Desperate Measures

12

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Matt.” The heavy man, an Italian, had gray hair protruding from the bottom of his Yankees baseball cap. He wore a Yankees baseball jersey as well, and he held a ladle with which he’d been stirring a large steaming pot of what smelled like chicken-noodle soup as Pittman came into the diner.

The place was narrow, with Formica-topped tables along one side, a counter along the other. The overhead fluorescent lights made Pittman blink after the darkness of the street. It was almost 11:00 P.M. AS Pittman sat at the counter, he nodded to the only other customer, a black man drinking a cup of coffee at one of the tables.

“You been sick?” the cook asked. “Is that why you haven’t been in?”

“Everybody keeps saying… Do I look sick?”

“Or permanently hungover. Look at how loose your clothes are. How much weight have you lost? Ten, fifteen pounds? And judging from them bags under your eyes, I’d say you haven’t been sleeping much, either.”

Pittman didn’t answer.

“What’ll it be for tonight?”

“To start with, a favor.”

The cook appeared not to have heard as he stirred the soup.

“I wonder if you could store this for me.”

“What?” The cook glanced at the counter in front of Pittman and sounded relieved. “That box?”

Pittman nodded. The box had once held computer paper. Now it concealed the.45 and its container of ammunition. He had stuffed the box with shredded newspaper so that the gun wouldn’t shift and make a thunking noise when the box was tilted. He had sealed the box many times with tape.

“Just a place to store this,” Pittman said. “I’ll even pay you for…”

“No need,” the cook said. “What’s in it? How come you can’t keep it at your place? There’s nothing funny about this, is there?”

“Nah. It’s just a gun.”

“A gun?”

Pittman smiled at his apparent joke. “I’ve been working on a book. This is a copy of the printout and the computer discs. I’m paranoid about fires. I’d ask my girlfriend to help, but she and I just had a fight. I want to keep a duplicate of this material someplace besides my apartment.”

“Yeah? A book? What’s it about?”

“Suicide. Let me have some of that soup, will you?”

Pittman prepared to eat his first meal in thirty-six hours.