The Second Life of Nick Mason

by Steve Hamilton

  “To Finn,” Mason said, raising his beer again.

  “To crazy old Finn.”

  They clicked their cans one more time. Neither of them said anything for a while.

  “I saw McManus,” Mason finally said.

  “How’d that go?”

  “Could have run him over. Didn’t even realize who it was until I was down the street.”

  “I’m surprised that asshole is still in town. If I ever see him, he’s a dead man.”

  Mason took a hit off his beer.

  “It’s funny,” Eddie said. “I think back to that night . . . That fucker was out of the truck before they even started shooting.”

  Mason nodded. He’d been thinking about it for years.

  “He better not come to Bridgeport. I swear, I’ll beat him to death. Right in the street.”

  Yeah, sure, Mason thought. While Sandra and the boys are watching you. That’s exactly what you’ll do.

  “I saw Detective Sandoval, too,” Mason said. “You remember him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He might come by, ask you some questions, now that I’m out.”

  Eddie looked out at the house like he was imagining a detective on his front porch and Sandra answering the doorbell.

  “Sandoval couldn’t touch you five years ago,” Mason said. “He can’t touch you today. You got nothing to worry about.”

  “Right.”

  Eddie took a long sip off his beer and stared at the garage floor for a while.

  “Hey, that reminds me,” Eddie said. “I got something to show you.”

  He put down his beer, got up, and grabbed the stepladder from the far corner of the garage. He set it up and went into the rafters. He came down with a cardboard box. When he opened it, he pulled out a stack of newspapers. The first masthead read Chicago Sun-Times, and it took Mason about two seconds to understand what these represented. These were the newspapers from five years ago, all of the coverage from the harbor job, the dead agent, the apprehending of the suspect, the police superintendent standing on the court steps and saying that a federal agent’s death has been avenged. The whole fucking circus.

  “Eddie,” Mason said, “why the hell would you save these?”

  “I’m not even sure what I was thinking, but, I’ll tell ya, when I’m having a bad day or something, I’ll take out these papers and I’ll remember what you did for me. How I’m here in this house with my wife and kids because you didn’t give me up. How Finn never even made it back home at all. It just puts everything in perspective, you know?”

  Eddie flipped through the pages, shaking his head as he relived the history.

  “You should take these,” Eddie said. “Read them, if you want. Burn them. I don’t care. I just think you should have them. Now that you’re out, I don’t need them anymore.”

  Eddie put the newspapers back in the box. Mason took his last hit off the beer, then put the can down on the table.

  “I’ll get out of here,” Mason said, “before I get you in any more trouble.”

  Eddie reached out and grabbed him by the shoulders again. This time, he pulled him close and gave him a hug. “It’s good to see you, man. I still can’t believe it.”

  “Take care of yourself, Eddie.”

  “Listen to me,” he said, looking Mason in the eye. “If you ever need me, I’ll be there. Anything, anytime. Whatever it is. I will be there.”

  “Okay.”

  Eddie took out a piece of paper from his pocket and wrote down his number. “Here,” he said as he gave it to him. “I mean it, Nick. I owe you.”

  Eddie gave him one more hug. Mason picked up the box of newspapers and walked back down the narrow side yard, back to the street. He glanced at the window but didn’t see Sandra looking out at him.

  Mason put the newspapers in the backseat of the Camaro. Then he got in and left Bridgeport behind him.

  19

  As Nick Mason was nervously getting dressed for his first date, he silently prayed that Quintero wouldn’t call him during dinner. He knew if he suddenly had to get up and leave, there wouldn’t be a second date.

  He showed up at the pet store at exactly seven o’clock. He was wearing his single-breasted Armani suit. A white dress shirt, no tie. Lauren was closing up the shop, but somehow she’d already changed into a summer dress.

  “You look great,” Mason said when he saw her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “So where are we going?”

  “Maybe we just park on Halsted,” he said. “Walk around.”

  Max was pawing at his gate the whole time. Mason went over to put a hand on his head, and Lauren kissed the dog on the nose. She stood up close to Mason. She smiled to break the tension. Then they both left the store and got in the Camaro. She knew enough about cars to be impressed.

  “I can’t imagine what it cost to restore this thing,” she said.

  “I wouldn’t know,” he said, leaving more questions than answers.

  She looked over at him, her expression saying she still hadn’t figured this guy out yet. Mason put the car in gear and they headed down the avenue. They parked in a lot, got out, and started walking north on Halsted Street. Tall brick buildings had shops and restaurants on the first floors, apartments above them. It felt a little strange to Mason because although this same street ran all the way down through the city, across the river, past Bridgeport, along the western edge of Canaryville, down there it was just a wide street with empty, weed-filled lots on one side, low, faceless buildings on the other. It’s like he was in a different city now with a street name that made you think of home.

