#ive been eating so well the past few dags

[ceniwen]

Happy Lunar New Year 🍊🧧!

[hellosaltysaladcollectionstuff]

THIS IS PART XII of LARB’s serialization of Seth Greenland’s forthcoming novel The Hazards of Good Fortune. Greenland’s novel follows Jay Gladstone from his basketball-loving youth to his life as a real estate developer, civic leader, philanthropist, and NBA team owner, and then to it all spiraling out of control.

A film and TV writer, playwright, and author of four previous novels, Greenland was the original host of The LARB Radio Hour and serves on LARB’s board of directors. The Hazards of Good Fortune will be published in book form by Europa Editions on August 21, 2018.

To start with installment one, click here.

To pre-order on Indiebound, click here; on Amazon, click here; at Barnes & Noble, click here.

¤

Chapter Thirty-Three

  After Jay fled the courthouse, he went to his Manhattan apartment on East End Avenue. Increasingly frantic about Dag’s condition, the phone calls he made during the drive left him unable to ascertain what it was. The doctors were silent, and nothing had leaked. Why did no one make a statement? Tell the world Dag is sitting up in bed, talking, eating—something! Of course, no statement meant that he, most likely, was not dead and that was cause for celebration.

The uniformed doorman saluted him with a touch of the cap and the usual, “Mr. Gladstone, sir.” In the discreet manner of those who serve the ultra-wealthy, the man did not acknowledge Jay’s battered appearance. At the elevator bank, Jay pressed the button and glanced over his shoulder to check if someone was approaching from behind. He wanted to avoid any interactions. Since it was the middle of the day, most of the tenants—they included a former Secretary of the Treasury, several CEOs, and a Saudi prince—were at offices where they pulled the invisible strings that moved the world, and Jay hoped that when the elevator arrived, it would be empty. An interminable fifteen seconds later the door opened, and a well-dressed older woman emerged. Mrs. Wessel, 16B, the wife of a Wall Street gorilla. Jay offered what he hoped was a smile tight enough to forestall any inquiries about what had occurred last night. She looked up at him with heavily made-up eyes.

“Are you doing all right?”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Wessel.”

“Were you wearing a seat belt?”

“I was,” he lied.

Jay got on the elevator and pressed 20. The encounter with Mrs. Wessel had jangled his already frayed nerves. Which details had made it into the news reports? He could only imagine, along with the degree to which the entire metropolitan area was chattering about it. At least she hadn’t asked about Dag.

The Gladstone apartment was the only one on the floor. The elevator opened on to a vestibule decorated with two Currier and Ives prints, an antique side table where the mail appeared, and a copper stand from which several furled umbrellas protruded. Jay stepped off and absently picked up the pile of mail that had accumulated since his last visit. About to insert his key into the lock, he thought: What if Nicole is here? They had not connected since the incident and Jay had no idea where she was. He had not responded to her texts and right now, he realized, she could be waiting for him on the other side of the door. He hesitated while he considered this possibility but his intense desire for a hot shower overrode any discomfort at the idea of confronting her and he warily entered the apartment.

Closing the door quietly behind him, Jay peered around and braced himself for an encounter. Furnished in contemporary style with king-of-the-world views to the south, east, north, and west, the dwelling reflected Jay and Nicole’s taste and, for all of its refinement, looked like actual human beings lived there. On a table in the entry area was a framed photograph of Jay, Nicole, and an unsmiling Aviva at her high school graduation. In front of him the spacious living room where an Anselm Kiefer canvas took up most of a wall. Across from the painting, custom-built bookshelves crammed with hardcovers that looked as if they had been read. To the right was the formal dining room with its Gustav Klimt portrait of a Viennese socialite, and seating for twelve, and beyond that the kitchen area. To his left a den/screening room and a hallway that led to the bedrooms. In all directions, an expanse of unobtrusive rugs.

Jay listened for the sound of the television, a running tap, the click of heels against parquet. He called her name as neutrally as he could, considering the welter of strong emotions he was experiencing, and waited. He wondered how he would react when he heard her voice. When there was no response, he repeated her name. Again, nothing. Satisfied he was alone, Jay entered the master bedroom. He half-expected to see his wife waiting for him demurely in a chair, legs crossed, nonchalantly perusing a magazine, but there was no sign of her. The bed was immaculate.

Jay’s phone rang. It was Boris, who informed him that Dag was alive and now being treated at NYU Medical Center. Jay sat in a chair and gazed toward Central Park. It was sunny, and there were high clouds in the western distance. He gave a loud sob and placed his head in his hands. Jay remained in that position for several minutes.

When he regained control of his emotions, Jay shed his clothes. He stood in the steam-shower, careful to keep the bandage covering his nose dry, and let the scalding water course over his tired body and open his pores until it washed the last vestige of jail from his mottled skin. Although the three-ring circus in his head had prevented any rest, nerves rendered him wide-awake, and as he toweled off, he tried to formulate a plan for the remainder of the day. There were messages from Bebe, Franklin, Church Scott, Mayor Major House, his ex-wife Jude, and a litany of business associates including Renzo Piano, calling from Italy (the story, unfortunately, was international), all of whom expressed concern for his health. Several conveyed sympathies for the legal predicament he was in, although no one seemed to understand quite what it was.

Naked, Jay examined his face in the bathroom mirror. He gently peeled the bandage off his nose. It was not a bad break and, although there was some swelling and it was tender to the touch, the fear that he would look like a proboscis monkey had not come to pass. The bruises under his eyes resembled small mussel shells. It would be possible to appear in public without a bag over his head. He would need sunglasses, though. Where had he left them? He glanced down at his nakedness. For a man in his fifties, he didn’t look terrible. Jay sucked in his modest paunch then let it out. He shaved and dressed. Crisp, pin-striped suit, red patterned tie.

Earlier, Jay informed Boris that he wanted him to familiarize himself with the family’s Asia holdings—he did not say why—and since this might require that Boris travel there, Jay would be breaking in another driver. This had been duly arranged.

Before leaving the apartment, Jay went to the kitchen where he filled a glass with filtered water and swallowed an Oxycontin left over from the previous winter when he had tweaked his knee skiing in France. Sunglasses on, he pulled a Yankee cap low over his forehead. Thus disguised, he took the elevator to the lobby.

