know,” he mumbled, “our bank offers an incentive program.”
I lowered the pen slowly. “Really? What’s that mean?”
“Well …” He cleared his throat. “There’s this really nice restaurant around the corner. It’s a French place called Tru.”
Tru was one of the most touted and expensive restaurants in Chicago. Where was this going?
“We could … ah … go there,” he stammered, his eyes firmly planted on his left cuff link.
I blinked at him. Did he just ask me out on a date?
“You see,” he continued, “our bank offers you two hundred dollars toward a dinner at Tru for opening an account with us. It’s impossible to get a reservation, but I know a guy who lets me in whenever I want.”
I know a guy. Such a Chicago thing to say. The city had a strange but wonderful pride that involved being able to help others. Sometimes this was meant to make the helper feel better about himself. Sometimes it was more altruistic. But almost always the phrase I got a guy (or some variation thereof) came into play as the person offered a connection to make it all better—a plumber who would show up in an hour and stop your basement from flooding; the cop who would arrive in minutes, assess the situation and then leave if you didn’t want to go through the hassle of a police report; a doctor who normally had a three-month waiting list, but who would get you in as a special favor to the one who said I got a guy.
“So if you wanted the incentive,” Tatum said, “I could get you in.”
Wow. Tatum was using the incentive money not just to impress women, but also to pay for a date? At Tru? Thank God the necklace cam was getting all of this or no one would believe me. (And thankfully Mayburn and my dad would be paying the tab on this job if they wanted to keep it going, because two hundred dollars wouldn’t buy much at Tru.)
Reynolds was staring at me with something akin to blind fear in his eyes, and for a second I felt sorry for him. But then I remembered I had a job to do.
“I’d love to, Tatum.”
At the sound of his name, his entire face exploded into an ear-to-ear smile. “Great! I’ll get the paperwork going.”
After saying goodbye to Tatum Reynolds, I made my way to the café across the street. Mayburn and my father had set up shop there so they could watch the feed from my necklace camera on a laptop. I weaved through the tables and to the back booth.
My father gave me a curt nod in greeting and Mayburn mumbled what was barely discernable as a salutation. It might have been my imagination, or the lighting in the coffee shop, but Mayburn looked a little red.
“Did you get all that?” I asked, trying to get a read on the situation between the two of them.
“Yeah, we got it,” Mayburn answered. “He offered you the money … to take you … out on a date….” Then he burst out laughing. His face turned more apple-red, his breathing came in gasps and tears sprung from his eyes. Even my father chuckled a little.
My father rarely laughed and Mayburn didn’t, either, not since he’d fallen in love and then broken up with a woman named Lucy DeSanto. I tapped my foot and waited. When the guffawing finally died down, Mayburn was completely out of breath, and I couldn’t help but smile a little.
“You did good, McNeil,” he finally managed to say.
“Poor kid,” my father said. “Tatum Reynolds might go to prison because he wanted a girlfriend.”
“The reason doesn’t concern us, Christopher. I just need to figure out how to tell the bank owners without cracking a smile.” Mayburn bit his lower lip then launched into another fit of hysterics.
“All right, gentlemen,” I said as I took off the necklace camera and set it on the table. “I’ve got to go.”
“Later, McNeil,” Mayburn said, finally managing to compose himself.
“’Bye, Boo,” my dad said, using his nickname for me. When I stood, he stood with me. “Everything all right?”
“Yeah, sure. You?”
He nodded but looked at my face with a concerned expression. “You can tell me if you ever want help. If anything isn’t all right.”
“Okay … Thanks.” I tried to think whether the cryptic remark meant anything. But my dad was new to Chicago, new to our family again. I figured he was just trying to get his sea legs, so to speak.
I looked at my father and allowed a small smile. It was good that he was working with Mayburn. It was good that he was loosening up a little. And I had to admit, it was good that he was in my life again.
6
“I don’t understand,” I heard Theo say, his voice pained. “Why would that be?”
Something was wrong. And on the day we were moving in together—well, not exactly moving in—Theo had decided to buy the place by the Green Door (offering nearly the entire asking price just so he could “avoid all bullshit”), and we figured that Theo might as well stay with me in the short-term since his apartment lease was up.
And so, a few uneventful days after my meeting with Tatum Reynolds, I left Bristol & Associates a little early and climbed the stairs to the “L” platform, heading home so I could help Theo situate his stuff in my condo. (I was also attempting to make sure he did not situate any of said stuff in places I didn’t want it.) Also, I needed the time to think; to process the fact that someone was moving in with me. I adored Theo, craved him, couldn’t believe how in tune he was with me when we were together, so dialed in, in a way that Sam hadn’t been. It was thrilling. It was scary. But I loved him, I reminded myself. Yeah, but you don’t know if he returns the sentiment.
The “L” train rumbled around the corner at Lake and Wabash, and I moved over for someone to sit next to me.
No reason for too much analysis, Izzy. I reminded myself that Theo and I moving in together was a temporary thing.
It was a chilly, sunny November day. As I rode the “L,” listening to its wheels screech awkwardly at stops, I let my mind meander into other things. I thought about how I missed my Vespa scooter, which I’d had to retire for the winter. I thought about Thanksgiving coming up in two weeks. I planned to go to my mom and Spence’s place, as I always did. For some reason, Theo and I hadn’t talked about what he was doing. Should I invite him to join? The fact that we were temporarily moving in together already seemed momentous enough.
When I got home, a nearly empty moving van was out front.
The numbered keypad outside the front door of the three-flat complex had been disabled by someone with the code; I could tell just by glancing at the display because I had overseen the installation of the keyless entry systems on the front door as well as the door to my condo on the third floor. (Okay, Mayburn had done the overseeing for me while I watched him watch the locksmith.) When it was first installed, we guarded the front-door code like the sphinx. But changing the code frequently quickly got cumbersome. First, my ground-floor neighbor sold his place, requiring visits of about fifty real-estate agents a week. Then my second-floor neighbor decided to rent his condo, and
