Johnny sat sullenly until the pizza arrived. Then he ate with the manners of a pig and pushed a drink into Sally Rainwater's lap.
McMichael guided Johnny out of the booth by his ear, then to the counter to get some towels to wipe up.
"Apologize, son," he said on the way back. "You don't do that."
"Sorry," Johnny mumbled at Sally.
By then she was standing, her back to the booth, wiping herself down with a towel supplied by a busboy. The busboy now hovered nearby, uncertain how to help.
"Don't worry," she said. "Jeans won't hurt that soda."
Johnny walked past her and threw himself into the far side of the booth.
Angry, but feeling as if he'd somehow betrayed his son by his interest in this woman, McMichael got another towel from the counter girl.
When he came back Sally was still dabbing at her pants and his son was gone and the busboy was looking out the window, where McMichael saw an enormous black utility vehicle hunch into a shrieking skid and plow toward Johnny.
McMichael slammed through the door and into a white billow of tire smoke. Another scream of tires to his left and he broke through to see Johnny frozen in the far lane- arms out and eyes wide- as a pickup truck braked and tried to swerve away. The boy looked at his father questioningly. The back end of the truck came around in a cloud of smoke as McMichael hurtled in front of it, tackled Johnny and landed hard. He rolled once and came to rest on his back, clamping his son against him, looking up at a grille and a headlight.
He carried his son to the sidewalk, holding him tight. Johnny was crying now and McMichael felt the tears and the ferocious strength of Johnny's skinny little seven-year-old arms around his neck.
"Are you okay, Johnny? Are you okay?"
Then the pickup driver: You all right? Should I call nine-one-one? I never saw him! Didn't see him 'til he jumped out!
"Don't put me down, Dad."
McMichael was swaying with him the way he did when Johnny was a baby. His heart pounded hard and fast and his eyes burned. "Are you sure you're okay? Let me look at you."
That was crazy, kid. Absolutely crazy.
Johnny held on to him even harder. "I'm okay, Dad, just don't put me down."
Johnny allowed himself to be taken to Sally Rainwater's house. He had an abrasion on his cheek, but that was it. McMichael tended to him in the small bathroom, with Johnny sitting on the counter while his father dabbed the cheek with a warm washcloth. In the mirror McMichael could see his own bloodied and gravel-pitted elbows, the shredded knuckles of his left hand, the round red asphalt burn high on his forehead.
"You got it worse than me, Dad."
"Hardly even feel it. That was the wrong thing to do, Johnny. We're going to talk about it later."
"Let's go to your place."
McMichael made Johnny sit right there on the counter while Sally dressed his wounds. The boy seemed interested in her techniques and tools- the long tweezers to get out the gravel and debris, the foaming antiseptic, the round-ended tape scissors, the quick economy with which she wrapped each knuckle in gauze and tape.
"Are you a doctor, or what?" he asked.
"I will be, someday. One more year of college, then three of med school."
"Oh."
A while later she walked them to the car. McMichael held the door open for Johnny and shut it behind him. Then he turned to Sally Rainwater. "That was really enjoyable. Thanks."
"You don't have to be sarcastic."
He looked at her and could tell she meant it. He sighed and felt the adrenaline butterflies settling, felt tiredness and disappointment coming on. "Maybe some other time."
"That's up to you. Call me."
He offered his bandaged hand and she shook it carefully. In the hard winter sunlight she looked different. The squint lines at the edges of her eyes were new to him and the way she stood with her shoulders back and her head high revealed new facets of what McMichael believed were grace and character.
She struck him as utterly alien, cut from some template he had never seen before, could not recognize or easily understand. He had never seen a woman this way, certainly not Steffy, who had seemed familiar and comprehensible from the first moment they met.
He could see the Phoenix taking off just behind the collar of Sally Rainwater's blouse.
He and Johnny walked Balboa Park, saw the latest IMAX movie, stopped by one of the fountains. Johnny left his father to circle the water, toss in a few coins. McMichael watched him every second. Johnny had never run before, never done anything like what he'd done today. Perilous. So the boy was angry at him, that was understandable. Felt threatened by the new woman. That was understandable, too. But you run into traffic and you have to figure on getting hurt. He's seven, McMichael thought. He should know better. God, he's only seven. Please help me look after this perfect boy.
He called Steffy on his cell phone and told her what had happened. She said, "Oh my God," then went silent as McMichael explained how Johnny had run off into the street.
After a long silence she spoke. "You couldn't stop him?"
"I couldn't imagine it, Steff. I wasn't even looking at him when he took off."
"You should have seen it coming."
"I didn't."
"You should have introduced him to your new friend in some better way."
"If you can think of a better way than over pizza on a Saturday, tell me about it."
He hung up on her. Of all the people he'd ever known she was the best at making him furious.
McMichael and his son walked to the car side by side, but not close. Johnny let his eyes and attention wander everywhere but to his father. McMichael looked at the people around them and saw again what he'd never noticed until the divorce- all the other fathers and children without mothers. Hundreds of them, right here in this one park. Like a convention, he thought. Like us, trying to squeeze real lives out of weekend visitations, maybe alternate Wednesdays and half of Christmas day. What a lousy fucking deal for everybody.
You get what you get.
