Glory Days

by Irene Peterson

  She couldn’t ask John. She owed him more than the hundred dollars she’d paid him to find her father. Besides, he’d spent all that money on clothes for her already. Grabbing her backpack, she dug around to find her wallet which contained her entire life savings.

  When she upended it, the bills spilled out onto the desk, floating over the keyboard. Everything she’d earned from working at the luncheonette was there. All the bills, mostly singles and fives with a couple twenties and tens, she gathered up and put into piles by denomination.

  Ninety two bucks and a ton of change.

  Ninety dollars.

  She couldn’t get anything decent to wear for that.

  Maybe she could make some more money cleaning up again for Liz and Flo. She’d had to stop most nights when she had so much catch-up homework to do. Then the luncheonette had been closed for awhile so it could be fixed up for the new business. She’d worked, but it had sorta been like she’d been helping friends, not something to be paid for. Besides, she ate most of her meals with Flo and Liz. She couldn’t ask to be paid. Not while mooching food off them.

  She couldn’t go.

  Everything went cold inside her.

  She’d hold off writing back to Choochie, though, because just for a little while, until she told him she couldn’t go, she wanted to feel special.

  Chapter 26

  John left the soup bar and headed toward the beach, shoulders bowed by the weight of realization.

  No matter how he looked at it, not one of the men on Carly’s little list was good enough to be her father. Discounting the one who was dead and the one who was a priest, the pickings didn’t leave much of anything even remotely human, much less father material for a teenage girl like Carly.

  Mike, well, he was completely out of the question, now, wasn’t he? Leaving the priesthood would probably kill him or kill something inside him. John had no doubt that Mike would do that if he had to, but that wasn’t the way. Mike’s parents were still alive, by some miracle after having all those kids. But they had to be close to eighty. Mike had been their last kid. No way could they start all over again, though he didn’t doubt that they would try. He did doubt that they were healthy enough to take on the task. And the shame. That would kill them outright. Their beloved priest son with an illegitimate kid?

  Mrs. Ryan would clutch her heart and expire, but not until after spouting assorted Irish curses and exhorting several obscure saints and the Virgin.

  The image brought a tight smile to his lips.

  Dutch was completely out of it. He couldn’t imagine Barb entertaining the idea of raising her dead husband’s bastard kid. And that was precisely the word the shrew would use. No. Not Barbara.

  Georgie Hahn. How had he faded into the shadow of what he’d been only a few years ago? Three daughters and a sweet wife. Working at the refinery and living in Linden his entire adult life . . . John wondered whether the very air had damaged his old friend, leaving him a shell of his former self. Could steeping in fumes and hydrocarbons for almost forty years do that much damage to a human being?

  Jesus. He couldn’t even think of Stu. What the hell had happened to him? What was with those piercings and the tattoos? He’d turned into a sideshow freak. A bald one at that. And his wife? How would a dominatrix handle a sweet young girl like Carly?

  Those footsteps were not what Carly deserved to follow in. Jesus, no.

  Oh, yeah, that left Pat. Pasquale DeAngelo. Now that was something else.

  Rubbing his knuckles, John felt the urge to beat the hell out of that son of a bitch. Lowlife scum.

  Passing by Tillie’s idiotic grin, he looked up at the bizarre face and noted that even more paint had peeled away. The green background of the building had mildew or something in the creases and cracks.

  Asbury Park.

  It looked as bad as he felt.

  That was some consolation, now, wasn’t it? John shoved his hands into his pockets. No need to hunch over as the lowering sun, though weak, added a touch of warmth to the early March day. It would set soon and the misery of the old shore resort would settle in around him.

  Asbury Park—his shell.

  He ought to get drunk.

  Deep in his belly the memory of oblivion called to him with her siren song. There was a bottle in his desk, but the kid was there. He could walk over to Dank’s. He didn’t think he’d been banned from there, yet, but it was about a mile away in the worst part of town. What was he doing? He hadn’t taken a drink in years. What good had it ever done him? It hadn’t wiped out the shooting, hadn’t made anything better ever before.

