4. Diego
DIEGO
Blood pounded in his temples, drowning out all other sound, and Diego barely registered the hand on his shoulder because Cody Wallace, one of his homies from back in the day, was standing right there in front of him like a phantom from his fucked-up past.
“Holy shit, I can’t believe it’s you. Come here, you crazy motherfucker,” Cody said as he climbed off his bicycle and made his way over to where Diego stood on shaky legs.
Damn, but Cody had changed. Thin to the point of gaunt, he’d lost all the baby fat in his face and most of the muscle tone in his arms too.
A couple of his front teeth were missing, and the ones that remained were in bad shape.
Scabs and open sores dotted his face, probably from doing too much meth, if Diego had to guess.
They’d mostly been into coke and pills back when he’d known him, but things changed.
The seven years had been hard on Cody, that much was clear.
“How long you been out, my man?” Cody asked as he pulled Diego into a wiry embrace. His arms felt skeletal as Diego made a delayed attempt to hug him back.
“Three weeks,” Diego heard himself mumble, his voice sounding distant and disconnected from his body.
He had a flashback to when they’d been little gits, paying off homeless people to buy them beer and cigarettes from the corner store or else stealing candy and chips and whatever else they could stuff into their pockets, then running off when the store clerk caught on to what they were doing.
“Shit, man. Three weeks? That means you were in there for what?” Cody counted off on his fingers.
“Seven years? Shee-aat, that’s a hella long time, bro.
That fucker who pressed charges did you wrong, D.
So wrong. We all thought so. Todd tried to speak up on your behalf, but they wouldn’t listen.
Fucking cops. You look good now, though. Been working out?”
Todd Mevis was Diego’s former employer-slash-dealer who’d gotten him into the coke and the pills, then turned him onto the robbery and even offered to let him use his gun.
Later, Todd told the cops that Diego had stolen it out of the dash of his F150.
Asshole scumbag. Snake. His hands shook with anger as his mind flooded with bad memories of the man and his many manipulations. Lies that his own dumbass believed.
“Todd’s sold the flooring business,” Cody was saying, “but he’s still got a few things going on, if you’re interested.”
“I’m not,” Diego said firmly, putting some physical distance between himself and his old friend. This wasn’t safe or smart. Diego didn’t want to rekindle any of that old shit. He wanted to stay as far away from it as possible.
“Well, I know ole’ Frank ain’t paying you shit.
Man’s still tighter than a dry asshole. Tried to get a job here, but the fucker said no.
Anyway, I’m doing all right. Gotta place over on U.S.
19. Picking up some jobs here and there.
Hustlin’ and tryin’ to keep my mind right, know what I’m sayin’?
” He knocked the side of his head for emphasis. “How’s your mom these days?”
“She’s fine.” Diego didn’t want to elaborate more than that or give Cody the impression that he wanted to resume their friendship–he couldn’t risk it.
Not with the way Cody appeared now, strung-out and twitchy.
That feeling like your bones might jump right out of your body if you didn’t get another hit.
Diego used to get that way, whenever he went too long without a fix.
A bump in the morning to start off his workday and another at lunchtime to carry him through the physical labor of laying floor.
Or, if it was his day off, to fuck off with his friends.
Painkillers at night to come down. Always trying to stay one step ahead of the withdrawal and residual shame.
Without the drugs he was restless and agitated.
Snappy. He felt that way now, like his careful equilibrium had been upended.
It was an unwelcome reminder of how he used to feel pretty much all the time.
Diego recalled a screaming match he’d gotten into with his mom years ago, after he’d stolen one of his late grandfather’s antique guns and pawned it for drug money. God, he’d been such an asshole to her. How was he ever supposed to come back from that?
Diego didn’t register anything else that Cody said, which was an endless stream of updates about people he didn’t want to know or be associated with anymore.
People who he’d thought were like family but hadn’t once visited him in prison or even sent him a fucking postcard.
Cody’s presence was bringing up a bunch of bad shit, and Diego was having a hard time catching his breath.
“Hey listen, guys, sorry to cut this reunion short, but we gotta close up before it gets too late. I got shit to do tonight.” Wylie’s voice broke through the static in Diego’s mind. His face was easier to focus on, his demeanor radiating calm and control.
