Tell No Lies (43 page)

“Meg is hosting,” she said by way of explanation.

“Well, then.”

An awkward pause.

“We’re fine, thanks,” Daniel said. “Cristina’s starting her second trimester.”

“Oh, come on. There’ll be plenty of time for all that doting and blithering once the thing is born.” She checked her watch, then turned toward the elevator. “I need to put my face on.”

Her face already looked on, but he nodded, and she took her leave.

He walked out and found Cris there, her eyes closed, her face tilted up to the sun. He watched her for a moment until she opened her eyes and said, “Stalker.”

“What now?” he asked.

“Peking duck.”

He laughed and held up the clipboard. “Let me just fill this out.”

A cable car topped the rise, accompanied by that distinctive clanging. Daniel started in on the permit form, but Cris touched his arm so he’d look up and soak in the sight of the car coasting over the brink. The conductor, his cap and gloves from another era, went nearly horizontal to engage the brake. The injury rates for conductors were off the charts—knees and backs giving out, hands turned arthritic around the giant pliers of the grips. There were so many easier ways to get folks up and down a hill, but the city charter included a provision that cable cars, the only mobile national monuments, could never be outlawed.

And besides: Easy was overrated.

The cable car drifted past, unveiling Grace Cathedral, imposing on the outside but free-spirited within, with its Keith Haring AIDS altarpiece, its stained-glass windows of Einstein and FDR, Frank Lloyd Wright and John Glenn. Secular luminaries inside a house of God topping a hill populated with the mansions of rail barons.

The closer one looked, the less the city made sense. It burned and shook, rose and fell, and at times even defaulted on its obligation to remain underfoot. It made things hard on itself. In that stubborn persistence were a host of annoyances and contradictions, but a kind of beauty and character, too.

Daniel returned his attention to the clipboard.

A few moments later, he heard Cristina say, “Jesus Christ, doesn’t the woman know how to hail a cab?”

There Evelyn was at the curb, one hand raised feebly in the air; she must have moved past without noticing them. Taxis zoomed by, taking no notice. She tried again, but the commotion of the street seemed to overwhelm her.

Daniel glanced for the doorman, but then a familiar earsplitting whistle sounded from right beside him. Cris took her fingers from her mouth and pushed off the wall as a taxi yanked to the curb.

Evelyn glanced across, surprised at the sight of Cris suddenly there at her side. Cris opened the door for Evelyn, held it.

The two women regarded each other.

“Thank you,” Evelyn said. She paused, the hint of a curve in her spine, then gave the faintest nod.
“Cristina,”
she added, and climbed into the taxi.

Chapter 73

Hesitating in the hall outside the door, Daniel was more nervous than he could ever remember being. He listened to the familiar patter of the room. X’s laughter. Big Mac’s booming voice. A-Dre getting worked up over something. Finally gathering his courage, he stepped inside.

A chorus of greetings went up.

“Counselor!”

“Mister … ah, ah, Crime Fighter.”

He smiled and gave a nod to the new counselor, a pleasant if tired-looking woman in a worn skirt suit. “I’ll give you the floor,” she said, rising.

“Thank you.”

The counselor shook X’s hand and then Fang’s. “Good luck out there. My door’s always open.”

When she left, Daniel smiled at the two of them. “The big graduates.”

“Yeah,” A-Dre said. “Us other shitheads gotta keep draggin’ our asses in here.”

Everyone laughed more than seemed called for, probably to break the tension. Daniel looked around, finding his bearings. He noticed that Lil’s hair was up, her skin clean, and she wore a flowered shirt.

“Lil,” he said, “you look beautiful.”

She waved him off. “You’re getting paid to say stuff like—” She caught herself. Dipped her head. “Thank you.”

“No new members?” Daniel asked.

“Nah,” Big Mac said. “After Martin they’re gonna let the original crew ride it out until we all graduate. Enough disruptions, you know?”

“I know.”

“Why don’t you sit down?” A-Dre said. “Stay awhile.”

In his nervousness Daniel had remained on his feet. He said, “Because X is in my fucking chair.”

She cracked up, clapping her hands. “Come on. We got some stuff to show you.”

He sat. “Like what?”

She pointed.