In the passenger seat of the SUV, Jay stared through the tinted window as Second Avenue blurred past his bloodshot eyes. The driver was a skinny young man from the mailroom who was the son of one of Bebe’s friends, and he had the presence of mind to not ask questions. The black bodyguard Doomer had produced at the courthouse, Dequan Corbett, kept vigil from the backseat. Jay observed the pedestrians striding purposefully along the sidewalks singly and in pairs, deliverymen, business people, students, all in their worlds, and he wondered how many of them were aware of his plight. He believed that most people who had heard about the story viewed it through the prism of a famous athlete’s bad luck, and that the general public would perceive him, Jay Gladstone, as a supporting player.

Jay had brought Dag to the team hoping to link their names through a championship trophy, the unassailable seal of NBA greatness and the longed-for apotheosis of both of their sporting lives. He could not give into negative thoughts now, much less despair. Despair was for people who did not have enough to do. Jay Gladstone had plenty to do. Plenty! To leap back into his life he had to believe a full recovery was possible for Dag. Yes, it was! Medical science had reached inconceivable heights. Dag was still alive, and because he had survived such a horrific accident, it was evident to Jay he was not going to die. Yes, he had suffered a traumatic brain injury, but the best brain surgeons in the world could be summoned. Just a few years earlier a madman had shot a member of Congress in the head, and she had survived the bullet! A bullet! People said it was a miracle, but that was science. If that brave member of the House of Representatives had recovered, so would Dag. He had to! The idea that Jay could one day be in the situation where he had caused the death of another human being, much less one as prominent as D’Angelo Maxwell, was too unbearable even to contemplate. He had to exile that thought from his consciousness. If his father had bequeathed a single quality to him, it was optimism. He thought of Bingo’s birth date, March 4th, a direct order.

But then Nicole invaded his thoughts and, as the car sailed across 42nd Street, his stomach twisted. Although he knew their marriage was beginning to fray, it hadn’t occurred to him that it could come undone quite so impressively. But had it? Had he not already decided to revisit the question of a child? He had intended to let her know about his change of attitude as he entered the pool house in Bedford less than twenty-four hours earlier. By any objective standard—if it were not for one unfortunate detail—the Gladstone marriage had not disintegrated; rather, it was experiencing some turbulence. But that detail, oh that detail. And how to deal with that detail? There were representations of the wronged husband in the arts from the time of the ancients, and they were nearly always farcical figures, older men with randy young wives who sought the company of more virile partners, in other words, exactly what had happened. Jay could not abide the role into which Nicole’s behavior cast him. But he was a modern man with a high degree of psychological acuity. Could he not see past his emotional response and reach a decision based on careful cogitation? Jay might look his wife in the eye, acknowledge the betrayal, the underlying tensions that had caused it, perhaps even take ownership of his part in what had occurred, and agree to move forward. Or he could let her know he wanted to dissolve the marriage as quickly as the State of New York allowed. Either way, he would have time to formulate a plan before confronting her.

A throng of about a hundred loitered on the sidewalk in front of the hospital. Gawkers with camera phones, media members, and a Senegalese vendor selling T-shirts with Dag’s smiling visage all jostled for space. Church Scott had caused an uproar fifteen minutes earlier when he got out of a cab and entered without answering questions. Several of Dag’s teammates were already there.

The SUV rolled up and Dequan jumped out to open the door for Jay. The sunglasses and Yankee cap threw no one off the scent, and the mob immediately converged, microphones, cell phones, cameras pointed like guns.

WHAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT, JAY? WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT DAG’S CONDITION? HOW SERIOUS IS IT? WERE YOU AND DAG AT THE OBAMA DINNER? WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU? WILL THE CHARGES BE DISMISSED? CAN THE TEAM MAKE THE PLAYOFFS NOW?

Dequan cleared a path into the hospital. To the volley of questions, Jay held his hands up, said, “Nice to see everyone. I hope you’re all having a terrific day,” to which Mayumi Miyata, who had driven down from Northern Westchester Hospital with her Lynx News crew, called out, “It’d be a better day if you answered a couple of questions.” Jay said, “You get around, don’t you?” before entering the revolving door and disappearing into the hospital lobby. Several reporters attempted to follow, but hospital security stopped them.

Three young black men huddled outside the room. Jay recognized one of them as Dag’s brother, who he had just seen at the hospital last night. He assumed the other two were part of the player’s retinue. Neither looked at Jay, unlike Dag’s brother, who stared down at him from his imposing height. Jay nodded at the brother, who blankly returned the greeting.

Jay was visibly upset by what confronted him in the room. Pulleys in casts suspended the long legs above the surface of the bed. The head wrapped in bandages, face obscured by an oxygen mask. Wires ran from the torso to monitors where bright green lines and numbers quantified the misery. A bag containing an inch of urine hung to the side. Afternoon light poured into the room and conferred an almost religious aspect on the broken body. The abstract nature that the situation had assumed for Jay instantly coalesced back into a reality whose sheer awfulness throttled him. He had a vague awareness of enormous figures looming over the bed, but could not look away from what he had wrought.

“Don’t worry, Jay. God only makes happy endings,” a tired-looking Church Scott said from a chair in a corner. “If it’s not happy, it’s not the end.”

The coach rose, and they exchanged comforting pats on the shoulder. Jay looked back toward the bed, and the behemoths revealed themselves to be spindly Odell Tracy and the Lithuanian, Giedrius Kvecevicius. Between them Drew Hill, the point guard. The players respectfully acknowledged Jay and did not mention his physical appearance.

“Thanks for coming,” Jay said as if this were an event he was hosting. The words felt wrong as soon as they emerged from his mouth.

“Praise the Lord, D’Angelo survived,” Church said.

“Praise the Lord,” Jay echoed. He did not as a rule say Praise the Lord but this was Church Scott’s room, and right now Jay was happy to cede power.

“Truth,” Drew Hill said. Giedrius and Odell nodded their assent.

The coach placed a soothing hand on Jay’s back and said, “We all know this must be incredibly hard for you.”

Hard for him? The statement amazed Jay. As the author of this disaster, he had anticipated, at best, a neutral response to his presence. The owner had incapacitated the team’s flamboyant cornerstone in ambiguous circumstances. No one would expect the coach to show sympathy for anyone but the injured party. After the quick calculation that occurred when he realized the coach was present, Jay anticipated matter-of-factness employed to disguise, at the very least, suspicion. But Church was a champion, a motivator, an athletic icon, and he had offered understanding.

“It’s terrible, just terrible,” Jay said. Then, because sometimes even the most composed individuals keep talking when they should not, “but a lot worse for Dag.” The players murmured agreement and looked at their coach. What were they thinking? Jay could only hope they would follow their leader and extend him the benefit of the doubt.