“All right, then, cool, cool.” Cody nodded. “Working man, I get it. Don’t forget about that bread pudding, though. I swear Frank puts crack in it or something.”
“Bet,” Wylie responded as his hand landed squarely on the back of Diego’s clammy neck, gently but firmly steering him back inside.
Normally, Diego would have recoiled at such contact–in prison he would have retaliated with his fists–but he needed to be led in the moment.
The edges of his vision darkened as his heart thundered in his ears, battering against his ribs as though it meant to break free. Shit, was he gonna pass out?
“Breathe, man. Just breathe.” Wylie’s voice again.
Diego was sitting down now with those blue eyes trained on him.
Like looking at the turquoise water at Clearwater Beach on a sunny day.
Squatting right there in front of him, Wylie modeled the most basic biological function with an exaggerated breath in and out.
Diego copied him–inhale, exhale–until he was able to keep the rhythm on his own.
“There you go,” the younger man said with a warm smile and squeezed both his hands, bringing back the sensation to his fingertips. “Keep it up. I’m going to grab you a soda.” He stood slowly and headed toward the drink machine while Diego tracked his movements.
Eventually, the pounding of his heart began to slow, and the blood stopped thundering in his ears.
He could feel his limbs again, could smell the char of the grill and the lingering scent of smoked meat, old grease from the fryer.
The tile was still wet in places from where he’d recently mopped.
Beneath him were his boots, on solid ground. He was safe. He was okay.
Wylie thrust the drink into his hand, and Diego recognized the sweet spice of Dr. Pepper, his favorite. He took a few sips from the straw while Wylie disappeared into the walk-in fridge, presumably to assemble a meal for Cody.
Cody Wallace had changed, and Diego wondered if the man was really okay.
Did he truly have a home, or was he living under an overpass somewhere?
He’d smelled like he hadn’t bathed in a while.
He didn’t come from a nice family, so he doubted they were much help.
And Todd Mevis was a name he’d hoped to never hear again.
Sounded like he was still a scumbag, two-bit drug dealer, using his status as a small business owner to take advantage of kids too young and dumb to know better.
Diego felt a rush of gratitude then. His own family could have written him off, but they were still trying to support him, to reconnect.
Shit, Frank had given him a job and a place to live.
As much as he was dreading the reunion with his family, he needed to make an effort, to show them he’d changed, even if he hadn’t proved it to himself just yet.
A few minutes later Wylie passed by where Diego was sitting to deliver the takeout container to Cody.
Did Frank know Wylie was giving away food like that?
Probably not. His uncle was a good man but cheap as hell.
There were security cameras trained on the back door as well as the front entrance if he cared to look.
Hopefully, Wylie didn’t get fired for it, but even if he did, he could find a job elsewhere, no problem. Wylie had options.
Upon his return, Wylie locked the back door behind him and took a seat on the tile floor with his long legs stretched out and his back pressed against the closed door as if guarding the place from intruders.
The vape appeared from his pocket and he took a few puffs.
The scent of cloves filled the air, reminding Diego of when he and Cody used to smoke Black and Milds while skipping school freshman year, thinking they were tough shit.
Turns out, they were just losers who should’ve been in class getting an education.
So many regrets. Diego didn’t know how long they sat there before he finally found his voice.
“Those aren’t good for you,” he said and gestured to the vape.
“Yeah, I know. I’m gonna quit when I go to law school. Nancy and me have a pact.”
Diego didn’t know who Nancy was, maybe another friend of his, but he did know the kid was going places. Shit, he already had his degree. Smart as hell and clearly fast on his feet. “What kind of lawyer do you want to be?” Diego asked.
“Defense attorney.”
That surprised him for some reason. He recalled his own attorney, Jimmy Gugliani, hired for him by his uncle.
Diego had been advised to plead guilty, which made sense at the time.
He’d been caught red-handed by the owner of the house and held at gunpoint until the cops arrived with his younger cousin practically bleeding out beside him.
There was also video footage of the break-in.
As it turns out, Diego made for a dumb criminal.
“You want to defend criminals?” Diego asked.
“Allegedly,” Wylie said with a wink.