A-Dre was holding both hands clamped around his own neck.

“You hafta guess,” X said.

Daniel said, “A-Dre’s gonna strangle himself?”

“Ta-
daaa
!” A-Dre flung his arms wide. His neck, clear of any tattoos. Daniel stared in disbelief at the place where
“LaRonda”
had once been inked.

“I had that shit lasered off,” A-Dre said. “My cousin has a place. You think that motherfucker hurt going
on
…”

“And…”
Lil said.

Fang had his hand over his heart, as if reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.

“No,” Daniel said, grinning.
“No.”

Fang removed his hand, revealing a shiny name tag. “Osh Hardware.” He couldn’t keep a smile from lighting his face. “Tools and Hardware.”

Daniel clasped his hands, aimed them at Fang.

“I guess I’m the loser in the group.” Big Mac thumbed his nose, blinked a few times. “Lost my job.”

X brightened. “He’s been taking pity-party lessons from Lil, though, so
that’s
good.”

Big Mac smirked, and Lil flipped Xochitl off, then seemed surprised by her own reaction.

“Sorry to hear that, Mac,” Daniel said. “How’s things at home?”

“Solid,” he said. “They been solid.”

They visited for a time, making fun of one another, reliving some favorite moments. Fang stood up to imitate A-Dre’s swagger. “’Member when A-Dre was all like, ‘Fighting’s fun. I’m … ah, ah, ah, I’m
good
at it.’”

“Look at Tools and Hardware, gettin’ all cocky,” A-Dre said. “Hope you don’t have to
talk
in that new job a’ yours.”

They gave each other five.

X stood up and mock-cleared her throat, blushing at the formality. “We want to thank you.” She tugged self-consciously at one of her braids. “For everything you did for us.”

Daniel’s face grew hot, and he looked down at the tile. “I learned more from you than you did from me.”

“We have one more surprise for you,” Lil said.

X ran to the door and leaned out into the hall. There was a murmured exchange, and then she pulled gently back into sight holding a toddler. The girl was striking, dark-skinned with loose, sloppy curls. Her long lashes and profile removed any doubt that she was Xochitl’s daughter. Though the girl was hardly a newborn, X gripped her awkwardly and with great care, as if afraid she was going to drop her. As she returned to the circle, a middle-aged woman slid in from the hall and stood by the door with her back to the wall.

A social worker. Supervised visit.

Daniel opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

X showed off her daughter. “Isn’t she pretty? Far as I can tell, all she does is say sorta words and break sunglasses. Is that what babies do? Break glasses?” She bounced the girl gently on her hip. “I don’t get to keep her.” She shot a mad look at the woman in the back. “
Yet.
But I get to see her two times a week, and if I line up a job, it’ll be more, and then maybe.
Maybe.
”

Daniel stood and said, “May I?”

X nodded and handed him her child. He held her for a moment, fighting to swallow past the growing lump in his throat, and finally he said his good-byes. He went up the corridor to the bathroom, closed himself in a stall, and tilted his face into his hands.

When he cleared up, he came back out into the hall.

Farther down the corridor by the elevator, Kendra was in a heated discussion with a man wearing a sweater vest. She looked up, spotted Daniel, and smiled, and the man took advantage of the distraction to disappear into the elevator. Kendra walked to Daniel and gave him a hug, enfolding him in a swirl of yellow caftan.

“You got my papers, baby?” she asked.

He pulled the termination agreement from his back pocket. Looked down at the paper. Handed it to her. She took it, not happily.

“You see off the graduates?” she asked.

“I did. The new counselor?”

“
She’s
great. But the guy for the
new
group?” Kendra gestured toward the elevator. “That was him fleeing midsession, tail tucked. They ate him
alive.
”

“He wears a
sweater vest.
”

“Yeah,” she said. “I shoulda known.” She glanced past Daniel at the last room down the hall. “They’re still in there, gloating.” She rolled up his termination agreement, tapped it thoughtfully against her mouth. “Now I gotta find someone
else
to take them on.”

Daniel said nothing.

“They’re gonna be emboldened now that they scared off
one
counselor,” Kendra mused. “It’s a big challenge, taking on a room like that.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Daniel said.

