Page 7 of The Damage Man

“Over what?”

Rusty’s eyes are sagging with exhaustion. A threadwork of broken blood vessels cover his nose. “Over my being a shitty father.”

“His life is on the line. Call him. Get him here.”

“Doubt he’ll pick up. I haven’t talked to him in five years.”

“How’d you find out he was in trouble?”

“His mother called me. She’s at a loss. Obviously if she called me.”

“Why’s he owe money?”

“Took a street loan to pay for a business venture.”

“What kind of ‘business venture’?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. High-protein bars, I guess. Some get-rich scheme. Guess he put it all into some manufacturer out of India. You can guess how that went.”

“Call him.”

Rusty leans back in his seat. Outside, a woman strolls by, walking a white toy poodle on a bejeweled leash. Chatter from the neighboring booth reaches them, a guy in a five-thousand-dollar suit saying, “We know the deal ain’t gonna buy him a beach house in Malibu but he’s also not gonna do it for lunch against dinner.”

Rusty takes out his phone, holds it in both hands on the table. Stares at it. Mustering courage.

Evan waits.

He is good at waiting.

Rusty pulls in a deep breath, gives a shaky exhalation. He dials. Waits.

Draws in a breath. “Blake. It’s your father.”

A tape delay of surprise. And then, even from across the table, Evan can hear the tinny response: “That what you call yourself?”

Rusty’s eyes pinch shut as he takes the blow. “Your mother reached out to me—”

“I told her not to call you.”

“You’re out of time, Blake. They’re gonna start breaking bones. Or worse. I might be able to help.”

“That’d be a first.”

“You got better options?”

The silence stretches out for a long time, broken only by the thrum of the espresso machine. “How you think you can help me? You’re an addict with no money.”

“Been sober over two years.”

“Pretend I believe you this time. You got two hundred fifteen kay?”

“No.”

“So what do you propose? Moral support?”

“I’m with someone who can help.”

“One of your pillhead buddies?”