McMichael thought of a favorite biblical passage, one that summed up the bitter inequities of life on Earth as he knew it: For to him who has will more be given, and he will have abundance; but from him who has not, even what he has will be taken away. Quite a showstopper, he thought. It wasn't one of those passages that Father Shea spent much time on. McMichael thought of Franklin. He thought of Steffy and the oral surgeon and their mountain of booty, topped by the ultimate jewel- his son.
"Are you in love with her?"
"I don't know her very well."
"She looks younger than you."
"She is, by ten years."
"That's a lot."
"Burgers or spaghetti, John?"
"I don't like that tattoo on her neck. I think it's to cover something up."
"It covers up a bullet hole. A man shot her."
"Shot her! Why?"
"He was a bad man and a coward."
"Maybe she did something to him. Then she would deserve it."
"Nobody deserves that. Unless they're hurting someone really badly. Bring the buns over here, would you?"
"I wonder what she did to that guy who shot her."
"I honestly don't know."
"You've never shot anyone."
"No. Hey, these burgers are okay tonight."
"Do you want to shoot someone?"
"No. But I would, if I had to."
"I'd like to shoot Clay."
"Don't say that, son."
"But I think it."
"He's not hurting you, is he?"
"He looks right past me. And sometimes I'd like to shoot Mom, too."
"I said don't talk like that."
"Mom divorced you. I know it was her fault."
"No, Johnny, that's where you're wrong. We both agreed it was the best thing to do. For all of us."
McMichael's throat suddenly got thick and painful. Almost gagging on the lie. A lie you tell the person you love most on Earth, to explain why you can't even live in the same house with him anymore. The lie you tell to make it all okay. To grease the gears. So everybody can just get along.
"I hate this video."
"We'll get a different one next time."
"What are the chances of you and Mom ever getting back together?"
"Very small."
"What would have to happen?"
"I can't imagine it, son. I don't know what could bring your mother and me back together."
"Maybe you could just live with us. There's a lot of room and the beach is right outside. It's a better house than the lady's got."
"That probably wouldn't work out very well."
"Why not, because Clay and Mom need their privacy?"
"Exactly."
"Man, that's what they always tell me."
"Son, don't ever run off like that again. Ever. I want a promise."
"I promise I won't. Don't run away from me either. You have to promise, too."
"I never will. I promise. I love you, Johnny. I can't explain how much. But it's a lot and it will last forever."
"I love you, too."
"Good night. Sweet dreams, son."
"You too, Dad. Sweet dreams."
On Sunday they went to a pet store to get grit for Johnny's parakeet. McMichael's bullshitting of Kyle Zisch contained elements of truth: Johnny loved birds of prey but Sarge the parakeet was a more sensible household pet.
Just inside the store they were ambushed by the puppy display. There was a litter of black Labs, two cairn terriers and two beagles. Signs encouraged you to touch.
McMichael watched his son lean over and give his hand to a chunky Labrador that took a finger and wagged his tail, growling. Johnny looked back at his father, really smiling for the first time in almost two days. It was like sunrise after a storm.
"Can we get him?"
Johnny had wanted a dog for a year now, and McMichael believed him to be ready to have one. Johnny was a patient and focused boy. He could feed and water a dog, exercise it, clean up after it. But Dr. Clay Blass was allergic to dogs, and that was that.
"When I buy my own place, John."
"Oh."
When he could buy again. Rentals were tough in San Diego, rentals that allowed dogs even tougher. McMichael ignored the fact that he was gone so much, that a puppy can't be left alone for long. And the food and the housebreaking and the expensive shots. He'd cross those bridges later. He watched his boy and the black Lab and another little bit of his heart crumbled away.
Then something else started to bother him.
"When's that going to be, Dad?"
"End of the year, I hope."
"That's forever."
"No. It's eleven months."
The brain thorn from the Cabrillo Star, he thought: Patricia's story about the missing twenty grand. What was it?
Missing cash. But Pete said it wasn't the gardener because he'd have split to Mexico with it.
And it wasn't Sally because he was giving her things.
And it wasn't the rats because they were busy with the dog food.
The dog food.
Dog food but no dog. A dog at Pete's six months ago but no dog there the night he died.
He used his cell, pleased to know the number by heart. Sally picked up on the third ring. She told him that Pete had had a dog until a couple of weeks ago. It was a Jack Russell terrier, a feisty little thing, strong and playful and much loved by Pete.
"His name was Zeke."
"Well, what happened to him?"
"He died. Pete woke up New Year's morning and the dog was dead in its bed."
"What did Pete do with him?"
"Well, uh, he broke the law probably, is what he did."
Exactly what Pete would do, McMichael thought. A captain, running his ship, working with what he had. Burial at sea; burial at home. "Where?"
"In his yard. In the sand, just inside the wall. What's going on?"
"Someone plans a robbery or a murder, they have to deal with the dog. Can you show me where the grave is?"
"There's a headstone and everything. Do you really think someone would think that far ahead?"
"It's just something you look into. That's all. It's probably nothing."
Johnny held the black puppy. While its tongue worked Johnny's cheek the boy stared at his father, eyes filled with confusion and anger. McMichael clicked off and smiled. Johnny set the dog back in its pen and led the way to the bird grit.
They asked the clerk about owl parrots, but she had never heard of such a thing. She recommended cockatiels as a logical upgrade from the parakeet.
Johnny walked ahead of his father to the checkout stand, McMichael taking long strides to stay close.