From Ashes to Honor (14 page)

"I don't have any." No matter what he suggested, she intended to go along with it. And make it clear she was happy to do it, if it meant spending time with him.

"I promised to grill pork chops for Flora and Bud, with my famous barbecue sauce on 'em. I can throw an extra chop in the grill." He tossed the trash into the stainless can near the sink. "If you feel like making the drive over, that is."

"I'd like that."

"Or I could pick you up," he added, rinsing sweet and sour from his fingers.

"No, that'd be an incredible waste of time and energy." It seemed to Mercy they'd had a very similar conversation in their recent past.

Their past.
She had to clean up this mess her big mouth had made, because Mercy would hate it if her outburst turned the phrase into a permanent condition. "And gasoline."

Another silent moment slid by, and then Woodrow flopped onto his side between them and delivered a happy "pet me" chirrup. When they crouched to fill his request, their foreheads collided, inspiring a round of tension-breaking laughter.

On his feet now, he rubbed his eyebrow. "How am I gonna explain a black eye to the guys tomorrow?" he joked.

"Just tell them the truth. You spent the evening with a hardheaded woman."

Gathering her close, he kissed the tender spot above her right eyebrow. "Well, I'll say this for you . . ."

Mercy looked up into his open, honest face and waited expectantly for him to complete his thought.

". . . you sure aren't afraid to tell it like it is."

It's a very good thing, she thought as he kissed her, that people close their eyes when they kiss, because in this instance, at least, the action helped hide her tears of relief that he'd forgiven her tantrum.

H
eat seeping through his favorite mug warmed his palms, and he downed a gulp of strong black coffee. It would take this—and the rest of the pot—to counterbalance his long, sleepless night.

The weatherman said temps might reach fifty today, but the slate gray sky said otherwise. Austin watched the white vapor of his silent yawn float on the cold November wind, wondering why life sometimes felt like a tapestry of "ifs."

If he'd sewn up that hole in his pocket when it first appeared, the button of his old police-issue jacket would still be in there.And if he'd put the button back where it belonged before stowing the coat for the summer, he wouldn't be standing here now, shoulders hunched and shivering.

If he made a list of things he'd been neglecting, it'd probably give him writer's cramp, because he hadn't exercised, been to the barber's or picked up his dry cleaning in weeks. If he didn't soon get a coat of oil on the tug's brass, he'd spend a month, come spring, buffing away winter's heartlessness. And if he missed another AA meeting . . . .

Austin couldn't think of a time when he needed Harvey Griffin's no-holds-barred logic more.

Well, except maybe for that awful night when Griff bailed him out of jail and dragged him into the rectory, where Austin woke up in a pool of his own drunken drool. He'd never heard the man curse before. Wouldn't have thought a man of the cloth knew
how
to cuss like that. But the drill sergeant-turnedfirefighter-turned-AA sponsor-turned-minister held nothing back, not even full-blown brazen blame: "I hope you're happy, because now I'll have to spend hours on my knees," he roared, "begging forgiveness for my gutter talk." Then he'd filled both meaty fists with Austin's shirt and gave him a good shake."And so will you, for driving me to it!"

Austin hadn't found anything about the situation funny back then, but now, the memory made him grin.

His smile grew as he recalled the day Griff announced that he'd quit his job and packed everything he owned into his beat-up old Chevy van. "If Charm City can't handle me," he'd joked, "it'll be your fault for reminding me of all the city's plusses."

After a week on Austin's lumpy couch, Griff rented an upstairs apartment in Washington Village and shocked every one of his Pigtown cousins by enrolling at the Maryland Bible College and Seminary. The family blamed the head injury, sustained when an I-beam trapped Griff and the woman he'd tried to free from the debris, but Austin knew better. After 9/11, the call to serve God was just about the only thing Griff could talk about.

His relatives hadn't believed he'd finish the program, but Austin knew better. Once Griff set his mind on something, it was as good as done, and Austin was walking, talking proof of that.

How many times during that long, harrowing week had Griff wanted to throw his hands in the air and walk away from his drunken friend? Too many to count.

"Marines don't quit!" he'd said when Austin questioned his tenacity.

"You haven't worn a uniform in years."

"Once a Marine, always a Marine," he'd snarled, and went right back to pouring coffee down Austin's gullet and reading from the Good Book. By week's end, he'd turned Austin into a verse-spouting, born-again believer. Talked him into joining AA, too, and on the way to the first meeting, they'd toasted Austin's new life with back-to-back Boilermakers . . .

