Among Thieves (26 page)

The four of them were sitting at a table near the middle of the restaurant. It was a big, round, heavy oak slab, finished
unevenly to maintain the rustic feel of the place. It could have seated eight, and with just the four of them, they had to
keep their voices up to hear each other over the din.

Not that it mattered through much of the evening; the conversation was spotty. Finn, Kozlowski, and Lissa usually talked about
their work when they ate; it was a time when they could fret over their most pressing cases. That night, however, their most
pressing case concerned the father of the girl who was sitting directly across from Finn. He couldn’t discuss the case openly,
but he couldn’t get it out of his head, either.

“How was school?” he asked at one point, trying to break the awkward silence that had settled over the table.

Sally looked up, surprised. “It sucked,” she said after a moment.

“Why?” Finn asked.

“It’s school. School sucks.”

“What sucks about it?” Finn continued.

She twirled some pasta onto her fork and stuffed the mess into her mouth. “You really wanna know?” she asked as she chewed.

“Yeah,” Finn said. “What grade are you in?”

“Eighth,” she said.

“Okay, eighth grade,” Finn said. “What sucks about eighth grade? Do you have any friends?”

“Not really,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because the kids are assholes. Why would I want more assholes in my life? I got all I can handle.”

Finn winced. He’d grown up on the street, but the disparity between the girl’s age and her demeanor was still unsettling.
Most people didn’t master cynicism until at least their late teens. “How about the schoolwork?” Finn asked. “Do you like that
at all?”

Sally laughed. “It’s an inner-city school; there is no real schoolwork. If you’re not stabbing someone, you’re an honor student
as far as the teachers are concerned.”

“Do you learn anything?”

She shrugged. “I learn what I want to learn.”

“What’s that?”

She pushed the food around on her plate. “I like reading,” she said at last. “English class is okay. The teacher is a joke,
but I like the books.”

“What are you reading?”

“Right now?
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
,” she said grudgingly.

“Good book. You like that one?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

She looked him in the eye. “Because he’s a kid and he takes care of himself. He doesn’t need other people to survive and he
doesn’t take any shit.”

The table went silent for a moment. She put her fork down on her plate, and it made a sharp, definitive noise—like an exclamation
point. Finn reached out and plucked a roll from the basket on the table, tore off a piece, and dipped it in the olive oil
on the table. After a moment, he said again, “Good book.”

Lissa cleared her throat. “You could make friends,” she said. “It wouldn’t be hard for someone as smart as you.”

“What the fuck is this?” Sally said loudly. A few people at other tables turned to look, then glanced away quickly. “I’m fine.
I don’t need your pity, y’know. I need a place to sleep, that’s all. I’ll be gone soon enough.”

Lissa looked embarrassed. It wasn’t a look that came naturally to her. “We’re just trying to help a little, that’s all. It
might be nice to get to know you a little better.”

“How about if I get to know you a little better, then?” Sally said.

“We’d be fine with that,” Lissa replied.

Sally looked at each of them in turn, a prizefighter sizing up opponents. “How old are you?” she asked Finn.

“Forty-four,” Finn replied.

“And you’re a lawyer who lives alone in a nice apartment in Charlestown?”

“Yeah.” Finn took a sip of his wine. He was more of a beer drinker, but as long as Lissa was paying, he didn’t mind having
a glass of a nice cabernet. It relaxed him.

“So you’re gay.”

Finn almost spat out a ten-dollar sip of the wine. Whatever relaxation he’d achieved vanished. “What?” he choked out.

“I’ve seen your apartment,” she said. “No curtains, no pictures, no pillows on the couch. The refrigerator’s empty and there’s
one toothbrush in the bathroom. There’s nothing that looks like a girl’s ever been there ever. You’re not ugly, so I assume
you’re a fag.”

“I’m not gay,” Finn replied. He tried to keep the defensiveness out of his voice.

