Lifeguard - James Patterson [90]
There was a taxi and a couple of cars parked in the waiting area in front of the prison. A young Latino family stepped forward excitedly for someone else.
No Ellie. I didn’t see a minivan anywhere.
But there was something parked just outside the fence at the end of the long drive that did cause me to smile.
A familiar light green Caddie. One of Sollie’s cars.
And leaning on the hood was a guy with his legs extended and crossed, wearing jeans and a navy blazer.
Orange hair.
“I know it’s not exactly what you were hoping for, mate,” Champ said, smiling contritely, “but you look like a guy who could use a ride home.”
I stood there looking at him on the hot steaming pavement, and my eyes started to well. I hadn’t seen Champ since I’d gone inside. He’d spent six weeks in the hospital. A punctured spleen and lung, only one kidney. The bullet had ricocheted off his spine. Ellie had told me he’d never race again.
I picked up my bags and walked over. I asked, “So, just where’s home?”
“The Kiwis have a phrase: home’s where the women snore and the beer’s free. Tonight, we’re talking my couch.”
We threw our arms around each other, gave each other a long embrace. “You look good, Champ. I always said you cleaned up well.”
“I’m working for Mr. Roth now. He bought this Kawasaki distributorship on Okeechobee. . . .” He handed me a business card. Geoff Hunter. FORMER WSB WORLD CHAMPION. SALES ASSOCIATE. “If you can’t race ’em, you might as well sell the damn things.”
Geoff took the bag from me. “What do you say we boogie, mate? This old bus here gives me the willies. Never did feel safe driving anything with a roof and four wheels.”
I climbed in the front passenger seat as Geoff tossed my bags in the trunk. Then he eased his still-stiff body behind the wheel. “Let’s see,” he said, fiddling around with the ignition key, “I have a vague recollection how this is done. . . .”
He revved the engine hard and pulled away from the curb with a start. I turned and found myself looking through the rear window one last time, hoping for something that I knew wasn’t meant to be. The towers of the Coleman Detention Center receded, and with them, part of my own hopes and dreams.
Champ hit the gas and the twenty-year-old Caddie revved into some new gear that had probably lain dormant for a long time. He looked over and winked, impressed. “Whadya say we hit the turnpike, mate? Let’s check out what this old bird can really do.”
Chapter 113
SOLLIE SENT FOR ME the next morning.
When I got to the house he was watching CNN in the sunroom off the pool. He looked a little older, a little paler, if that was possible, but his eyes lit up brightly when he saw me come in. “Neddie . . . It’s good to see you, boy.”
Though he never visited me in Coleman, Sollie had been watching out for me. He set me up with the dean of graduate programs at South Florida, sent me books and the computer, and assured the parole board I’d have a job with him, if I wanted it, upon my release. He also sent me a nice note of condolence when he heard my dad had died.
“You’re lookin’ good, kid.” He shook my hand and patted me on the back. “These institutions must be like Ritz Carltons now.”
“Tennis, mah-jongg, canasta . . . ,” I said. I tapped my behind. “Skid burns from the waterslide,” I said with a smile.
“You still play gin?”
“Only for Cokes and commissary vouchers lately.”
“That’s okay.” He took my arm. “We’ll start a new tab. C’mon, walk me out to the deck.”
We went outside. Sol was in a white button-down shirt tucked neatly into light blue golf pants. We sat at one of the card tables around the pool. He took out a deck and started to shuffle. “I was sorry to hear about your dad, Ned. I was glad you got to see him that time before he died.”
“Thanks, Sol,” I said. “It was good advice.”
“I always gave you good advice, kid.” He cut the deck. “And you always followed it. Except for that little escapade up on the roof of the Breakers. But I guess everything worked out fine. Everyone