“What?” She feigned surprise. “Oh—you thought I was asking…?”

“And the Oscar for Best Actress goes to…”

“Well, it’s not like it’s a full load. It’s
one group.
”

“I have a private practice to start.”

“You know the good thing about only having
one group
?”

“Lemme guess,” Daniel said flatly. “You can fit it in around a private practice.”

“That
is
what I was thinking.”

He set his teeth. She watched him, her head slightly drawn back. A standoff.

Finally he let out his breath, part sigh, part growl. “
One group,
Kendra. My last.
Really
my last.”

“Of course, baby.” She folded up his termination agreement, made it vanish somewhere inside her caftan as she turned for her office. “Why don’t I just hold on to this for now?”

Daniel watched her go, and then he stood a moment alone before turning to walk to the last room in the hall.

The group members started when he banged through the door. He gave a quick scan around the ring. A rawboned lady wearing wraparound shades, even in the shitty lighting. Hefty girl with a large-gauge septum pierce and a labret stud in her lip. A rangy kid with cornrows and a fringe of low-hanging braids in the back. Two wispy-chinned gangbangers, Norteños by their colors.

“We’re gonna set some new ground rules,” Daniel said. “There will be no violence or threats of violence. We meet every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for two hours. You need to show up on time and sober. You’re here for six months, and you cannot miss a single session without a doctor’s note. If you’re late, it counts as a missed session. If you get asked to or choose to leave two times, it counts as a missed session. Under no circumstances can you share the IDs of the other members of this group. If you’re not a threat to yourself or others, nothing leaves this room. No racial slurs. No standing when you’re pissed off. No meeting outside group. That includes having sex with anyone from group.”

At that, the girl with the labret stud pulled a face.

“The more honest you are,” he said, “and the more accountable you are, the more progress you’ll make. That’s what we shoot for in here—progress, not perfection. It’ll be hard, and there will be setbacks and missteps. Change isn’t gonna come overnight. It’s a process.”

The kid with cornrows blew out a breath of annoyance, and the gangbangers slumped in unison.

“Now,” Daniel said. “Are there any questions?”

“Yeah,” said the lady with the wraparounds. “When can I fucking
leave
?”

He smiled inwardly.

Right on schedule.

He stepped back to the door, yanked it open. “Anytime you want.”

She held his stare for an aggressively long time, the others rapt. The rusty heating vent sighed stale air, and the crappy wall-mount clock clicked once and then again.

Finally she folded her arms and looked away.

He closed the door and took his place in the circle of chairs.

“Welcome to group,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Acknowledgments

While San Francisco is the city of my birth, it was a new canvas for me creatively, which therefore required me to enlist a fresh crew of experts. I would like to thank Officer Rosalyn Rouede of SFPD, a native daughter if ever there was one, for showing me the restricted halls, dark alleys, and hidden secrets of a place both familiar and foreign to me. Vincent Pan was another tour guide to the city, literally and figuratively. With irrepressible enthusiasm, Darra Messing helped fill in the geographic gaps. I should also like to acknowledge Rob Holsen of the St. Francis Hotel, who acquainted me with a wonderful age-old tradition.

I relied on Philip Eisner, Melissa Hurwitz, M.D., David St. Peter, and Maureen Sugden to bring their various sensibilities to bear. This story was fortunate to have you in its orbit—as am I to have you in mine.

Keith Kahla, my editor, was there in all the right ways for this one, as were the rest of my team at St. Martin’s Press, including Sally Richardson, Matthew Shear, Matthew Baldacci, Kym Giacoppe, Loren Jaggers, Jeff Capshew, Martin Quinn, Christine Jaeger, Hannah Braaten, and Kevin Sweeney.

Additional thanks are due to Lisa Erbach Vance of the Aaron Priest Agency, Stephen F. Breimer, Marc H. Glick, Rich Green at CAA, Dana Kaye, and last, but certainly not least, Rowland White of Michael Joseph/Penguin Group UK.

I would be remiss not to mention Simba the Destroyer, for the brainstorming hikes and loyal hours by the desk; R. and N., capable of making me laugh at any moment, particularly when I least want to; and Delinah, who pulls the proverbial big picture into alignment for me, year after year, with indescribable grace.