  They walked under the El just as a train rushed by above them, then found a restaurant on the eastern side of the street and stepped inside. It looked like the right kind of place—a bar and some tables, nice enough without being too much, and mostly full. The greeter promised them a table if they wouldn’t mind sitting at the bar for a few minutes.

  Mason ordered a Goose Island. Lauren had the same. They sat there and clinked their bottles together and there was another awkward silence. Mason couldn’t remember the last time he’d stood next to a woman in a bar and tried to make conversation.

  That made him think about all the nights he was out with Gina, just standing close to her, the way they didn’t have to say anything at all. And then when they got back home . . . No, he said to himself. Don’t go there.

  “So Max stays there in the store by himself?” he said to Lauren, looking for something, anything, to talk about. “Every night?”

  “He’s fine. The cats keep him company. And he guards the place at night.”

  “What happens when he comes to live with me? Who’s gonna guard the shop?”

  “It’ll be a little strange not having him there,” she said, “but he’s going to have a new home. That’s what he needs.”

  “He’ll like the town house.” Then he thought about Diana. Probably should have said something to her, he thought.

  “Maybe I’ll get the chance to come see him there. Or if you want me to just bring him over . . .” Lauren gave him a little shy smile and he was about to say something, but then the waiter came over and showed them to their table.

  After fitting them with menus and lighting the candle, the waiter walked away and they were back to the awkward silence.

  “So I’ve been trying not to ask,” Lauren said, “but you live in a Lincoln Park town house and you drive around in a vintage Camaro. What exactly do you do?”

  “I’m the assistant manager of a restaurant.”

  She looked surprised. “Which one?”

  He fumbled on it for a moment, blanking on the name. That wouldn’t be the greatest answer to give her. Funny, I don’t even remember.

  “Antonia’s,” he said. “On Rush Street.”

  “How’s business these day
s? I imagine it might be tough for a high-end place.”

  “We’re hanging in there.”

  She nodded and took a sip of her beer.

  He took a long hit off his beer. “Okay, listen,” he said, putting his beer down. “I gotta tell you something.”

  She put her arms on the table and leaned in to hear what he had to say.

  “I’ll just say it. I did some time in a federal penitentiary. Just got out. The part about me being an assistant manager, that’s true. But I’m just starting there.”

  “Okay,” she said, working it over in her head. “You get out of prison and you go right to one of the top restaurants in town?”

  “The conviction was overturned.”

  “Oh!” she said, her face brightening. “You see that in the paper, somebody going to jail for something they didn’t do. Finally getting out years later.”

  “It’s prison, not jail. But, yeah.”

  “Prison, jail—what’s the difference?”

  “The amount of time you’re there,” he said.

  “How long was it?”

  “Five years.”

  “You’re telling me you did five years for a crime you didn’t commit? Are they gonna make that right? Pay you something?”

  “No.”

  “They should,” she said. “You lost five years of your life. They have to do something about that.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “What did they say you were guilty of?”

  He hesitated.

  “A robbery.”

  “They thought you were there,” she said. “A case of mistaken identity.”

  “Something like that.”

  “It must have killed you going away like that for something you didn’t do. I can’t even imagine.”

  “You do the time every day,” he said. “Or the time does you.”

  This is a mistake, he thought. I can’t sit here and lie to this woman. One lie tonight turns into another lie the next time. How far could I take that?

  What was I thinking? That I could have a normal relationship like a normal man?

  “So what’s it really like? You hear things about how it is in prison . . .”

  “There are three kinds of people in prison,” he said. “People who want to get out, people who never want to get out, and people who know they are never going to get out. You can’t count the days. You keep quiet, keep to yourself. Don’t go with anybody, don’t owe anybody. You’re all you got in there. The only thing you can count on is yourself.”

  Lauren was leaning over the table again. Her entire body language had changed. Mason remembered something Gina had told him once a long time ago. A boy wants a good girl who will be bad just for him, but a girl wants a bad boy who will be good just for her. Mason wasn’t an ex-con—not officially, not on paper—but maybe that made it even better. He was bad, but not too bad.

  Little does she know, he thought.

  They ordered dinner. They had a few more drinks. When they were done eating, they went back outside into the warm night and walked up Halsted Street.

  A few blocks up, he heard a band playing a Springsteen cover in a bar and slowed his pace.

  Lauren noticed. “What?”

  “I just like that stuff,” Mason said.

  “So do I.”

  “Yeah? You want to go in?”

  “Yeah!”

  They drank a little more. They stood close together while the band ran through all of Mason’s old favorite songs. “Born to Run,” “Thunder Road,” then slowing down for “Meeting Across the River.” It was good to feel her body close to his.

  When it was after midnight, they walked back to the lot where he had parked his car. He could feel her shoulder brushing against his arm as they walked.

  “Take you back to the store?”

  She hesitated for a moment. “No, I don’t have my car there. I take the train down most days.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll take you home.”

  They got in the car and he asked her where she lived.

