“Bingo!” Colin exclaimed. “That’s better than I worked out for myself—a lot better, matter of fact.”
“You scared he’ll take it out on Vanessa, whatever it is?”
“It wasn’t that kind of vibe, or I don’t think it was,” Colin said after some thought of his own. “But I don’t think she’s got a clue about what she’s hanging out with, either. I don’t want her getting hurt.”
Gabe laughed a singularly mirthless laugh. “You fall for somebody, man, that’s the chance you take. Me and my ex . . .” He shuddered; he had more than his share of godawful memories to go with the good ones. “You and yours, too. And it’s not like this is Vanessa’s first race around the track, right?”
“Right. Right, right, right.” Colin still wished Vanessa could have stayed together with Bryce Miller. But she damn well hadn’t, any more than Louise had stayed together with him or Gabe’s then-wife with him. If Vanessa hadn’t gone to Denver to stay with that gray-haired rug seller . . . That hadn’t lasted even as long as Bryce had. This one, now? “Everything you say makes good sense, but I’m worried just the same.”
“Well, then, you don’t need to worry about lunch.” Gabe put money on the table. “Come on. Let’s get back to work.”
“Why not?—and thanks. Maybe it’ll take my mind off things.”
“Hope so. But that’s not why I said it. I want my cancer fix, and I’ll get it on the way back to the station.” Gabe gave forth with a theatrical sigh. “Hard times for a smoker these days. If you’re in a building that’s not your own house, they’ll bust you for lighting up. I tell you, man, it’s almost easier to smoke dope.”
Colin kept his mouth shut tight. Every one of his children used weed—Vanessa less than her brothers, but she did, too. The only good thing about it, he thought as he and Gabe tramped along Hesperus toward the station, was that the smoke smelled better than tobacco. Gabe wouldn’t even have agreed with him about that.
* * *
Some people set out to be writers from the time they were small. Marshall wasn’t any of them. He’d chosen creative writing as a major at UCSB because it would let him stay in school an extra quarter or two. He’d submitted for the first time because that prof made him do it.
And he’d got accepted because . . . Maybe God knew why. Marshall had no idea.
He’d sold several more stories after the first one, too. He was good enough to be a professional writer. That much seemed plain. What also seemed plain, unfortunately, was that he wasn’t good enough, or maybe productive enough, or maybe just lucky enough, to make a living at it.
That was how come he’d wasted so much time babysitting his tiny half-brother, a kid whose very existence weirded him out. His father gruffly insisted that time you got paid for wasn’t time wasted. Marshall wasn’t convinced. Dad didn’t care. The next time Dad cared about Marshall’s opinions would be the first.
Now, though, Mom was out of work herself. That meant she had much less need for babysitting services. It also meant Marshall’s income tanked.
Dad did not approve. Marshall had to care about Dad’s opinions, because the house belonged to Dad. His old man was willing—not eager, but willing—to feed him and let him keep sleeping there as long as he looked for work. And, with a cop’s relentless thoroughness, Dad checked up on him to make sure he did.
Some of the interrogations were almost as sharp as if he were under suspicion of knocking over a McDonald’s. He complained about it once: “The state unemployment office isn’t as tough as you are!”
His father just looked at him. Somehow, Dad could make his blunt features do an amazing impression of a snapping turtle. “The unemployment office doesn’t have you sleeping under its roof,” he said tonelessly. “I darn well do. If you aren’t happy about the situation, you’re welcome to pack your bags and go somewhere else.”
Marshall shut up. Without money, where was he supposed to go? He could sleep in his car. . . . Yeah, right, the car he couldn’t afford to gas up. Or he could apartment-surf among his friends. Only most of them were in the same boat. They were crashing on one another, or back with their folks, or seeing what sleeping in their cars was like.
Everybody was in that same boat. Trouble was, it was the Titanic. No—what was the name of that other liner, the one that got torpedoed? To Marshall’s amazement, he dredged it up from the depths of U.S. history boredom. The Lusitania, that was it. When the supervolcano blew up, it torpedoed the whole goddamn economy.