Church had spoken with the surgeon and filled Jay in. The situation had not changed: Medically induced coma, uncertain prognosis, watch and wait. While Church was reporting what he knew, Jay’s eyes roved from the coach to the injured player and back. The universe had shrunk to the three of them. Then his perception narrowed to just Church, a deeply sympathetic individual whose ministerial qualities shone in situations like this one, and Dag, a flawed man whose misery at this moment far exceeded anything he deserved. Jay’s attention pivoted from one to the other, then—

“Hello, Jay,” Nicole said.

Was this an aural hallucination? He wheeled around and—alarm and dismay mingled with a brief resurgence of vulnerability, a spasm of—what the hell? What was his wife doing here? Had she been in the bathroom? Wherever she had materialized from, her sudden and startling arrival was an unwelcome intrusion. In her absence, she was less a person than an idea. Wife distorted into Betrayer. Nicole’s presence obliterated the atmosphere of benevolent healing created by Church Scott, and forced Jay once again to confront the ur-story that had led them all to gather in this hospital room, not the accident but what had preceded it, and the memory of the previous evening burst the thin membrane that held it at bay, momentarily flooding his consciousness.

But success in the business world at Jay’s level does not come to the fragile, and in the startling arrival of Nicole, he was able to draw on deep reserves of mettle.

With calibrated sarcasm, he said, “Nice to see you.”

“You, too.”

Sleep had been a stranger to Nicole as well. Makeup, lightly applied, barely covered the dark circles under her eyes. Although she was putting up a strong front, the nervous tension was evident in the tautness of her jaw.

“How are you feeling?”

She seemed genuinely concerned. Jay noticed her voice was scratchy. Was she getting a cold? And why, why, why had she come to the hospital?

“Terrific,” he said, still searching for his bearings.

Did anyone else in the room have any idea what had happened last night? Might Church have figured it out? Why did the coach think Nicole was here? One of the monarch’s favored warriors was wounded, and the queen wanted to pay her respects? Or did the coach discern a motivation more disconcerting? When not in a vegetative state, Dag exuded an ineffable grace that, combined with his athletic prowess and charm, made women all over the world want to inhale his pheromones. Church might have connected that to Nicole’s presence. Would he speculate that the two of them not only had sex the night of the Obama dinner, but were currently engaged in an ongoing violation of marital vows? And Jay didn’t know? Or, worse, Jay knew. Is that what Church thought? That Jay was aware of their behavior and countenanced it? What did the players think the owner’s wife was doing at Dag’s bedside? They must be aware of what had happened and if they did not know exactly, certainly they had some idea. But did they know? Could they even suspect? Dag’s behavior was so reckless as to be almost incomprehensible. From time immemorial, locker rooms were torn apart by one player dallying with the wife or girlfriend of another, but that kind of conduct, while reprehensible, was a hazard of the modern workplace. What had occurred here was beyond the pale. It was like visiting the White House and having sex with the First Lady. What kind of person would even think of it? Could these young men remotely apprehend the events of last night? Jay glanced at the players positioned at Dag’s bedside with bowed heads. He looked at Church Scott. Who knew what any of them were imagining?

“I’m glad you’re all right,” Nicole said. Jay could barely tolerate being in the same room with her. What was she implying? I’m glad you’re all right after you nearly killed this man for doing what you had no interest in doing. Is that what she meant? Or was she genuinely concerned? She placed a tentative hand on his arm but he tensed at her touch and she removed it. The sizeable diamond she wore on her ring finger in tandem with her gold wedding band glinted impressively even in the dull light of the hospital room. He wondered if she had taken her jewelry off last night before—but his thoughts were interrupted by the voice of Church Scott.

“Let’s pray.”

Although Jay’s belief in a Supreme Being wavered, he was aware of studies about the efficacy of prayer in situations like this one and, while beseeching the Supreme Being might not have occurred to him had he been alone, he was happy to try. A further benefit of prayer was that he would be spared having to make small talk around Nicole for a while longer and so could collect the febrile thoughts ricocheting around his skull.

“Please join hands,” Church said, grasping Jay’s right hand in his left.

Join hands? Jay had not anticipated this. It would be impossible to avoid physical contact with Nicole without making it clear that that was what he was doing. From across the bed, Odell Tracy gave his big left hand to Giedrius Kvecevicius then reached his right across Dag toward Nicole. With her left hand, she took Odell’s right and extended her right hand to Jay. There it was, hovering in the air between them. Waist high. Manicured and ringed, her fingers extending outward. Waiting for his. There was no way he could not take it. Jay moved his hand toward hers but rather than grasp it naturally as he ordinarily would have done, instead he took her fingers lightly in his, taking care not to intertwine them. It was as if he held a brittle autumn leaf, or a fragment of papyrus that might disintegrate on contact. From her response—she mirrored the airiness of his touch—Nicole seemed to understand, and was not going to pretend the circumstances between them were unchanged.

“Dear Lord,” Church intoned. “Our brother Dag needs you today. He needs your love. He needs your tender mercy, and he needs it right now. His body is damaged, but the man is a fighter, Lord, he’s had to fight for everything he’s ever received, and with your help, Dag’s going to fight through this, too, and he’s going to win, Lord! With your love, he’s going to heal. We know the body is a temporary home for our eternal soul, Lord, and for our soul to dwell for eternity in the Kingdom of Heaven we all have to vacate the premises. However painful it is to leave this Earth, in our hearts we understand. But we beseech you to hear our prayers today, Lord. Hear our prayers. Our brother D’Angelo Maxwell is not ready to leave his earthly incarnation. He’s not prepared to vacate the premises. We know you want him, Lord, and you’ll get him one day. But please, Lord, not today. Not today or tomorrow or the next day. He’s a young man, Lord. He’s a young man who tries to live right. His teammates love him, and his coaches love him. Jay and Nicole, they love him, too.” Turning his attention from the Lord to the supine figure on the bed, he said. “I love you, Dag.”

Taking Church Scott’s cue, Drew Hill said, “We love you, Dag.”

Giedrius cleared his throat. “I love you, man,” he said, in his rumbling Lithuanian accent.

“I love you, bruh,” Odell mumbled, tears sliding down his cheeks. The giant rubbed them away with the heel of his massive hand.

The outpouring from the coach and the three players deeply touched Jay, who found himself toggling between paroxysms of guilt about Dag, sympathy for the players and coach, and the desire to murder his wife.

