“I thought you were a rich kid.”
Phil gave a half chuckle, tilted back the already-empty Bud Light to drain out the last sip. She half expected him to hit the side of the bottle. “My parents believed we should work, I guess. Where were you tonight?”
“My kid’s high school.”
“Why?”
“A graduation orientation,” she said.
“Did your kid get accepted to college yet?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
She shifted in her seat. “Why did you want to see me, Phil?”
“Was that too personal? I’m sorry.”
“I’d just like to get to the point. It’s late.”
“I was just being contemplative, I guess. I see these kids today, and they’re sold the same stupid dream we were. Study hard. Get good grades. Prepare for the SATs. Play a sport, if you can. Colleges love that. Make sure you have enough extracurricular activities. Do all these things so you can matriculate at the most prestigious school possible. It’s like the first seventeen years of your life are just an audition for the Ivy Leagues.”
It was true, Wendy knew. You live in any of the suburbs around here and during the high school years, the world becomes a ticker-tape parade of collegiate acceptance and rejection letters.
“And look at my old roomies,” Phil went on, the slur more prominent now. “Princeton University. The crème de la crème. Kelvin was a black kid. Dan was an orphan. Steve was dirt-poor. Farley was one of eight kids—big Catholic blue-collar family. All of us made it—and all of us were insecure and unhappy. The happiest guy I knew in high school went down the road to Montclair State and dropped out his sophomore year. He still bartends. Still the most content son of a bitch I know.”
The shapely young waitress dropped off the beers. “The nachos will be a few more minutes.”
“No problem, dear,” Phil said with a smile. It was a nice smile. A few years ago, it might have been returned, but nope, not today. Phil kept his eyes on her for maybe a second too long, though Wendy didn’t think the girl noticed. Once the waitress was out of sight, Phil lifted his bottle toward Wendy. She picked up hers and clinked bottles and decided to stop this dance.
“Phil, what’s the term ‘scar face’ mean to you?”
He tried very hard not to show anything. He frowned to buy time, even went so far as to say, “Huh?”
“Scar face.”
“What about it?”
“What does it mean to you?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re lying.”
“Scar face?” He scrunched up his face. “Wasn’t that a movie? With Al Pacino, right?” He threw on a horrible accent and did a terrible impression: “ ‘ Say hello to my little friend.’ ”
He tried to laugh it off.
“How about going on a hunt?”
“Where are you getting this from, Wendy?”
“Kelvin.”
Silence.
“I saw him today.”
What Phil said next surprised her. “Yeah, I know.”
“How?”
He leaned forward. Behind them came a happy whoop. Someone shouted, “Go! Go!” Two Yankee runners sprinted for home off a hit to shallow center. The first made it easy. There was a throw to the plate for the second, but he slid safely under the tag. Another whoop from the partisan crowd.
“I don’t understand,” Phil said, “what you’re trying to do.”
“What do you mean?”
“That poor girl is dead. Dan is dead.”
“So?”
“So it’s done. It’s over, right?”
She said nothing.
“What are you still after?”
“Phil, did you embezzle money?”
“What difference does that make?”
“Did you?”
“Is that what you’re trying to do—prove I’m innocent?”
“In part.”
“Don’t help me, okay? For my sake. For your sake. For everyone’s sake. Please drop this.”
He looked away. His hands found the bottle, brought it up to his lips quickly; he took a deep, hard gulp. Wendy looked at him. For a moment she saw maybe what Sherry saw. He was something of a shell. Something inside of him—a light, a flicker, whatever you want to come up with—had dimmed. She remembered what Pops said, about men losing their jobs and how it affected them. There was a line in a play she saw once, about how a man who has no job can’t hold his head up, can’t look his kids in the eye.
His voice was an urgent hush. “Please. I need you to let this go.”
“You don’t want the truth?”
He started peeling the label off the beer bottle. His eyes studied his handiwork as though he were an artist working with marble. “You think they’ve hurt us,” he said, his voice low. “They haven’t. This stuff so far—it’s just a slap down. If we let it go, it will all stop. If we keep pushing—if you keep pushing—it will get much, much worse.”
The label came all the way off and slid toward the floor. Phil watched it fall.
“Phil?”
His eyes rose toward her.
“I don’t understand what you are talking about.”
“Please listen to me, okay? Listen closely. It will get worse.”
“Who’s going to make it worse?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Like hell it doesn’t.”
The young waitress appeared with nachos piled so high it looked like she was carrying a small child. She dropped it on the table and said, “Can I get you guys anything else?” They both declined. She spun and left them alone. Wendy leaned across the table.
“Who is doing this, Phil?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Not like what? They may have killed a girl.”
He shook his head. “Dan did that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” He raised his eyes to hers. “You need to trust me on this. It is over if you let it be.”
She said nothing.
“Wendy?”
“Tell me what’s up,” she said. “I won’t tell a soul. I promise. It will be just between you and me.”
“Leave it alone.”
“At least tell me who is behind it.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
That made her sit up. “How can you not know?”
He threw two twenties on the table and started to rise.