CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT #2
He told Julia about Sully as they rode the elevator up—how they’d been friends since they were kids. He laid off on their criminal background but did fill her in on what happened at the church. How Barry’s crew surprised them and put Sully in a coma. And how Sully was still in that coma.
Conor noticed that Julia hung back a bit as they went in Sully’s room.
He sat next to the bed, holding Sully’s hand.
Sully’s tan had faded, but he was still handsome with his long, wavy, black hair.
Even better, he was breathing on his own.
Not talking yet, but breathing was a start.
Julia would like him if he could talk. He was like a little kid—all energy and no filters, which girls seemed to find attractive.
Conor patted Sully’s hand, hoping he’d be talking soon.
“Did the doctors say what’s wrong with him?” Julia whispered, still standing near the door.
“He doesn’t bite,” said Conor. He stood and lifted Sully’s hand. “Hold his hand.”
She walked over and reached for Sully’s hand.
Conor wasn’t positive, but he thought it happened at the exact moment Julia touched him. A mumble.
Julia gasped, backing away. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Sully,” said Conor. “You awake?”
Sully opened his eyes. Then he closed them.
“Open your eyes,” said Conor, grabbing Sully’s face.
Sully opened his eyes again. He pushed Conor’s hands away and rasped, “My head hurts.”
Julia ran out of the room and yelled for a doctor. Conor squeezed Sully’s hand. His heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was going to burst.
“Where am I?” said Sully.
Conor wiped away a tear and smiled. “You’re here, buddy. With me. Just take it easy. Everything’s fine.”
The doctors chased Conor out of Sully’s room.
On his way to the elevators, Sully’s mom and sister, Mona, rushed by.
Conor kept his head down and ducked into the elevator with Julia.
If Mona saw him, she would’ve gone ballistic, blaming him for Sully’s coma.
But it didn’t matter now. He grinned. Sully was back.
The sky seemed sunnier as he drove back to Angel’s garage. Sneaking back into Angel’s garage, he felt happy for the first time in a long time. He found Julia. A big payday was coming his way for those paintings. Sully was out of his coma. His dad had even stopped drinking.
He couldn’t believe it.
Everything was coming together.
His lucky streak continued as he walked into Angel’s garage with Julia. Just as he pocketed his keys, he heard the front door of the shop open, followed by Angel yelling, “Little help.” He looked at a clock hanging in the garage and whistled under his breath.
“What?” said Julia.
He walked toward the front of the shop. “We got back just in time,” he whispered. “Angel would kill me if he knew I took the car out.”
“Why?”
“Because the guys looking for me would torch this place if they knew I was here. Just don’t tell Angel we went out, okay?”
In the lobby there was a white cardboard box on the front counter next to a bag of charcoal and a grocery bag. The front door swung open. Angel pushed his way in carrying two more grocery bags.
“Move everything into the garage by the grill,” said Angel. “I’ll meet you over there—I gotta get the beer out of my truck.”
Conor took the grocery bags from Angel and handed them to Julia. Then he stacked the charcoal and other groceries on top of the cardboard box on the counter, lifted the whole shebang, and walked by Julia. “Follow me,” he said. “It’s time to party.”
Conor stacked all the supplies on a metal tool bench next to a barbecue grill, leaving room for the two cases of beer Angel carried over.
The bottles rattled as Angel set the cases down.
Angel ripped one of the cases open, took out a bottle, and opened it, foam spilling over his hand as he took a drink.
“Get ’em while they’re cold, people,” Angel said, beer dripping over his hand on to the cement floor. “Angel’s garage is officially closed.” He pointed at Julia. “You wanted ribs? Well, you got ‘em. I make the best ribs in town.”
“Way to go, Julia,” said Conor, grabbing a bottle of beer. He shook it and popped the cap, spraying Julia. She shrieked, covering her face. “Look what you did,” he said, wiping beer off her face. He kissed her. “Now we have to eat Angel’s lousy ribs.”
“And that’s not all, brother,” said Angel. “We also have a special guest joining us.”
Conor turned toward the sound of a door opening.
“Am I late?” said a man, holding two grocery bags.
Conor looked at Angel. “Who the hell—” he said, then put his beer down to walk across the garage. He stopped in front of the man. “Dad?”
The grocery bags rustled as his father repositioned his grip on them.
Conor stared. The man in front of him wasn’t his dad.
His dad was the homeless bum with long gray matted hair and a tangled beard.
His dad slept in back alleys, wore filthy clothes, and pissed himself.
