Page 102 of Joey

I almost laugh. But it’s not a joke. “I get it,” I say.

“And you did bring up Johnny with their lawyers,” Huck says. “They have no idea what we’re planning.”

“We’re not planning anything,” I say. “We’re just… meeting my daughter.”

“I think it’s a little over the top,” Brooke adds. “But even if we don’t know who we are, they certainly seem to.”

This makes me glance at Brooke. And for a second I almost panic. I almost wish she wasn’t here. Because I don’t know who she is.

Or maybe a better way to put that is… I don’t know who she was.

It’s not fair. I get that. And this panic is a pattern I’ve fallen into. I panic, and I fuck things up or I don’t take chances, and then I lose the things I want or drive people away and…

The security guard comes back out of the house and Wald sends the window down again.

“All good?” he asks.

…and I’m not going to do that anymore. I’m not.

The security guy hands back our IDs, then makes a hand signal to someone in the house, and the gate slides open. For a second I don’t think he’s gonna say anything. Just wave us through. But then he bends down a little and peers into the back seat to find my face.

“They’re expecting you, Mr. Boston.”

“Cool,” I say.

“And… nice to see you again, sir.”

“What?” I ask.

He’s got a helmet on. And there’s like a chin-strap thing. And he’s wearing body armor. I mean, the whole fucking nine yards. So he looks like any other generic security person who works for a family like the Kanes and stands guard at their gate with an automatic weapon.

But he takes the helmet off and smiles at me. “I went to school with your cousin Zach. I met you once at graduation.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well…” Then find I have nothing to say to that.

“Nice to see you again,” Wald says, then slides the window back up and pulls away.

“That was awkward,” Brooke says.

I look at her. “It kinda was, wasn’t it?”

“Jesus Christ. Can this driveway be any more pretentious?” Huck says.

Brooke and I look around. It’s long and there are trees, but not right up against the road. There’s a wide expanse of well-groomed grass on either side and the edge of the woods is a good hundred yards away.

“They must have whole teams of landscapers to keep this lawn looking like you could putt balls on it,” Wald adds.

Well, the driveway is nothing compared to the house.

Can a place that big really be a house? It’s a proper fucking mansion. Not a mini-mansion like you see in the city. A real, honest-to-God two-hundred-year-old stone mansion that probably has the same number of rooms and comes with towers with turrets, and what might be a keep.

“It’s a goddamned castle,” Wald mutters.

The driveway curves around a fountain with a statue of a knight on a horse in the center and off to the side of the house, on yet another pretentious expansive lawn, there are what seems to be hundreds of people putting up a tent the size of a pavilion.

“What the hell is that?” Brooke asks.

“No clue,” I say.