“We love you, Dag,” Nicole whispered as if the situation had knocked the breath from her chest. We love you. At least, Jay thought, she did not have the temerity to say I love you to D’Angelo Maxwell in front of her husband. It was then he realized everyone in the room was looking at him. They were waiting. Why hadn’t Church resumed speaking? Wasn’t the coach leading this service? Then Jay realized. He was supposed to express his love.

Jay again bowed his head as if redoubling his efforts at prayer and gazed at the floor. The squares of oatmeal-colored linoleum gleamed. Somehow the person who had last mopped it had missed a scuff mark. Was it from a shoe? Or had the wheels on one of the machines jammed when an orderly was sliding it into place and left a trace of rubber? A tone was coming from one of the devices Dag was hooked up to. Beedink, beedink, beedink. It emerged at a steady rhythm, and from the bee to the dink there was a climb of several notes on the scale. It was almost musical. Had it been making that sound the entire time? Or had it just begun? No one was doing anything about it, so it had probably been making intermittent noise since Jay had arrived. Bile dripped, acid drizzling his stomach lining. When had he last eaten? Was it on the plane from Africa? He took in Dag’s damaged body, felt the kind eyes of Church. Across the bed, the players formed an imposing wall. He saw Nicole with her head down. Everyone waited. Several more seconds passed.

“All right,” Church said, delivering Jay from having to speak. “Some prayers are silent.”

Odell said, “Amen,” looked at Jay, and winked in approval. The enormous center believed he had been praying. In his way, he was praying. More than anything, Jay wanted Dag to recover. But to profess love? That was going too far.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The lounge down the hall from Dag’s room was unoccupied save for an Indian woman wearing a yellow sari dozing in a chair. A television mounted in the corner showed a news program. At a window overlooking the East River, Jay and Nicole faced each other.

“I came to the hospital because I thought you might be here,” Nicole said.

“So you could confront me in public?”

“This is not public.”

“A hospital room with four team employees there?”

“I haven’t slept,” she said.

“I spent the night in jail. Let’s not play who had it worse.”

“Oh, no. Poor thing.”

“I don’t recommend it.”

“Are you okay?”

“I survived.”

“How’s your nose?”

“It’s broken,” Jay informed her.

“I’m sorry. Does it hurt?”

“They gave me painkillers.”

“I’m going to tell you one thing,” Nicole said, “and you have to believe me.”

“After I hear what it is, I’ll decide.”

“It was one time.”

“Was it?”

“Yes! God, of course!”

“Really?”

“One!”

“Does it matter now? D’Angelo’s down the hall and—”

“Do you think he’s going to—”

“Die?” Jay asked. “I don’t know.”

“Fuck.”

“I won’t be able to live with myself,” he said. “I’ll tell you that.”

“I’m ashamed,” Nicole declared. “Utterly ashamed. It’s my fault.”

“Fault isn’t the issue now,” Jay said.

“I think I might have a drinking problem.”

“That’s your excuse? Too much chardonnay?”

“No, no, no, of course not. No. There’s no excuse,” Nicole said. “It was unforgivable. I can be as abject as you want me to be. I will do whatever you want.”

“I hope you’ll get past it.”

“I hope you’ll get past it.”

“Well, I have a mental picture nothing can erase, so I don’t know that I’ll be able to get past it and, honestly, it’s not even the worst mental picture that got burned into my brain last night.”

“I will apologize to my dying day.”

“No one should have to do that.”

“But I will,” Nicole said.

“I’m not certain we’ll be in touch at that point.”

“I love being married to you.”

“Funny way to show it.”

“Everyone’s marriage has problems,” she pointed out. “We’ve both been married before. Mistakes get made. I don’t know if you’ve ever cheated on me. I wouldn’t ask.”

“I haven’t.”

“I love you,” Nicole assured him. “I didn’t do what I did because I don’t love you.”

“You did it because you have a drinking problem.”

“Don’t twist my words.”

Jay regretted his role in this exchange. He did not want to reduce the cataclysmic nature of their situation to the back and forth of a squabble. He glanced at the Indian woman. She was still sleeping.

“You know, Nicole, a hospital lounge is probably not the place to have this conversation. I have a lot to deal with today, like Dag’s medical care. He needs an advocate.”

“And it’s going to be you? I love that.”

Someone was waiting to talk to them. Jay looked over and saw a tall, athletic-looking doctor. “Mr. Gladstone, I’m Dr. Bannister. I performed the surgery on Mr. Maxwell.”

Jay shook the doctor’s hand and said, “This is my wife.” How strange the word “wife” felt to him.

“Nicole Gladstone,” she said.

“Well, I’m glad I have both of you, then,” Dr. Bannister said, turning his attention back to Jay. “I heard you got a little banged up last night, too.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jay said. “Don’t worry about me.”

Dr. Bannister did not press the matter. They listened as he walked them through what had occurred in the operating room, and Dag’s uncertain prognosis.

“Mr. Gladstone,” the doctor intoned, “I don’t have to tell a man like you what’s happened to medical costs over the last couple of decades,” and then began a fundraising appeal for the hospital. Jay and Nicole could have a room named after them, a wing perhaps, or if they liked, because a couple of their means could certainly afford it, a pavilion.

“Imagine that, Mrs. Gladstone,” the doctor said. “The Nicole and Jay Gladstone Pavilion.”

“It has a nice ring to it,” Nicole said.

Jay looked at her. What did she think she was doing?

The doctor said, “For a donation of a hundred million we could make it happen.”

“Only a hundred million?” Jay hoped the mild irony in his tone was apparent.

“And your company could build it,” the doctor reminded him.

The notion of their names linked for eternity, carved into the marble façade of a major hospital was repellent, but the doctor, having no idea, pushed on and inquired whether they would not like to stand in front of a group of dignitaries at the groundbreaking of the Nicole and Harold Jay Gladstone Pavilion.

“That’s an arresting image,” Jay allowed.

“Great families like yours are the backbone of New York.”

“The Gladstones have always been about family,” Jay said, glancing at Nicole, whose attention was focused on the doctor.

“Some generous, family-minded donors choose to honor their parents this way,” the doctor helpfully pointed out. “The Bernard and Helen Gladstone Family Pavilion. How does that sound?”

Dr. Bannister had done his research.

“Your father would have loved that,” Nicole said.

“I understand he was a great New Yorker, Mr. Gladstone.”

“He was,” Nicole said, “a titan.”