  “I’m right up by the stadium,” she said.

  “Wrigley?”

  “Yes. Two blocks away.”

  “You’re a Cubs fan.”

  “Is that going to be a problem?”

  “We were getting along so well,” he said as he put the car in gear.

  He drove up through Lakeview to Wrigleyville, shaking his head as he saw the stadium looming above them. Lauren started laughing.

  After he parked the car, she took him into an old brick building and up a set of narrow stairs to her apartment. He turned her around and kissed her in the doorway. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

  “How long has it been?” she whispered into his ear.

  “A long time.”

  “How long? Tell me.”

  “Five years.”

  “Say it again. How long?”

  “Five years.”

  “Show me,” she said. “Show me what five years feels like.”

  He lifted her up and took her into her bedroom. They took off each other’s clothes and came together while a fan blew back and forth across the room, cooling his back.

  He went slowly, stretching her out on her bed and touching her, remembering what a woman feels like. Her neck. Her breasts. Her stomach. Her long legs. The wide curves of her hips.

  He smelled her scent. He tasted her. Then she moaned into his ear as he entered her and the five years of waiting finally started to unwind inside him.

  He took her hands and held them together on the pillow, above her head, as the passion worked its way through his body and into hers, and then back again, until it was too much to hold on to anymore. Five years of desire. Of hunger. Ready to be released.

  Mason held on to her tight, trying to shut out everything else in the world outside that window.

  The man who kills cops in motel rooms, he’s not here. His past is not here, the things he’s done, the things he may have to do tomorrow.

  Tonight, you are someone else, Mason told himself. For these few hours, you can live inside a different life. He held on tight and dove into her again, this stranger beneath him.

  • • •

  The next morning, Lauren woke up to an empty space next to her. But then she smelled the fresh coffee and, two seconds later, Nick Mason came into the bedroom with two mugs. He was dressed.

  “Cream and sugar,” he said. “I hope that’s how you take it.”

  She sat up and pulled the sheet up to cover herself. “Thank you.”

  “Listen, I just got a call,” he said. “I have to go.”

  The message had been simple. Same place. 8:30.

  “Are you married?”

  “No,” he said, taking a sip of his black coffee.

  “Most single guys I know wouldn’t bother to make coffee on their way out to an emergency.”

  “I’m not married, Lauren. I was before I went away. Now I’m not.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll make breakfast next time.”

  “Is there going to be a next time?”

  “Yes,” he said, bending down to kiss her.

  Mason left the room and put his mug in the kitchen sink. He went out the door, closed it behind him, and took the stairs down to the street. It was a hot morning, threatening an even hotter day.

  Another lie already, he said to himself. And then another, every time the phone rings. He was looking for his car, squinting in the sunlight, when he felt a heavy hand on his back.

  “Hey, Nickie boy.”

  Mason turned to see Jimmy McManus.

  20

  Nick Mason didn’t want to talk to the man who put him in prison, the man who got his friend killed, but Jimmy McManus wasn’t givi
ng him any choice.

  McManus wasn’t dressed in his badass black today. Instead, he had on a gray ribbed muscle shirt and tight jeans. But it was the same jackass face, the same thinning hair tied back in a ponytail. His mirrored shades were perched on the top of his head.

  “I thought that was you the other day.”

  “Take your hands off me.” Mason could feel the nervous tension in the man, practically radiating from him like heat waves. It was the same hair trigger that made him come out of the truck, shooting.

  “Hey, we’re cool,” McManus said, putting both hands in the air. “I just wanted to have a little chat. We’re cool, right?”

  “Are you fucking following me, McManus?”

  “I was in the neighborhood,” the man said, circling around to stand in front of Mason. “Call it a lucky accident.”

  Mason didn’t respond. He waited for the man to get the hell out of his way.

  “You gotta understand,” McManus said, “last time I laid eyes on you, you were heading to prison. Parole was so far off, you were living on Buck Rogers time. But you ate your jack mack and did your time standing up with your mouth shut. I always respected that, Nickie. Same thing I would have done.”

  Mason stopped trying to step around the man. “You got two seconds to get the fuck out of my way.”

  “Easy, Nickie. Come on.” He moved a hand toward Mason’s chest but stopped just before touching him.

  “One . . .” Mason said.

  “I’m still connected, Nickie.” He dropped his voice down and took a look around the street like he was sharing a big secret. “I know the people who fucking run this town.”

  “Two . . .”

  McManus stepped back. “I just want to know what your angle is. How did you get out? What are you doing on the street?”

  “I make you nervous?”

  “Yeah, maybe, Nickie. That’s not a good thing. I don’t need any loose ends in my life. It’s the loose ends that hang you.”

  Mason looked him up and down. If he was a real player, he wouldn’t be dressed like some fucking Jersey Shore musclehead. He’d be clean and correct and he wouldn’t walk around bragging about it.