. . . and Austin hadn't touched a drop of the stuff since January 8, 2002. Oh, he'd wanted to, plenty of times! But on the occasions when temptation threatened to let go of his precarious grip on self-control, he could always count on Griff to rake him over the coals until he came to his sense again.

His driver's license said he'd come into the world on November second, and he'd given his life to God on May thirteenth, but in his mind and heart, that raw winter day was the only one he celebrated by wearing every pin Griff had ever given him. His favorite? The one that said

Yep, if anybody could help him get a handle on the yoyoing emotions about Mercy that had been bouncing around in his head, it was good ol' Griff.

Like a mirage, the image of her floated on the frosty fog. He didn't know how long he might have stood at the rail, staring across the Bay, if Flora hadn't called out to him.

Smiling, he threw a hand into the air. "How's my favorite girl this morning?"

"Favorite girl, my foot. I know I've been replaced, you twotimer, you!" Cackling, she pulled her thick robe tighter round her. "I'm fine and dandy. Thanks for askin'."

But she wasn't fine. Austin could tell by the strange tenor to her voice, and the way she moved, slow and stiff—as if each step stimulated immeasurable pain—toward the rail.

"Hear from your doctor?"

"That quack," she huffed, waving his question away. "I heard from him, all right."

Obviously, the news hadn't been good, but Austin could get more details from Bud, later. "Don't forget. I'm making you and Bud pork chops for supper."

"You must have fallen out of your bunk last night."Maybe he had, because Austin didn't have a clue what she meant.

"A good whack to the head is the only viable reason I can come up with to explain why you don't remember that I've never passed up a chance to eat something besides those nasty fish sticks or chicken nuggets Bud's so fond of!" Another brittle laugh, then, "Your place or mine, sweet cakes?"

Grinning, he said, "Let's do it over here. That way, you won't have to lift a finger."

"Where were you when I was husband hunting!" she shot back, one bony hand pressed to her chest. "Mercy will be joining us, I hope."

How weird that the mere mention of her name had the power to put his pulse into overdrive. "Yeah. But I need to call her, let her know what time. What's good for you guys?"

Flora chuckled. "We're retired, so if it was up to Bud, we'd eat at four. You two are the workin' stiffs, so you decide and that's when we'll be there."

"You got it, gorgeous. Now get inside out of this wind." He stopped himself from adding "before you catch your death." A strange and ominous sensation gripped his heart, and he sent a quick prayer heavenward that she'd be all right.

"Can I bring anything?"

"Only your sassy, beautiful self."

"Be still my heart." Then, "When you talk to Mercy, be sure to tell her how much I'm looking forward to seeing her again."

"You bet." There were three steps leading from the Callahans' deck to their cabin. As she climbed them, the dread inside him grew. Always agile and spry, Flora had never struck him as "old." Now, huddled slump-shouldered in her fuzzy pink bathrobe, she seemed to have aged ten years in the weeks since he'd last seen her. Austin added his concerns about her condition to the things he'd discuss with Griff.

He checked his watch. Too early to call a guy who usually sat up all night talking people out of making "there's no turning back" decisions. Austin didn't have other sponsors to compare Griff to, but he'd been a cop long enough to know a good guy from a bad one. He'd call today and see if
that
good one could meet him for lunch.

After emptying the last of the coffee into his mug, he flopped into his recliner and scanned the channels for a
Three's Company
rerun. "Ah," he said, popping up the footrest, "better than a tranquilizer."

But not better than booze.

Another couple of "ifs" for his list: If he downed enough of the stuff, he could count on two, maybe three hours of uninterrupted sleep. And if Griff hadn't dragged him to that first AA meeting, alcohol would still control every waking moment.

His cell phone buzzed and did a half-circle dance on the coffee table. Its internal clock said six-o-two, and the caller i.d.block spelled out "Harvey Griffen."

"What, you forgot how to tell time?"

"Aw, blast!" came the gravelly reply. "And here's me, about to ask if you forgot how to dial a phone."

"I was gonna call you. Today."

"Yeah, yeah. And I traded my Yankees cap for a pope dome."

"How are things in Pigtown?"

"Well, I miss Babe the pigs."

Austin remembered Griff's story about how the B & O Railroad once herded hogs down the middle of Ostend and Cross Streets to get them to the slaughterhouses in south Baltimore. "You might look as old as dust, but no way you ever met Babe Ruth."

"Whatever."

