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“So you did win the show?” he half-asks, half-states.
I chuckle softly, avoiding a direct answer. “I can’t disclose that right now, but let’s just say I’m in a position to make a serious effort. Can you help me with that?”
Jeremy sighs, a sound that tells me he disagrees with my request but isn’t going to argue. “I’ll do my best,” he promises. Then, with a hint of concern, he asks, “So you’re heading back to town?”
I look away from the gate, staring into the distance as if I can see through the crowds and miles of highways to find the one person I need to locate to be at peace right now. “After I find Steve,” I reply, my voice steady with resolve.
* * *
Fate works in mysterious ways. The next call I make is to Steve’s phone, but a stranger answers. He introduces himself as Corey and explains that he bought the phone for fifty bucks from someone selling it outside a bar.
“What bar?” I urgently ask.
He names the bar, and just like that, fate steps in. It’s not a surprise that Steve is in Atlantic City—a gambling addict’s heaven—but the fortunate part is how simple it is for me to reroute. I decide to let my luggage fly home ahead of me, and then I opt for a $300 cab ride directly to Atlantic City. It’s expensive, but it’s faster than taking the train, and under the circumstances, it’s worth every penny.
On my way, I call the bar and speak to a guy named Frank. I ask if he has seen someone who matches Steve’s description, and luck is yet again on my side. Steve is there, drowning his sorrows in the cheapest alcohol in the house.
“I’ll be there in about an hour and forty-five. Can you water down his drinks and keep him there?” I ask.
“I don’t babysit,” Frank replies.
I offer him $500 to change his mind. He scoffs and counters with a thousand.
“How about eight hundred?” I counteroffer.
“Deal,” he agrees. “If he tries to leave, I’ll have one of my guys keep an eye on him.”
I feel a bit more at ease now that someone is watching my cousin. I’m not sure what state I’ll find him in. Coaxing him to leave with me might be difficult, or it might be easy. Either way, he’s coming home with me.
I also send a text message to Jeremy to let him know that I found our lost cousin. Even though he’s had enough, I’m sure he wants to be updated.
“Where?” he quickly texts back.
I tell him the location, and after a moment, he replies, “I’m glad you found him.”
I press my lips into a tight smile, knowing I was right to insist on finding Steve. And Jeremy’s relieved about it too. All that talk about letting our cousin fend for himself was just pain speaking. There’s no way Jeremy could sleep easy knowing Steve might be lying in a gutter somewhere.
* * *
During the two-hour car ride, I call Gina twice, and both times my call goes straight to voicemail. What the hell is going on? Maybe she’s seeing someone else. It’s possible; she is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met. I can imagine another guy rolling into town while I was away, catching her eye, and sweeping her off her feet. I always worried about that happening, yet I never made a solid move to make us exclusive. It wasn’t that the thought of starting a life with her scared me—in fact, knowing her made me open to the idea of settling down, something I had never envisioned for myself before.
I’m just slow when it comes to matters of the heart, that’s all. I hope she hasn’t moved on with someone else. If she has, I wouldn’t know what to do. All the plans I imagined for us would be wiped away, gone. This terrifying thought lingers as I stand outside a bar on the Boardwalk, peering through tall glass windows in search of that one familiar face.
It’s late afternoon, and the humidity here rivals that of New Orleans. I bet it’s air-conditioned inside, and I can’t wait to bathe in the cold air. However, minutes ago, I sent a text to Steve’s phone. I’m waiting while searching the bar, my gaze jumping from face to face, hoping for a glimpse of Steve.
“Randy?” someone calls out. I turn to see a guy who looks like a frat boy on the brink of adopting some really bad habits before turning twenty-one. He’s waving at me.
I point at him. “Corey?” I ask.
He holds up Steve’s cell phone, clearly not old enough to drink legally but visibly inebriated. He and his two companions probably used fake IDs to get served. Despite this, I quickly Venmo him the one hundred dollars we agreed upon. I had secured a fair price for a $2,000 iPhone by concocting a story about a low-jack security system on Steve’s device. According to the tale, if the SIM card is removed without Steve’s fingerprint ID, the device would implode and never work again. He bought the story and chose to recoup his fifty dollars plus an extra fifty for his time.
After that’s taken care of, I step inside the bar, escaping the oppressive heat for the cooler air. The pervasive scent of alcohol hangs heavy. There was a time this would’ve been enticing, but now it just brings a grim reminder of darker days.
My gaze sweeps over the bar, its rectangular shape populated with patrons—none of whom are Steve. My frustration mounts, but I push it aside as I approach the bartender.
“Hey, I’m Randy. I spoke to Frank earlier about?—”
“Yeah,” the bartender interrupts, not needing any more details. He jerks his thumb toward the back of the room. “He couldn’t sit on a stool, so we put him in a chair over there.”