  He’d been up since four thirty or so and his legs stung as he walked toward the ocean. What he should do was go to sleep, but, not with this problem on his mind.

  It wouldn’t happen. Not without anesthesia.

  And the kid was there.

  Nobody ever stuck up for me before in my entire life. Not until you.

  She’d tangled herself into his brain almost as much as that blasted redhead. The redhead he could understand being there, but the kid . . . when had she become so important?

  Could he choose which name on the list was her old man?

  The kid deserved a righteous, upstanding old man.

  Nobody until you. John stopped on the sand colored sidewalk and rubbed his face with his hands.

  His old man. His old man was all right.

  His old man was better than that. He was one of the good guys. His family meant everything to him. Still did. Stan Preshin loved his daughters and grandkids and wife with a quiet ferocity John had never thought about before. But it had always been there.

  He’d never thought about his father and how hard he’d worked at being what everybody needed him to be. And how he hadn’t hidden behind a bottle of bourbon or a wall of self-pity, either.

  The old casino shuddered before him, casting an eerie shadow amidst the deepening dusk. Too beautiful to tear down, too broken to be used, it sprawled along the beach, looking over its shoulder toward the dying Tillie. The ocean pounded the beach beyond, giving a heartbeat to the decrepit buildings. A wave of longing swept over John.

  Leaning against the glass door that once contained Asbury’s famous carousel, John pulled out his cell phone and called home.

  “Liz, can I talk to you a minute?”

  Liz jumped in surprise. With her hand on her stomach, she spun around to find Carly standing in the small chintz- filled living room of her grandmother’s apartment.

  “Hey, jeepers. You scared me.” Liz sucked in two breaths and tried to calm herself.

  The kid shifted feet, some panic crossing her expression despite her effort to hide it from Liz.

  “Sure, kiddo. Come on in and have a seat.”

  Liz slid into an armchair and leaned her head back, closing her eyes for just a second.

  Carly hesitated. “I’m sorry. I can see you’re tired. I’ll go upstairs. It can wait.”

  Opening one eye, Liz assessed the situation. “You need someone to talk to. I’m here. As long as it isn’t about nuclear physics or Egypt, I can listen.”

  Carly’s face scrunched. “Egypt? Mummies?” Her voice went up softly and Liz had to laugh.

  “I don’t like ’em. Outside of that, and the aforementioned nuclear subject of which I know nothing, I’m fairly knowledgeable about all things.”

  A small smile crossed Carly’s lips. “Aw, shucks. I needed help with my model pyramid.”

  Liz let out a tired laugh. “Sorry. Anything else on your mind?”

  She plopped into the other armchair and put one leg over the curled arm. “Well, yes.”

  “Spill it.”

  Carly cleared her throat.

  “I got asked to the prom.”

  “Oh, honey! That’s great! Who’s the lucky guy?”

  Carly tossed her hair with a shake of her head. “Jason. You know, I talked about him after I went to dinner at John’s parents’ house. He’s a friend of Frankie’s.”

&nbs
p; “Ah, now I remember. The one with the silly nickname and the great shoulders and nice brown eyes.”

  Flo stepped into the room, her ginger hair sticking out in tufts from the pink plastic rollers and paisley scarf. “And the cute smile. That Jason.”

  Carly blushed. “Yeah, that Jason. His nickname is Choochie.”

  Flo laughed on her way to her favorite seat. “You do know that means ‘jackass’ in Italian, don’t you?”

  A look of horror flashed across Carly’s fair features. “No! Why would anyone call him that?”

  “Probably because they heard someone use the word and didn’t know what it meant but decided it sounded cool. I knew a guy in college from around here who answered to that name. He was a real doll, too.” Liz drifted off slightly remembering the kind-hearted Chooch of her past.

  “Well, I call him Jason,” Carly stated with conviction. “That’s a great name for a guy.”

