Free Fall

34

I head into the store, grab a six-pack of Sam Adams Summer Ale for me, a sixer of Coors Non-Alcoholic for Ceepak.

Tempted as I am to pop one for the ride home, I don’t.

It’s a little after eleven when I crunch into the gravel parking lot behind The Bagel Lagoon.

I carry my sack of packaged goods up the outside steel staircase to Ceepak’s apartment on the top floor. Using the spare key Ceepak gave me, I let myself in.

The small one-bedroom apartment is dark. Barkley is too old and deaf to do any kind of watchdog duties any more. He just rolls over and cuts the cheese when I come in the door. Twenty-two-hundred hours is the typical lights-out time for Ceepak and Rita. That’s 10 P.M. in the Eastern Non-Military Time Zone.

There’s a clamshell night-light softly glowing near the fold-out sofa bed, which is made up with sheets and a wool army blanket tucked in so tight you could bounce a dime off it like they always do during inspection in Army movies.

I take the beers to the kitchen area, tuck both six-packs into the fridge, and then pull out a frosty bottle of Sam Adams.

“Mind if I have one of those?”

Ceepak. The guy’s stealthy. Even in his bedroom slippers.

“I picked up some of the Coors for you.”

“Think I’ll go with the real deal tonight. If you have one to spare.”

“Definitely.”

I hand him a bottle. We grab seats at the linoleum topped kitchen table.

“How’s Christine?”

Realizing that “hot as hell and ready to get busy” isn’t the kind of information Ceepak is typically interested in, I say, “Hanging in.”

He nods. “Good.”

“I ran into your dad,” I say. “At the liquor store. Neptune’s Nog, down on Ocean.”

“And?”

“The born-again act is just that-an act. He hasn’t changed a bit. He just has a new price.”

“Which is?”

“One million dollars. Your mother gives him a cut of her inheritance, he promises to leave town.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. He even has bible verses to back up his claims.”

“I’m sure he does. But Danny?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s never going to happen.”

“Roger that,” I say.

We clink bottles, something guys usually only do in beer commercials.

Then we drink and think in silence.

Until it’s time for our second beer.

Then we drink and think some more.