“I’m sorry I was never able to meet him.”

Jay wished the doctor would vanish, but he listened politely and nodded. It was torture for him to hear Nicole talk about Bingo. Perhaps he would tell her he wanted a divorce now. Did he want a divorce? He still did not know. But he needed to get Bannister out of here so requested that the doctor call his sister Bebe, who handled solicitations of this scope at the Gladstone Family Foundation.

“Bebe is terrific, the best,” Nicole said, working overtime to curry favor with her husband, who ignored this remark.

Attempting to bring the conversation to a close, Jay said, “You’re doing great work, and I commend you for that.”

“With your help, Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone, we can scale new heights,” Bannister replied, taking the hint. Jay asked for the doctor’s private cell phone number so he could call him directly to check on the patient’s condition and Bannister instantly provided it.

“Save D’Angelo,” Jay said.

“Please,” Nicole implored.

Dr. Bannister assured the couple he would do his best and departed.

Nicole said, “I don’t want a divorce, Jay,” as if they had not been interrupted.

“Did you just try to give away a hundred million dollars?” Fatigued and besieged already, the doctor’s request, and Nicole’s response to it, further overloaded his system.

“All I said was that having a hospital named after the family was an idea that your father would have liked. I’ll write the doctor a note and tell him I misspoke if you want.”

“Forget it.”

Jay felt enervated by the conversation with the doctor and Nicole’s ongoing presence was not helping. He craved solitude. To be alone on his horse, in the woods, riding along a quiet path. Nicole was quicksilver, mystification, and needs.

“I don’t want to split up,” she said.

“I haven’t mentioned that.”

“You just implied—”

“A lot of crap has happened. I’m processing it. There’s a legal situation and—” He didn’t want to get into it.

“What is it?”

“I feel like a lobster in a pot and, frankly, I don’t want to deal with your mishegas right now.”

“That’s fair,” she said. “I’m sorry for my behavior. I know you’re tired of hearing it.”

“Not as tired as I am of thinking about it.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Apparently, you can do whatever.”

Here she paused, as if trying to determine whether or not this was something she genuinely wanted to know. Jay waited. Her makeup barely concealed her pallor. She looked spent. He expected her to say never mind, or forget it.

“Did you run him over on purpose?”

“Of course not!”

“It would be understandable on some lizard brain level.”

“I told you—” Jay’s attention had wandered to the television over Nicole’s shoulder. His face darkened. “Oh, for godsakes.”

The reporter Mayumi Miyata was standing in front of the hospital. Footage of Dag nailing a three-point shot appeared on the screen followed by a still photograph of Jay in a business suit and a hard hat. The report cut to a shot of the Gladstones’ Bedford home, then to the site of the accident (Jay’s car no longer there), then to Northern Westchester Hospital. Even absent the sound, Jay could see they were hitting the highlights of the story. Mercifully, there was no footage of the pool house and nothing of Nicole. At least those details had not leaked. An African-American anchorwoman addressed the camera. As far as Jay could tell, she was not excoriating him. When a commercial for a life insurance company that featured two septuagenarians holding hands on a beach appeared, he turned his attention back to Nicole.

“I’m going to be in the apartment for at least the next few days,” he said. “I’m not ready to go back to the house.”

“I’m staying at the Pierre until we decide what we’re doing. I hope you can forgive me.”

There would be no commitment. When Nicole left he turned toward the window and stared at the Queens shore until he was certain his wife was gone. He texted his driver and requested they rendezvous at a side door to escape the attention of the media. A slow circuit of the hospital floor decreased the likelihood he would encounter his wife at the elevator bank. He reflected on his conversation with Dr. Bannister. Perhaps he would build the Gladstone Pavilion and name it after his parents. How had they managed to stay married for so long? As he reached the elevators one of the doors opened, and he saw the player agent Jamal Jones emerge with a striking black woman he recognized as Dag’s wife. Jay froze and waited while they proceeded down the corridor. It did not escape him that Jay Gladstone, this paragon of authority and success, a man admired and feted, was concealing himself from an agent and a reality TV star, skulking like a criminal.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Tightly packed storm clouds gathered over the borough of Queens. A high-pressure front had blown in from Canada causing the barometer to drop, and what started as an early spring day had turned blustery and cold. Winds whipped along the avenues. Scraps of newspaper caroused with discarded parking tickets and plastic bags on the sidewalks. The shiny black limousine stood out like a leopard in a herd of donkeys as it bumped along Astoria Boulevard surrounded by city buses, cabs, and delivery trucks. Nestled in the backseat, Franklin gazed out the window at the kebab shops, unisex salons, liquor stores, Greek diners, and discount furniture emporiums that comprised the neighborhood, relieved he did not have to live in a place like this. If high Manhattan rents kept those who lived here in the outer boroughs, then that was an added benefit to a landlord like Franklin, since Queens played a significant role in the Gladstone real estate portfolio.

The driver was a middle-aged Egyptian whose name Franklin could never remember. Ahmed, Ahmoud? It didn’t matter. He called him “Acky.” Why should someone like that expect to live in Manhattan? A person should live where he could pay his bills on time each month. Franklin couldn’t understand it when he would read articles that reported Manhattan was now “unaffordable.” Unaffordable to whom? It was only unaffordable if you couldn’t afford it. Plenty of wealthy Americans could, along with Europeans, Chinese, and Arabs. And many of the foreigners did not even live in the city. For most of the year, their apartments were empty. They were the best tenants, even the Arabs. To Franklin Gladstone, the ideal building was one where every unit was rented or sold, and no one lived in any of them. In Franklin’s perfect world, tumbleweeds rolled down the deserted hallways of luxury buildings. The proletarians scuttling along the Astoria sidewalks—old-timers, immigrants, hipsters—they belonged here. Queens existed for the Mets and the U.S. Open tennis tournament; as far as Franklin was concerned, there was no other reason to be driving down this street. But the man he was meeting refused to come to the office.

The previous week Franklin and Christine Lupo had dined at a dimly lit restaurant in the east Sixties. Although he would not dream of cheating on Marcy, it felt, at least from his perspective, a lot like a date. He sat across from the glamorous public servant and gazed into her dusky eyes so intently he could see a reflection of flickering candlelight. The button-front blouse she wore was open at the neckline where a diamond pendant glinted. There was a whisper of cleavage, but Franklin forced himself to keep his eyes on deck. For twenty minutes, they discussed various plans to raise campaign funds, but by the time they had finished their cocktails—vodka, rocks for him, dirty martini for the DA—and were decimating the first bottle of wine, she alluded to her personal life. That afternoon she had spoken with her divorce lawyer and learned her husband planned to sue for alimony.

