The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [8]
“That’s a very inspiring and far too visual analogy. But I know who I am, and I like who I am, and when it comes to ass-face restaurant managers who treat money as some green-colored rosary, well, no offense, but I’m not for sale. And we should never let our clients be, either.”
He rolls his eyes, letting us both calm down. “Can you be more predictable?” he asks.
“I was trying to be complex.”
“Complex woulda been if you had taken the guy’s money, given it to Alberto, and then told him to go back and use it to eat at the restaurant.”
I glance over at him. The pastor in him won’t let up. Not until I get the message. As I try to save whoever’s out there, he still thinks he needs to save me. I know he misses his parish, but he’s wrong about this one. It’s not a crusade. Or an obsession. I could leave this job tomorrow. Or the next night. Or the night after that. Tonight, though, isn’t that night.
“I’m still not for sale,” I tell him. “And you of all people shouldn’t be, either.”
Roosevelt leans back in his reclined seat and lets out a hearty laugh. “Yo momma’s so fat—”
“Roosevelt, I shouldn’t’ve said that—”
“—the horse on her Polo shirt . . . is real!”
“You used that last week.”
“Yo momma’s so fat, in elevators, it says: ‘Maximum Occupancy: Twelve Patrons OR Yo momma!’ ”
“Does that really make you happier?”
“Just take the money next time, Cal,” Roosevelt says as he twists a dial on the old, stolen police scanner we superglued to the dash. The cops don’t care. On homeless calls, they want us there first.
“—ave an eighty-six, requesting—zzzrrr—nearby units to Victoria Park,” a woman’s voice says as the scanner crackles to life. The park is less than a mile away.
Turns out this is the call I’d been waiting nineteen years for.
3
Cal . . . I need help!” Roosevelt screams.
My tenth-grade English teacher once told me that throughout your life, you should use only three exclamation points. That way, when you put one out there, people know it’s worth it. I used one of them the day my mom died. But tonight, as I sit in the van and hear the sudden panic in Roosevelt’s voice— Across the wide patch of grass known as Victoria Park, he flicks on his flashlight. But all I see is the bright red blood on his hands. No. Please don’t let tonight be another.
“Rosey, what the hell’s going on?” I yell back, clawing over the passenger seat, sticking my head out the window, and squinting into the darkness. He’s kneeling over our newest homeless client—“86” on the radio means “vagrant”—who’s curled at the base of a queen palm tree that stands apart from the rest.
“It’s a bad one, Cal. He’s a bleeder!”
A ping of rain hits the windshield, and I jump at the impact.
If this were my first day on the job, I’d leap out of the van and rush like a panicked child to Roosevelt’s side. But this isn’t day one. It’s year two.
“You got his Social?” I call out.
Kneeling at the base of the queen palm, Roosevelt tucks his flashlight under his armpit and rolls what looks like a heavyset man onto his back. As the light shines down—the lumpy silhouette—even from here, I can see the blood that soaks the man’s stomach.
“His wallet’s gone,” Roosevelt shouts, knowing our protocols. “Sir. . . . Sir! Can you hear me? I need your Social Security number.”
In my left hand, I’m already dialing 911. In my right, I prop my laptop on the center console. But I never take my eyes off Roo-sevelt. Breast cancer took my aunt, the aunt who raised me, a few years back. I don’t have many friends. I have this job. And I have Roosevelt.
“Cal, I got his Social!” Roosevelt shouts. “Sir, were you mugged? You have a gunshot