"Speaking of which, whatever inspired you to call at this ungodly hour?"

"Just makin' sure all my li'l chicks are present and accounted for."

Austin heard the familiar
zing
as Griff flipped open the lid of his Zippo lighter. "I thought you were gonna quit that filthy habit."

"I am. I will. Eventually."

"Yeah, yeah. And I traded my Orioles cap for a Yankees T-shirt."

Laughing, Griff said, "Seriously. How you doin', kid?"

"Doin' great."

"No backsliding?"

"Nope."

His lips popped as he took a puff of the cigarette. "Then why have you been makin' yourself scarce?"

If he told Griff about Mercy, he'd better be ready to get an earful of the damage women can do to a man with a plan."Mostly working," he said, "and spending time with—"

"Mostly? Uh oh, don't tell me you've got yourself a
girlfriend."

"—my neighbors. You met them at last year's Super Bowl party. They're not doing so hot ."

"Aw, that's a stinkin' rotten shame. Nothing serious, I hope.They're a sweet old couple."

"Yeah, that they are."

"Awright, out with it, Finley."

"Never could pull one over on you could I?"

Griff snickered. "Better question is why do you even
try?"

"I hate talking on the phone, so how 'bout I buy you breakfast."

"Boulevard Diner, half an hour?"

How like Griff to choose a place so near the station, Austin thought as he drove toward Merritt Boulevard. Once there, he saw the rusting brown van in the handicap slot nearest the entrance. Griff lived closer to Mercy's townhouse than the diner in Dundalk. No way he could have made the trip that fast unless he'd called on his way over. Or from the parking lot.

Mercy, the reason he'd wanted to meet with Griff in the first place. But how could he explain things—from therapy back in New York to the secrets and kisses they'd shared—in the middle of a crowded, noisy restaurant?

It didn't surprise him to see Griff, squinting into a blur of cigarette exhaust as he waved from the far corner of the smoking section, far from other patrons.

"I took the liberty of ordering," he said, pointing at two white-ceramic coffee mugs. "Got your usual. Bacon. Toast. Two

eggs over easy. Home fries. To save time. Since you're workin' today and all."

"You've got a lot of gall," Austin said, grinning as he slid onto the bench seat facing Griff's. "I had my taste buds all set for French toast."

"Yeah, yeah. And I just traded my pope dome for a welder's mask." He mashed his Marlboro in the ashtray and slid it under the mini-juke box. "What's on your mind, kid?"

"Have you ever in your life beat around the bush?"

"Nope. Least, I sure as shootin' hope not. 'Cause it ain't just a colossal waste of time, it's unnecessarily hard on the shrubbery, too." He chuckled. "You're pretty good at it, though."

Austin raised a brow.

"Somethin' tells me you didn't call just to see my pretty face.. . ."

If he knew where to begin, Austin might have launched into a narrative of his life these past weeks.

"Well-l-l?"

"This. That." He shrugged. "Let's eat. I hate to whine on an empty stomach."

"Oh. Right. Like a full stomach will make it easier for me to
listen
to your whining."

Austin lifted the mug to his lips, more to buy time than because he craved coffee. It tasted bitter, thanks to the sweet remnants of gum still clinging to his tongue. "So how's the leg?"

Griff reflexively fluffed his graying hair, grown long and shaggy to hide the fading red lightning bolt that zigzagged from his left eyebrow to his right cheek. But there wasn't much he could do to hide the limp. "Still gimpy."

"Bummer," Austin said, watching him flip open the one-ofa-kind lighter's lid, then snap it shut again. The metallic echo drew the attention of diners at nearby tables. One old guy, in particular, looked about ready to issue a "Knock it off!" command.So Austin extended his hand, palm up, and wiggled his fingertips. "Hand it over, before you crack its hinge."

"Careful. It was a gift from—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. From your sainted father, who served bravely in World War II and now sports wings and a halo and plays chess with the angels in heaven."

Chuckling, Griff said, "Nobody likes a smart aleck. Besides, every word is the truth."

Austin had been looking at the thing for years but never saw it up close before. A Marine cap sat on the bony head of the skull and crossbones, and beneath it, crossed rifles. "Mess with the best," said the bold letters to its left and "die like the rest" gave balance to the right.

He closed it quietly and handed it back. "Is that thing the reason you haven't quit smoking?"

A bawdy guffaw preceded Griff's snort. "What! You think I'd rather pollute my lungs than stow this in my underwear drawer?"