“Gay,” Sally said, nodding her head.

“I am not gay!”

“Hey,” she said, “I got no problem with it. Probably make me sleep better at night.”

“I don’t have a problem with it either,” Finn said. “I’m just not gay.”

“Are you dating anyone?”

“No,” Finn admitted.

“Gay.”

Finn looked over at Lissa. She looked amused. “What’s so funny?”

“This is,” Lissa said. “In fact, it pretty much defines funny.”

Finn turned to Sally. “I was dating someone. We lived together and it didn’t work out. That was a while ago, and I just haven’t
found anyone else since then, okay?”

“Who was she? Did she have a penis, or was she like, an imaginary girlfriend?”

“No,” Finn said. “She was Koz’s partner when he was on the police force.”

Sally looked over at Kozlowski, who nodded. “Huh,” she said, clearly shocked that she was wrong. “So if you’re not gay, then
why don’t you have a new girlfriend?”

Lissa laughed. “She’s got you nailed, Finn. That’s a question I’ve asked over and over,” Lissa said. “I’d kinda like to hear
the answer.”

She wasn’t going to hear the answer, though, because before Finn could even begin to formulate a response, Sally turned on
Lissa. “You two are dating, right?” she asked, nodding at Kozlowski. He’d been silent for most of the dinner, and now he squirmed
at the notion of being drawn into the conversation. Lissa took the bait, though.

“We are,” she said, nodding. Kozlowski shot her a look, but she waved him off. She clearly wasn’t about to back down.

“For how long?”

“A year or so,” Lissa replied. “Maybe a little longer.”

“Why aren’t you married?”

Finn had to admire the girl; she played rough. Lissa was now squirming as much as Kozlowski was.

“It’s complicated,” she said.

“Why?” Sally asked. “You don’t love him?”

“No, I love him.”

“He doesn’t love you?”

Everyone at the table looked at Kozlowski. He looked at the cutlery. Finn had the impression he was contemplating picking
up the steak knife and gouging his own eyes out.

“No, I’m sure he loves me, too,” Lissa said, answering for him. Sally kept looking at Kozlowski for a moment, though, until
he gave a slight nod.

“Okay, you love him and he loves you,” Sally said. “You both seem normal, so what’s the deal?”

“We’ve talked about it,” Lissa said hesitantly.

Finn, who had been enjoying the show, was shocked by the pronouncement. “Really?” he said.

Lissa looked back and forth between Finn and Kozlowski. Kozlowski shook his head and raised his hand, signaling that she was
on her own. Then Lissa settled her gaze on Finn. “This isn’t how we wanted to tell you this,” she began.

Finn felt his eyes widen. “You’re kidding, right? You two? Married?” The expression on Lissa’s face turned like the sky during
a sudden, violent summer storm. “I don’t mean that the way it sounds,” Finn stammered. “I mean why not you two, right?” Lissa’s
eyes darkened further. “I mean, that’s great. I really do, it’s great. What brought this on?”

“Are you pregnant?” Sally asked. She wasn’t letting up on the attack.

“No!” Lissa said. Her voice was loud and sharp, and cut through the clamor of the restaurant. She shook her head and took
a deep breath and said in a more reasonable voice, “No.”

Finn looked at the two of them, not sure what to say. “Holy crap, can you imagine that? The two of you as parents?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Lissa replied.

“Why not?” Sally asked. “You’re not getting any younger.”

Kozlowski leaned in toward Sally and said quietly, “You know, Huckleberry Finn nearly got himself killed a whole bunch of
times traveling down the river. The story could’ve gone another way.”

“No sweat,” Sally said. “I feel like I know you guys a lot better already. How about you guys? Can we put the twenty questions
game on hold for a little while?”

Finn took another sip of his wine. Then he raised his glass. “To getting to know each other—a little more slowly,” he said.
Everyone around the table raised their glasses.

