
“Are the cops looking for her?”
“They were. But they don’t think anything’s happened to her and they closed the case. I hired a PI to look into it. Sheila told me things were over, but she had some, uh, personal problems I only recently found out about. I need to make sure she’s okay.”
“At the very least you need closure.” Randall sipped the last of his coffee. “Funny, I wouldn’t have predicted this in a million years. She seemed so committed to you.”
“I thought she was,” Morris said, then looked up. “But how would you know that?”
“Because we’ve been in touch. She tracked me down to invite me to your wedding. Was pretty relentless about it, actually. She got me thinking about things.” Randall frowned. “If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be here. I thought you knew.”
Morris was stunned. “I had no idea.”
“Maybe she wanted it to be a surprise. She was trying to find me for weeks. But I couldn’t get to a phone or a computer all that often, couldn’t even remember what my e-mail address was half the time.”
Morris nodded. “That’s what I’d heard. Though it was good of you to send me that e-mail about your friend Tom.”
“Who?”
“Your friend? Tom Young? From Stanford. I interviewed him for a position at the bank.”
A look of concern spread over Randall’s clean-cut features. “Dad, I have no idea what you’re talking about. First Donna, now Tom? Are you sure you don’t have another son out there named Randall who knows these people?”
Morris was bewildered.
Randall seemed equally confused. “Maybe I’d know him if I saw him-I’m better with faces than I am with names. Or maybe he just really wanted the job at the bank and dropped my name to score an ‘in’ with you. Did you hire him?”
“He never came back.” An uneasy feeling swept over Morris. “Never mind. I’ll sort it out.” He smiled, but something wasn’t right. His mind flew back to the night he’d had dinner with the guy. Tom Young had known too much about his family problems for a guy who’d just wanted an interview.
Someone was fucking with Morris and he didn’t like it one bit.
His son stood up. “I should get going. I have to see that apartment in half an hour. It’s downtown, near the fish market. You still make a mean grilled salmon? If I get the apartment, you should come over, show me your secret recipe.”
Morris resisted the urge to rumple Randall’s hair. He wasn’t a kid anymore. “You bet,” he said instead. “What about football? You still play?”
“Not since I left Stanford. You?”
“Does it look like it?” Morris rubbed his belly and grinned. “Nah. Knees are shot. Not even a weekend warrior anymore.”
“I can’t remember the last time I saw a game.”
“I have Seahawks season tickets. What are you doing next Sunday?”
“Going to the game with you.”
For only the second time in six years, Morris embraced his son. “I’m glad you stopped by.” Morris’s voice was choked with emotion. “And that you’re doing so well, despite all the things I put you through as a kid. You deserved a much better father than you got.”
“It’s okay, Dad.” Randall’s voice cracked, too. “It was my choice to disappear. But we can deal with it later. I just want to move forward.”
Morris waved as his son drove off in the dented Jeep, feeling the best he’d had in weeks. Then he headed back into the house to call Jerry Isaac.
Happy day or not, who the hell was Tom Young?
CHAPTER 28
J erry had some information of his own to share with Morris.
The two men met for lunch at the Golden Monkey, a dive in the heart of the International District that was cheap and funky smelling even going by dive Chinese-restaurant standards. The place was packed. Men and women in business suits filled the room, happy to take advantage of the lunch specials.
“I love this place,” Jerry crowed, digging into a small plate of Cantonese chow mein. “It closed down last summer due to health-code violations, but it just reopened. Thank God.” Using his chopsticks, he scooped up a mouthful of noodles and chewed contentedly.
“Was it necessary to tell me that?” Morris stirred his wonton soup and suddenly wondered if the wontons were really wontons. His mind flashed back to the scene in the second Indiana Jones movie where the queasy actress asked for soup and they brought her a big bowl of steaming eyeballs.
Jerry belly-laughed. “I’m kidding. Really. The food here’s excellent. I know the owners.”
“I’m glad they put their money into the food, since they obviously don’t spend it on the decor.” Morris looked around dubiously at the peeling wallpaper and dusty window ledges. Sheila was Chinese, and she would have hated it here. But he took a spoonful of soup, not wanting to be impolite. He was surprised by how good it was.
