The Book of Fate

67

No, not her,” Nico said, glancing out the front windshield of his maroon Pontiac Grand Prix as a petite Peruvian woman sipped her coffee and headed toward her own car.

Why? What’s wrong with her?

Nico looked shaken. “She looks like my nurse. Pick someone else.”

What about him?

Nico didn’t even turn toward Edmund’s selection. From their corner spot in the Waffle House parking lot, he was still watching the woman who looked so amazingly like his night nurse. It’d been nearly a full day since he thought about the hospital. The doctors were wrong. So were the lawyers. All wrong. Out on his own — even without his meds — he felt just fine. Better even. More clear. Crackling crystal clear.

Nico, focus. What about him?

Following Edmund’s glance, Nico studied the bearded man with teeny eyes and obvious hair plugs.

“I can’t. No. I can’t. He was in my dream last night.”

Fine, then her — the mom with the two boys…

“The short child has to pee — look how he grabs himself. She won’t stop. I think the older boy wants M&M’s. You can read his lips. M… and… M’s…”

Nico, don’t get loopy on me.

Sitting up straight, he pushed Edmund’s imagined hand from his shoulder. “I’m not — I’m good. I just need to—” Cutting himself off, he locked on a plump, middle-aged waitress with beautiful brown eyes coming out of the restaurant for a cigarette break. On the strap of her purse was an Ask Me About Avon button.

“There. Her. She knows rejection,” Nico announced, diving for the door handle and leaping out of the Pontiac. “Hurry!” he called to Edmund as he crossed the parking lot and approached the waitress.

“Can I borrow your phone?” Nico asked, slowing down just as he reached the woman. “It’s an emergency. My — I have to call my mother.”

Seeing Nico’s handsome squint, the waitress didn’t even hesitate. “Of course,” she replied, her chubby hand lowering like a skill-crane into her fake-leather purse.

Tell her you won’t be long.

“I won’t be long,” Nico said.

“Take as much time as you want, hon — I get a thousand minutes every month, God praise my divorce lawyer.”

Flipping the phone open, Nico turned his back to the waitress and dialed a simple three-digit number. There was a chime on the other line.

“Welcome to local 411. What city and state?” a female operator asked.

“Wes Holloway,” Nico said as he lowered his voice.

“City and state,” the operator repeated, clearly annoyed.

“Palm Beach. Florida.”

There was a short pause. “Sir? I’ve got a Wes Holloway in West Palm Beach. Please hold for the—”

“Not the number,” Nico said. “The address.”

Once again, there was a short pause. “Eight three eight five Okeechobee Boulevard, apartment 527. And you sure you don’t want the phone number — y’know, just in case?”

“No number,” Nico said, giving a quick thumbs-up to Edmund. “No, no. No. This is a surprise.”