out on you. You didn’t get your surprise.”
“Dad.”
“What?”
“Either drop it or explain yourself.”
“Where the hell’s the fun in that? I’ll give you a hint—no. On second thought, I won’t. Go see her again.”
To keep himself from saying something he would later regret, Marsh stepped over to the window and looked out. Today the sky was a broad expanse of clear blue, dotted here and there with small, cotton-like clouds. Spread out below was a parking lot. And near the building, attractive landscaping: nandinas, a redbud tree, flower beds mulched with cedar chips.
He waited, looking out, observing the progress of a big black Buick as it rolled between the rows of parked cars and finally nosed into an empty space. A man got out and strode toward the building.
Marsh turned to his father again. “You are feeling better, aren’t you?”
Blake grunted. “Doctor said this morning that they’ll be sending me home soon—as long as I make sure there’s someone there to look after me.”
“I’ll see about hiring you a live-in nurse.”
“Forget that. I don’t want any stranger in my house.”
Marsh looked at his father levelly. “Don’t get any ideas about me taking care of you. It wouldn’t work.”
Blake closed his eyes, wheezed a sigh. “Don’t worry. I know it. You and I wouldn’t last twenty-four hours under the same roof.” He looked at Marsh again, pale eyes stranger than ever—far away. And far too knowing. “Doesn’t matter. Let it go. We’ll see how right that doctor is….”
Marsh shook his head. “You do feel better. You look better.”
“I don’t want a damn funeral, you hear what I say? Who the hell would come to my funeral anyway? I want cremation, and I want you to dump my ashes in Lake Thunderbird. Got that?”
“You’re not going to die now, Dad. Your doctor said so.”
“What the hell does a doctor know? What do you know? You’re dense as a post, you know that, Mr. Big Shot? You haven’t even figured out the secret that little redhead’s keeping from you.”
Marsh turned back to the window.
“Go see her again,” Blake commanded.
Marsh studied the redbud tree below. He’d always liked redbuds, liked the twisted forms the trunks could take and the pretty heart shape of the leaves.
Marsh stayed in his father’s room for another hour. It was a true test of self-control, and Marsh was pleased to find himself passing it. His father jeered and goaded, and Marsh looked out the window. Somehow the time went by.
Finally Blake dropped off to sleep again. Marsh sat in the chair in the corner and watched him for a while, listened to the labored, watery sound of his breathing, wondered what he was going to do about home care now that it looked as if Blake was going to cheat the devil, after all—at least for a while.
Marsh also wondered at himself. That he had come here, in the first place. That he found he felt accountable for the care of a hardhearted SOB who had made his childhood a living hell and driven his mother to an early grave. Evidently, some bonds were nigh on impossible to completely sever. A man felt a responsibility to a parent, period, even if that parent had always been a damn poor excuse for a human being.
When he got tired of sitting, Marsh left the hospital room. He hung around in the waiting area for a while, got out his cell phone and called Chicago.
He spoke with his second in command at Boulevard Limousine. Nothing going on there, other than the usual—drivers who didn’t report in when they were supposed to, one breakdown on a trip in from O’Hare. But somehow they always found another driver to cover, and breakdowns, with the fleet of top-quality new vehicles he owned now, were few and far between. This most recent one had caused a delay, but only a short one. They’d immediately dispatched a replacement vehicle, and the problem car had been towed to the shop.
It occurred to him that he wasn’t really even needed anymore at the company he had created. He’d put together a system that worked and now it could pretty much run without him. Soon it would be time to focus his energy on expanding. Or maybe to get into something else altogether.
He went back to Blake’s room, where lunch was being served. He sat in the chair and watched his father pick at his meal, tuning out the gibes and taunts, pleased to find that he was getting pretty good at not listening to things he didn’t need to hear.
As a child and a badly troubled teenager, he used to practice tuning out the old man. He never got a chance to get very good at it back then, though. At that time Blake hadn’t been confined to a bed. And if Marsh tried not listening to his harangues, Blake had no compunction about using whatever was handy—his fists, his belt, a baseball bat—to get his rebellious son’s undivided attention.
By one Marsh was ready for lunch himself. He considered giving the cafeteria a try, but then decided he’d just as soon get out of the hospital for a while. He drove down Porter, crossing Gray and Main and continuing on toward the university. He found a certain landmark restaurant he remembered, a place that was a little dark inside, but really nice out on the patio under the clusters of red-white-and-blue Cinzano umbrellas.
The lunch rush seemed to be winding down, so he didn’t have much difficulty getting a table to himself. The waitress settled him beneath an umbrella with an iced tea, a basket of chips and a menu. He crunched on the chips and considered his choices, thinking that later in the afternoon he’d start looking for that live-in nurse his father would be needing.
He glanced up from the menu to signal the waitress—and saw that he was being watched. By some character a few tables away, a guy with a broad, ruddy face and a salesman’s smile.
The character squinted. “Marsh? Marsh Bravo?”
Suddenly the face was familiar. Take away forty pounds and add long hair and—“Bob Avery.”
Bob nodded at the three other men at his table. “Be right back.” He got up and strode toward Marsh. “I don’t believe it.”
Marsh stood. “It’s been a long time.” They shook hands. “You’re looking good.”
Bob laughed. “I’m lookin’ fat. But you. Hey. Doing all right, huh?”
“Getting by.”
“What did you get into?”
Marsh told him. “What about you?”
“What do you think? Insurance.”
“Like your dad.”
“That’s right. I went in with him. Got my name on the door, two assistants and four clerks. He’ll be retiring in a few years, then I’ll be on my own.”
“Sounds good.”
“It’s a living—and I married Steffie.” Marsh remembered. Bob and Stefanie Sommers had been