“The scumbag,” Franklin said.

“Tell me about it,” she concurred. “The guy cheats on me, and now I’m supposed to write checks to him?”

Seeing the door open a crack, Franklin wasted no time dashing through. He asked what happened and she told him how she had hired a private investigator. Not only were there incriminating photographs, but the PI was also a denizen of the cyber world and the guy Christine hired retained someone who hacked into her husband’s various devices and produced the texts, emails, and receipts that enabled her to reconstruct the entire sordid mess.

Franklin had subsequently called the DA and asked for the name of the man who could tease secrets from computers and smart phones. “My marriage is fine,” he hastened to add. “It’s business.” Franklin contacted the PI, and this man passed along the name Arun Prakash. Franklin reached out to Prakash and, upon learning the computer specialist would not come to the Gladstone offices, agreed to meet at his Queens apartment. He had considered bringing Ari and Ezra along since this would be a valuable lesson, but thought better of it. The twins did not know what plausible deniability meant. Better to keep it that way.

Ten minutes later the limousine parked in front of a tan brick apartment building in Jackson Heights. Franklin told “Acky” to wait for him in front and scrambled out of the backseat. A cold drizzle was falling. As he turned up the collar of his topcoat, a Korean woman pushing a cart filled with shopping bags eyed the limousine and stared at Franklin. He ignored her and strutted into the building. In the vestibule, he located the name “Prakash”—below “Odigwe” and above “Rabindranath”—and pressed the buzzer.

“Yeah?” said a wary voice emanating from the intercom. Franklin identified himself, and the door clicked open. The deserted lobby was in need of a facelift. The kind of place a crime might be committed. Franklin glanced around nervously while he waited for the elevator and wondered if he should have asked “Acky” to accompany him. The elevator arrived, and an older white woman who smelled of talcum powder got out, a holdover from when a different group of immigrants populated this neighborhood. Grim-faced, she pushed past Franklin, ignoring his presence. Franklin got in and pressed the scuffed button. The elevator chugged to the fourth floor. He got out, and the smell of spicy cooking immediately hit him. It was a cuisine he did not recognize and this added to his general discomfort. He knocked on the dented metal door of apartment 4H.

Arun Prakash was about thirty. Dark skin and a luxuriant head of jet-black hair. Rangy and athletic, he wore jeans and a gray hoodie over a white T-shirt. Blue and gold sneakers on his feet. He did not resemble the gnomish geek Franklin had expected.

“Mr. Gladstone?” His accent was American.

“Guilty.”

Arun stepped aside and gestured toward the apartment. “Sweet coat.”

“Cashmere, from Barney’s.”

“Yeah, I got the same one. Mine’s at the dry cleaner.”

Whether this was meant honestly or not, Franklin didn’t react. “Where are you from?” he asked, as Arun closed the door behind him.

“New Jersey.”

Franklin acted as if this was interesting. He had yet to digest that the Indian immigration had begun four decades earlier and Arun’s generation was born here. While contemplating how someone who looked to him like a worker manning a call center in Bangalore could somehow have been born just across the Hudson River, Franklin took in the apartment with the practiced eye of a lifelong real estate man. The unit was a one bedroom that looked out at the apartment building directly behind it. A fixed wheel bicycle leaned against the wall in the otherwise barren entryway. The living room was sparsely furnished and anchored by a table constructed from a piece of wood the size of a door resting on construction horses, its surface littered with several laptops, two of which were running, one displaying a chart, the other a soccer game. There was a large screen television with an imitation leather lounge chair directly in front of it and several expensive gaming consoles Franklin recognized from the collections of his sons. On the walls were framed posters of obscure martial arts movies, the titles rendered in bold Hindi letters. Several houseplants were displayed, none of them reflecting an owner with horticultural aptitude. “High All the Time” by 50 Cent insinuated at low volume from one of the computers.

“What about your parents? Where are they from?”

“Tamil Nadu,” Arun said. “You know where that is?”

“Should I?”

“If you don’t want to be ignorant.” Arun paused, as if to gauge Franklin’s reaction to his effrontery. Franklin said nothing, not because he was offended but because he did not give a shit what someone like this thought of his geographical expertise. “It’s in southern India.” Arun took a swig from the quart bottle of Mountain Dew he was holding. “What do you want to talk about?”

“How come you wouldn’t come to my office?”

“I don’t like to attract attention. So.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Franklin said, not wanting to be hurried. “But you let a complete stranger come to your apartment.”

“I checked you out, dude. While we were talking on the phone. I’m not worried unless you’re here to evict me and I’m pretty sure this is one of the buildings you don’t own.”

Franklin was flattered by Arun’s acknowledgment of his status, something to which he was unusually susceptible.

“Yeah, but I could have been someone pretending to be me.”

The host regarded his visitor like he was a slow child. “Caller ID?”

“I’m just fooling around.”

“You’re hilarious,” Arun said, drily.

Franklin glanced toward the bedroom door where a beaded curtain hung. “Anybody in there?”

“No.”

“Mind if I look?”

“Shouldn’t I be the one who’s paranoid, Mr. Gladstone? You’re the one in my crib.”

“Why would you be paranoid?”

Arun let his eyes drift to the ceiling.

“Check the bedroom.”

Franklin parted the beaded curtain and peeked in. An unmade bed, clothes strewn on the floor, a bureau with a half-opened drawer. He listened intently, but the only sound was the murmur of the song playing in the other room. Satisfied they were alone, he took off his coat, folded it over the back of a chair, then plopped himself on the living room couch ready to gab.

Arun spun his desk chair around and sat. “Talk to me.”

Franklin put his hands behind his head and leaned back to give the impression that nerves did not consume him. What was about to occur represented the crossing of an invisible boundary and while he liked to believe he had the stones required for this kind of warfare, in quiet moments of self-reflection—because of the pain they engendered, these were exceedingly rare—it was not clear he was so endowed. His stomach gurgled, and he wondered if it was audible. Arun patiently waited, feet together, knees parted, hands on his thighs. He looked Franklin directly in the eyes.

“Okay, okay,” Franklin inauspiciously began. Why did this kid make him nervous? “There’s someone I’m—ahhh—” (You schmuck, he razzed himself, Enough with the hesitating, get to the goddamn point). “There’s a person I’m in business with, and I need to get some information.”