It took a moment before anyone said anything else. Finally Sally spoke. “So,” she said. “What’s the deal with my father? Is
he getting out anytime soon, or am I going to have to play Trivial Pursuit with you guys for the rest of my childhood?”

Finn took a deep breath. “It’s complicated.”

“Didn’t we just have this conversation?”

“No, this is genuinely complicated. I’ll get your father a new bail hearing. It may take a little time.”

“Why did he freak out today?”

“I don’t know,” Finn replied. He didn’t like lying, but he could think of no better option.

“Maybe he wanted to get away from me.”

“You’re smarter than that,” Lissa said.

“Am I? What would you do if you found out you had a kid you never wanted? Would you run?”

Lissa considered the question. “No,” she said. “I wouldn’t.”

“Maybe you’re a better person than my parents.”

Finn said nothing. There was nothing to say. He could have tried to persuade her that he knew how she felt. After all, his
own parents had abandoned him. He’d had to grow up quickly and learn to fend for himself, just as she had. There was a difference,
though, and he knew it. He’d never known his parents. To him, they were specters in the mist. On his good days, growing up,
he’d convinced himself that there was a reason beyond selfishness for their absence. He’d invent myths—romantic tales of intrigue
that had forced his parents to leave him. The story of Moses in the bulrushes, told to the children in the orphanages by stern
nuns, had always appealed to him. Perhaps, like some biblical king, he’d been set adrift for a purpose, and his mother and
father lived their lives watching over him until the day when they could reveal themselves to him.

They were childish dreams, but he’d clung to them. Deep down, he still did. And that was what set Sally apart. She could hold
no such illusions. She knew who her parents were, and they knew her. Her abandonment was personal. He could never convince
her otherwise, because he didn’t believe it.

It took a few moments for them to finish their coffee and for Lissa to pick up the tab. They left quietly; there was a melancholy
feeling they all shared in their silence. Outside, the weather matched their mood. The rain had let up enough to allow them
to walk without getting drenched, but a light sprinkling continued. The air was warm and humid again. Finn could feel the
barometric pressure in his ears, and it made it seem as though something in the atmosphere was getting ready to explode.

As the door closed behind them, they didn’t look back. If they had, they might have noticed the man settling his check at
the table near the window, two over from their table. He was of average height and build, and the only things that stuck out
about him were his black hair and eyes against his fair skin. He’d arrived just after them, and sat at the table by himself,
casually listening in on every word of their conversation.

Thursday morning was a total loss for Finn. It was as though he were swimming in a pool filled with mud. It would be easier
if he could go to the police and enlist their help. That wasn’t an option for him, though. His client wouldn’t allow it, and
he was bound to obey

Devon’s wishes. Sometimes it seemed as though the canons of legal ethics were drawn with an eye toward creating as many dilemmas
as possible for lawyers, blind to the difficult realities faced by those who paced the courthouse halls.

He started the day by dropping Sally off for school in the morning. She seemed in mildly better spirits after a decent night’s
sleep. She was still quiet, but regarded him without animosity. Perhaps, he thought, she was coming around.

He let her out in front of the school. “One of us will be here to pick you up when school ends,” he said. “Probably me or
Lissa.”

She nodded and said, “Thanks.” Then she slammed the door and headed up the stairs to the main entrance and Finn pulled away.

Thanks
. It was such a simple little word, said millions upon millions of times every day without thought or reflection. To the woman
at the Dunkin’ Donuts counter who poured your coffee. To the man who held the elevator door for just a second longer to let
you on. To the kid who bagged your groceries at the store for a summer job. It was said over and over and over, to the point
where it almost lost meaning and became a part of the blur of modern reality. Said but never felt; heard but never acknowledged.

That was not the case with Sally. For her, common courtesy was a luxury—one that she clearly had rarely been afforded, and
was hesitant to bestow on others. And so when she said the word to Finn—
thanks—
it made him feel as though, just perhaps, he was doing a good thing.