Page 9 of The Damage Man

“‘Make direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.’”

“How are you gonna do that?”

When he glances up from his mug, he looks utterly lost. “I’m not sure. But I’m gonna try.”

A rattling engine draws their attention to the window beside their booth. A road-scarred Camaro coughs up to a parking meter. Rust at the door bottoms, mismatched rear panel, hazy black coat faded in patches. Though it is battered to shit, it retains its muscle-car charm.

Rusty stiffens. His hands tighten around his mug, which gives a nervous clatter against the tabletop. His shirt is spotted through with sweat at the chest.

The groan of the opening car door is audible inside the coffee shop. The young man who gets out is on the short side, maybe five foot seven, but built, with gym muscles filling out a tattered white T-shirt.

Blake’s head swivels. He spots them inside and freezes on the curb.

The moment is excruciating, father and son staring at each other through the window, no more than a few feet away. Blake’s mouth tightens into a thin seam. His resemblance to Rusty is clear—even-set features, blue eyes, the cant of his powerful shoulders. The strain of his situation shows on his face. His eyes are jittery and he looks like he hasn’t slept in a long time.

He scans the block fearfully and then beelines for the entrance.

Rusty draws in a breath. “Thank you,” he tells Evan. “Whatever happens, I forgot to say thank you.”

The bell above the door chimes and then Blake comes in. He stands at the head of the booth looking at them. Rusty seems nervous to meet his eyes but he does.

Rather than slide in next to one of them, Blake swings a chair over from an empty table and sits at the mouth of the booth. His neck is thick, trapezius muscles pronounced. Evan thinks about the gym muscles, the muscle car, the protein-bar investment—a kid doing his best to armor up against a world he never learned to trust—and feels a pang of resonance.

Rusty says, “You look strong. Healthy.”

“Can we skip this shit?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Who’s he?”

Rusty says, “Evan.”

Blake offers his hand. Evan shakes it.

“Why are you helping my dad? You owe him money or something?”

“No. I saw him getting into it with Cyrus. Cyrus pulled a gun.”

“What happened?”

“It didn’t go well for Cyrus.”

“Who are you?”

“I help people.”

“For money?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“It’s the only thing I’m good at.”

Blake nods and then nods again. “Well,” he says. “Thank you for trying. But I don’t think I can be helped.”

“So what’s the plan?”