“A person?”

“Yes.” Still wavering.

“Are you going to tell me who that person is?”

An indiscernible sound trickled out of Franklin’s mouth.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“A relative.”

“Which one?”

“Jay Gladstone,” Franklin blurted.

Arun nodded, impressed. People knew that name. Jay’s membership in the family reflected well on all of the relatives, but once again, his less well-known cousin suffered this as belittlement. He suppressed the urge to inquire whether Arun was familiar with the name Franklin Gladstone before their interaction.

“Okay, what about Jay Gladstone?”

“I, umm—”

Could he go through with this? Franklin was tempted just to get up, throw his coat on, and leave without another word. But he remained rooted to the couch.

“You want me to mess with him?”

Franklin did not want to “mess” with Jay. He would have preferred just going about his business. For all of his pugnacity, he did not consider himself underhanded and regarded his current circumstances with ambivalence. But Jay had cornered him. There was no choice.

“I don’t know if I’d put it that way,” Franklin said.

“But you want me to hack him which, to be clear, is not something that I have agreed to do.”

“That’s right.”

“Please take out your phone and let me see you turn it off.”

Franklin complied with the request.

“Now, I’m going to ask you to remove your shirt.”

Franklin reacted as if he were being asked to perform calisthenics. “What?”

“Take your shirt off,” Arun said. “I need to know you’re not wired up.”

“What are you talking about?”

“With a microphone. It’s protocol. If you don’t want to do it, there’s the door.”

Arun leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. He was not going to do anything until his visitor granted the request. Franklin had not counted on this. He had no intention of disrobing. Arun waited.

Mustering all his available hauteur, Franklin said, “You do know who I am, right?”

“I don’t give a fuck if you’re the Queen of England.”

No one had spoken to Franklin this way in decades. Was Arun going to make him remove his clothes? He wished he could have asked the office IT person to help, but that was not an option.

“You’ve gotta be kidding.”

“I’m busy, so if you don’t want to strip down, I get it, but then you should leave ’cause I got stuff to do for paying clients.”

“You’re really going to make me do this?”

“I already said you could go.”

Reluctantly, Franklin heaved off the couch. He removed his suit jacket and placed it next to where he had been sitting. He loosened his tie then unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a white T-shirt beneath it.

“Okay?” This striptease was all he was going to do.

“You’ve seen this in the movies, right? Where one guy makes another guy prove he’s not wearing a wire.”

“Sure.”

“Then you know this is the part where you’re supposed to take the shirt all the way off and lose the T-shirt, too.” Franklin looked at him, incredulous. At least his sons were not here to witness this indignity. “Sorry, man. Gotta do it.”

Franklin reluctantly displayed himself to Arun, naked from the waist up. Pale and flabby, upper body carpeted with hair, breasts nearly female.

“Satisfied?”

Not wanting to meet Arun’s impassive gaze, he looked toward the window. The rain rushed down the panes like it was late to a meeting.

“You should work out more,” Arun observed. Franklin chose not to respond. If this is what it took to get what he wanted, it was a fair price. “Turn around.”

As Franklin pirouetted, the image of a dancing bear popped into his head, further discomfiting him. He completed the circle and said, “Okay?” not bothering to hide his annoyance.

“You’re clean.”

Shaking his head at the humiliation he had been made to endure, Franklin quickly put himself back together. Rather than knotting his tie again, he rolled it up and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. He lowered himself back on to the couch and hoped the preliminaries were over.

“We had to do that?”

“Look, Mr. Gladstone, according to the laws of New York State some of the services I perform are a little sketchy, so I take precautions.”

“Didn’t you do work for the DA up in Westchester?”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

Franklin had not expected this degree of caginess on the part of someone being offered a temporary spot on the Gladstone payroll, even if it was off the books. Why wasn’t this Arun Prakash person just glad to have the opportunity? Franklin felt the need to reassert his primacy.

“Before we get started, why don’t you tell me some of the things you’ve done?”

Arun exhaled. Franklin was trying his patience. “Look, I could say I’ve penetrated the servers of major corporations, or looked at nude pictures in the private Instagram accounts of half the actresses in Hollywood, or I could claim I hacked the Defense Department for shits and giggles, but I would never admit to any of it. Maybe I did all that; maybe I didn’t. Hacking isn’t a business where a guy has a website. It’s trust-based.”

Franklin thought about this. It occurred to him again that he could just get up and go. The rain had gathered in intensity, and the storm increased his sense of isolation. If he did nothing, Jay would eventually discover everything. Franklin had to take advantage of whatever avenues were available. He knew this was a long shot and the path he was contemplating was not a righteous one. Jay led a life above reproach. Whatever he had done to D’Angelo Maxwell, Franklin suspected his cousin would ultimately swat it away. He told himself to leave. This plan was reckless and foolish. What was he doing in the apartment of some Tamil hacker in Queens?

Even without his topcoat on, the room felt hot. The rain had turned to hail and struck the windows like buckshot. But what was Franklin supposed to do, let the Maxwell situation play out in Jay’s favor (as he feared it invariably would), and then wait for the walls to close in, squeezing him until his nemesis invoked the Gladstone family contract that all of them signed upon entry into the business? The one that formally legislated upright behavior? He would be out on the sidewalk. The prospect was a loss of face he could not bear. He would never have been in this position if he had resisted the temptation to pilfer the accounts. Yes, he needed more than a hundred million to execute the purchase of the hockey franchise, but had he tried to obtain bank financing, he likely could have cobbled it together. Why, then, had he done it? To demonstrate that Franklin Gladstone was free-range, his own man, beholden to no one. Particularly his cousins. And he intended to pay it back. If only Jay hadn’t threatened him, he wouldn’t be in this degrading situation.

“Okay, I get it,” Franklin said. “Let’s do this.”

“Now, your cousin, he’s a public figure.”

“How does that figure in?”

“The price goes, like, way up.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“Do you mind if I ask what you’re looking for?”

“His correspondence. Emails, texts, everything. Where he’s been on the Internet, who he’s communicating with. The whole cyber footprint.” Franklin was pleased with his use of the phrase “cyber footprint,” recently encountered in a business journal, and believed it suggested computer literacy. Having already turned him into a dancing bear, Arun was starting to make Franklin feel unintelligent.

“Typically, those kinds of businesses have pretty tight security packages in place.”

“I’m going to give you the passwords,” Franklin said. “Where do you look?”

“More places than you can name.”