  “Yes, it is,” Flo demurred. “Manly.”

  “So, Carly, what’s the problem and how can we help?”

  “I need a dress.”

  Liz left Carly and Flo going over options. She could tell her grandmother was working angles, which was good, because Carly would learn something about how the world worked and she’d end up with the dress, too. They needed help in the luncheonette or whatever it was they were going to call it. But they didn’t want to be open Sundays during the spring.

  When the ice cream parlor opened for the summer, then they’d need serious help. But the prom would be over before they got rolling.

  So, however Flo decided to go with this, Carly would get her prom dress and it would be perfect, but she’d earn it.

  Liz dug through the laundry basket, feeling apron pockets for bills and toothpicks and tip money. The service didn’t check and often wads of wet paper were pressed into the aprons and towels. Disgusting. So she felt around, glad she wasn’t actually looking at the stains. But John Preshin’s intense, battered face kept creeping back into her mind.

  She’d seen John head upstairs after leaving them. Then she thought she’d heard the outside door hiss closed. Not that she was spying or really interested or anything. She just had exceptional hearing. And she always felt John’s presence like a thrum in her chest. Odd, that.

  Her hand brushed against some thick paper in one of the apron pockets. Pulling it out, she unfolded an unopened letter. California postmark. Her lawyer’s address in the corner.

  Liz’s brain evaporated and knees gave out as a wave of dizziness swept over her. She grabbed the edge of the stainless steel countertop and leaned her hips against its solidity.

  Breathe! Breathe, you idiot! She chided herself when the world started going black.

  With her eyes closed, she forced herself to inhale and exhale with some sort of rhythm. Gradually her heart rate slowed and feeling returned to her legs and face.

  It might be a check, she considered. A rebate! Fat chance of that happening, but she’d never know what was inside if she didn’t open it.

  This took courage Liz wasn’t sure she had, but she reached for one of the paring knives on the holder and slit open the back of the envelope then shook out the contents.

  Two smaller envelopes hit the counter weighted by a sticky note.

  Liz saw her hand shaking as she picked up the first and opened it.

  She read it carefully then folded it up and stuck it back in the envelope before reading the note. “Thought you’d like to see this, Liz. Of course, we’ll fight it.” That’s all. Nothing else. Nothing other than what she’d learned from the paper. But that was enough to send her into shrieks of laughter.

  Tearing off her apron, Liz turned left and right, searching for the way out of the confines of the small kitchen. Panic and hysteria seized her as she bolted through the door, down the short hallway to the side door and out into the looming dusk.

  Heedless of the chill, the evening damp and lazy traffic, she ran toward the ocean with a scream fighting its way out of her throat.

  John found her huddled against one of the pilings of the ancient pier by following the dying sound of her scream.

  One look at her tear-streaked face and he knew he was in trouble. He knew he shouldn’t get involved. He wouldn’t know what to do or say anyway. Maybe she hadn’t seen him and he could still turn his back on her. Yeah, right.

  “Ah, Lizzie,” he said as he folded his arms around her quaking shoulders, “hush, now. Hush. Tell John what’s wrong, baby. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Liz pushed at him, pounded her hand against the leather of his jacket, whimpered and touched her forehead to his chest before calming into a series of deep inhalations and hiccoughs. His hand softly caressing her hair caused another set of short, pitiful sobs before subsiding into wavering breaths as she refused to look at him, turning away from his probing stare.

  “Ah, darlin’,” he said as he held her. “Another shit day, I suppose.”

  One hand moved up to clutch at his shoulder. The crushed envelope it held grazed his cheek.

  “What’s this?”

  John eased it from her fingers though she tried for a moment to withhold it from him. Keeping one arm around her, he took his time reading the document by the light of the security lamp a few feet away.

  “Sweet Jesus.”

  Liz’s sobs returned with a vengeance and John held her close and rocked with her.

  “Shhh . . . shh,” he crooned. Liz inhaled sharply and John felt her struggling for control as her body trembled against his. Not the way he would have wanted, but he forced that unholy thought away.