This was a man from a long time ago, someone Conor had idolized as a kid.
Conor walked around his father, checking him out.
His hair was cut and combed. He was clean shaven. His eyes were clear.
Conor turned to Angel. “What happened?”
“After he got off the booze, he asked if I could take him clothes shopping,” said Angel. “We got him some jeans, a new shirt, shoes, haircut, shave—the works.” Angel smiled. “Looks good, right?”
Conor couldn’t speak. He turned toward his dad.
“Is this the girl you were telling me about?” his dad said, walking toward Julia.
“Yeah,” said Conor. “This is Julia.”
Conor watched his dad stop in front of Julia and put down the grocery bags to hug her.
“Hi, Mr. Monroe,” she said.
Conor’s dad held her by the shoulders as he stepped back, smiled, and said, “Call me Mickey.”
Conor walked over. As clean and shaved and well dressed as his father was, Conor noticed that his hands were trembling. This was day three of cold turkey. Conor gripped his dad’s hand.
“How you doing?” he said.
His dad pulled his hand away. He picked up his grocery bags. “Better than ever,” he said, handing a bag to Julia. “Help me shuck this corn, Julia. I want to hear all about you.”
Conor watched his dad and Julia walk into the lobby, set the grocery bags on the counter, and then sit on stools next to each other.
Julia tilted her head back, laughing at something his father said as he dumped sweet corn on the counter.
Conor watched in rapt amazement. His chest felt like it was going to bust.
“Doesn’t look too bad, huh?” said Angel.
“I can’t believe it,” said Conor. Angel’s hand clapped the back of his neck and squeezed.
“Let’s fire up the grill,” said Angel.
Conor watched Angel lift the back bay door facing the alley. He pointed at the open bay door. “Is that a good idea?” he said in a loud whisper.
Angel rolled the grill over to the open bay door and poured the charcoal in.
“If you’re worried about Duck and Artie’s guys, don’t.
I drove around the block and didn’t see anybody.
And I parked my parts van at one end of the alley, and my truck at the other.
” He shoved newspaper under the charcoal, lit it, and looked at Conor. “We’re good.”
Angel then turned on an old boom box. Music filled the garage.
Conor drank a beer while he watched Angel cover the tool bench with brown butcher paper, cut the ribs, and pat them with his homemade barbecue rub.
It wasn’t long before the first slabs were on the grill, sweating under low heat.
Conor finished his beer and grabbed another while Angel fiddled with the flue on the grill.
The man was a perfectionist when it came to cooking.
Hell, he was a perfectionist when it came to anything.
The smell of cooking meat wafted through the garage.
Conor sipped his beer. This was going to be good.
Finally satisfied that everything was set just right, Angel closed the grill. He looked at Julia and Mickey shucking corn in the lobby before settling his gaze on Conor.
“You ready for the job tomorrow?” he said.
Conor nodded. “Yeah.”
“Good,” said Angel, walking over to the boom box. He turned off the radio, flipped through a box of CDs and loaded a few. The first riff of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Saturday Night Special kicked in.
“Here we go,” said Conor. “Somebody get my rocking chair.”
“Have some respect for your elders,” said Angel, dragging a cooler over to the cases of beer.
Conor laughed. Angel was old school to the bone.
Fun guy when you knew him, but not to be messed with.
Conor watched him put beers in the cooler.
A shaft of sunlight fell across Angel’s face while he worked.
A few gray hairs stood out in his shiny black hair that was pulled back into a ponytail—pale threads of silver announcing that time was working its magic.
Angel had always been—and would always be—an icon.
Biker. Businessman. Thief. Fighter. He was even supposed to have been in some special unit back when he was in the Army—Special Ops or something like that.
Conor watched him walk out of the garage and disappear in the back office.
He returned with a bag of ice and poured it into the cooler.
Angel was a man’s man. Conor sipped his beer as Angel kicked the cooler lid closed.
But the gray in Angel’s hair reminded Conor that if he wanted to do something with his life, he had to do it fast. Getting old happened to everyone.
Angel opened a fresh beer as he walked over.
“So,” said Angel. “You have any questions about the job?” He sipped his beer, keeping an eye on the grill. “Anything that could be a problem?”
“Nothing I can think of,” said Conor.
“You sure?” said Angel, studying Conor.
Conor picked at the label on his beer bottle. “Those ribs okay for a couple minutes?”
“Sure,” said Angel.
Conor waved for Angel to follow. “Let me show you something.”
Five minutes later Conor turned away from the computer and looked at Angel.