That sounded impressive. For a moment, Franklin considered asking Arun for additional details but he stopped himself. If in his sweaty desolation he chose to unleash a malevolent force, it was probably best not to think too much about what was being done on his behalf.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  An African-American man behind the wheel of an expensive car must hew to the speed limit or raise the risk of being pulled over for “driving while black.” It does not matter how accomplished or famous or educated the black man is, the cognitive dissonance this sight causes across a swath of American law enforcement has created a phenomenon with which virtually all black males are familiar. For this reason, Lourawls maintained a steady sixty miles per hour on the Palisades Parkway behind the wheel of the Escalade. It was early evening. He and Babatunde had been at the hospital all day and were drained. They were going home to shower and get some rest before returning for the night shift. The ride uptown and over the bridge was devoid of their typical to and fro. They usually listened to hip-hop in the car, but this evening felt distinctly unmusical.

Running through both of their minds was the future and what it might look like without Dag in the picture. The pair shared an optimistic outlook, so neither wanted to mention it, but they were not comforted by the doctor’s palaver. Coma was a dangerous word. When they were all still living in Houston, a high school friend took a bullet in the head. He was in a coma for two weeks and then expired. If Dag somehow miraculously defied the odds and recovered, what were the chances he would play again? A guy with the chronic physical problems likely to result from this kind of trauma required a staff of nurses, not sidekicks. Where did that leave them? They were both around Dag’s age. Too old for life on the perimeter of someone else’s life.

Lourawls said, “They got hunting season for deer.”

Babatunde’s head swung from right to left. “You see a deer?”

“Naw, man.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

“Don’t need a hunting season for black men.”

Babatunde slumped in the seat. “I’m too tired to talk about this shit now.”

“Always open season on the black man.”

“Come on, Lou. Just drive, okay?”

“They’re not gonna put that cop up in Westchester on trial,” Lourawls said.

“If you say so.”

“I’m not predicting, man. Already happened. You gotta keep up with the news.”

“I follow sports,” Babatunde reminded him.

“The cracker motherfucker capped that kid down in Florida, Trayvon? Same thing. He’s gonna walk.”

“That happen already?”

“No, that’s a prediction,” Lourawls said. “But I’ll bet you.”

“I ain’t betting you.”

“You know I’m right.”

“I told you,” Babatunde said. “I’m too tired to talk about this shit now.”

“Same DA in Westchester who didn’t indict that cop? She’s in charge of Dag’s situation.”

Babatunde said, “You feeling McDonald’s?”

“I ain’t hungry. And I’ll tell you something else.”

“I know you will.”

“Jay Gladstone,” Lourawls said.

“What about him?”

“If he committed a crime, if there was some lawbreaking he did?”

“It was a car accident,” Babatunde said.

“That’s all they’re saying so far,” Lourawls said, “but you don’t know. If there was a crime.”

“Say there was.”

“You think that white DA lady is gonna indict Gladstone? He’ll never spend a day incarcerated.”

“They locked the man up already,” Babatunde remarked.

“All right, one night. But that’s it. No more jail for him.”

“Gladstone seems like an okay dude.”

“He cut Trey from the damn team,” Lourawls reminded him.

“Church Scott cut Trey. He’s the coach.”

“He runs everything past Gladstone.”

“How do you know that?”

“He works for him, Babs.”

“I got no problem with Gladstone.”

“The man is white,” Lourawls said.

“So?”

“So, you think he’s gonna be himself around you? Liberal white people be all friendly around black people. But when they’re by themselves.”

“What?”

“Watch out,” Lourawls said.

“You sure you not hungry?” Babatunde asked.

“How’m I supposed to eat, man?” Lourawls shook his head from side to side as if he could not understand how Babatunde could be so obtuse. “You always reading that civil war stuff, slavery stuff, the underground railroad and shit.”

“So?”

“That’s how white people still look at us.”

Babatunde declared: “The president is a black man.”

“Don’t let that deceive you.”

Lourawls took the exit for Alpine. They were on a commercial strip and then on a road lined with tall trees and big homes.

“How many black people do you think live in these houses?” Lourawls asked.

“Chris Rock lives around here.”

“Besides Chris Rock.”

“I don’t know,” Babatunde said “A few.”

“The black population is pretty much you, me, Trey, and Dag, and if Dag ain’t here—”

“Why wouldn’t Dag be here?”

“I don’t know, man. Weird shit happens. If Dag ain’t here, you think these people want us around?”

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“Dag is famous, and he’s rich. His color is money.”

“The man is black, Lourawls!”

“And green.”

“What’s your point?”

A flashing light appeared in the rearview mirror. Babatunde and Lourawls exchanged a resigned glance. It had been nearly two months since they had been pulled over for no reason. The cop must be new. Lourawls guided the car to the shoulder, put it in neutral, rolled down the window. Both men made sure their hands were visible. Then they waited for the routine to begin.

A young police officer appeared at the window on the driver’s side. He couldn’t have been twenty-five years old. Lourawls handed him his license and registration.

“You can put those away, sir,” the cop said. “How’s Dag?” Lourawls and Babatunde looked at each other, confused. “This is his car, isn’t it?”

“He’s in a coma, man,” Babatunde said.

The cop chewed his cheek, unhappy to get confirmation of what he had seen on the Internet. “Everyone at the station is praying for him.”

They mumbled thanks, and the cop told them to have a peaceful night. Lourawls put the car in gear, stepped on the gas, and drove slowly away. For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. Then, as if nothing had happened, Lourawls said:

“You best be thinking about your future.”

“I got Trey’s back,” Babatunde said.

“I got Trey’s back, too. But Trey goes hard in the paint. He can look after himself.”

“You burying Dag?”

“No, I ain’t burying Dag,” Lourawls said. “I’m praying he’s all right, like those motherfuckin’ cops. Full recovery.”

“Boy gonna bounce back.”

Lourawls guided the Escalade through the gates. The automatic lights were on, illuminating the trees and casting nervous shadows on the lawn. They got out of the car and trudged to the front door, each wondering how long they would continue to live in this house on this street.

¤

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2018 by Seth Greenland First Publication 2018 by Europa Editions

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

¤

Seth Greenland is the author of five novels. His latest, The Hazards of Good Fortune (Europa Editions), will be published in 2018. His play Jungle Rot won the Kennedy Center/American Express Fund For New American Plays Award and the American Theater Critics Association Award. He was a writer-producer on the Emmy-nominated HBO series Big Love.

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