  Liz, having won part of the battle, stepped away from John who kindly loosened his grip on her.

  “May I have it back?” she asked, some of her assurance returning, but not all for her voice wavered at the end.

  John shrugged. “Sure. Do you want to fill in the blanks?”

  Liz shook her head and looked away, her head moving in the direction toward the street, then back to the foaming low tide as it eddied on the beach.

  Why did this always happen to him? A damsel in distress . . . and the only way he could think to ease her pain was to ease himself inside her? Sex in this case might not be the answer she needed. He’d watched enough afternoon television to know that even though she said she didn’t want to talk, what she really wanted to do was talk. But to him?

  Did he care enough to ask?

  She’d felt too good in his arms. So strong yet soft, so womanly. Her hair smelled great, too, even after a day serving in the café. Her perfume, a faint floral beneath the enticing fragrance of cheese and beef and subtler edible scents, caught his unconscious attention. If she hadn’t broken away, she’d have felt how sincere he was about comforting her soon enough.

  “Look, Liz, I’m not real good at this stuff, but I know there’s more to this letter and I know it left you wrecked, standing out in the cold, on the ugly beach of Asbury Park, New Jersey. Can’t get much more desolate than that. Why don’t we go someplace and talk?”

  She shivered and, with more gallantry than he knew he possessed, John doffed his jacket and put it around her shoulders. With a grateful, watery smile, Liz tugged it tighter.

  “Now you’ll be cold. Let’s go someplace . . . any place with a lot of people in it maybe, and maybe we can just hang out together.”

  Jesus! Now what?

  “Okay. I don’t suppose you’re hungry, but there’s an old diner in Neptune City. It’s never really empty. Would that do?”

  Liz nodded. “Anywhere but back home. Not just now. I can’t face my grandmother now. Just for a little while.”

  Somehow satisfied, feeling slightly elevated in humor now that she agreed to go someplace with him to talk, he guided her back the two blocks to where he’d parked the Jeep. Liz kept to herself, but that was okay.

  He didn’t know what he’d say when she did open up.

  Chapter 27

  John fiddled with the heater control on the dashboard of the Jeep, hoping t
he small space would warm before they got to the diner. Manly as he pretended to be, the cold March night seeped into his bones. Liz looked nice and toasty in his leather jacket.

  He shivered as the temperature plummeted outside. Without something warm in him or around him, he felt the cold as he never had before.

  But he was doing a good deed.

  If it came down to being a son of a bitch or having this one good deed on the books when he met his demise, he’d rather go down with something on the pro side to help balance out the cons.

  He no longer thought he believed in sin.

  “Do you believe in retribution, John?”

  Liz’s question, out of the blue, rattled him. Suspicion of mind readers was high on his list of qualities he’d cultivated in the Bureau.

  He kept his eyes on the road even if he had traveled it hundreds of times before. “Yes.”

  She turned toward him, her eyes capturing his face in the glare of the headlights. “Good. That’s good. So few people are willing to admit it, even if they carry the ‘eye for an eye’ business in their black little hearts.”

  He laughed. “So, now I have a black heart?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant. I meant the people who admit they want an eye for an eye at least are open about it while the bleeding hearts seem to want it but never admit to their feelings.”

  “Uh-huh. Now I get you. No, I’m a big believer in retribution and vengeance, too, when it comes right down to it.”

  “Hmm. I never would have guessed.”

  “You do know that I was in the FBI, don’t you?”

  “Mmm, Gram mentioned it. But you aren’t any more. She didn’t know exactly why.”

  Pulling into the diner parking lot, John refrained from answering until he helped Liz out of the battered Jeep and into the steamy warmth of the eatery.

  The waitress standing at the end of the counter pushed aside her older counterpart in her hurry to reach their booth. Flipping the heavy laminated menus to the latest arrivals, the waitress cracked her gum and waited. John studied the menu and ignored the waitress.