The Second Life of Nick Mason (Nick Mason #1)(34)

“He likes you,” she said. “Come on over here and we’ll get started.”

He gave the dog one more look, then followed Lauren to the counter.

“Okay, I need your name and address,” she said, picking up a clipboard with forms attached to it.

“Nick Mason.” He gave her the address on Lincoln Park West.

“Wow, okay. I bet that’s quite a place.”

“I just moved in.”

“Where’d you move from?”

Mason hesitated. “I’m from Canaryville.”

“Canaryville to Lincoln Park,” she said, nodding her head. “That’s a change of scenery, I guess.”

“Both places have lots of animals. They just keep them in the zoo up here.”

“That’s a good one,” she said, nodding again.

“My name is Nick. It’s nice to meet you.”

“I’m Lauren,” she said. “What happened to your face?”

The question surprised him. It was direct and honest and he thought carefully about how to answer. He liked her short hair and the color of her eyes. Most of all, he liked the way she stood her ground and waited to hear his explanation.

“I got in a fight,” he said.

“What about?”

“Long story,” he said. “But he was a bad guy. If that matters.”

She looked at him and considered her answer.

“It matters.”

“Does it matter enough that you might overlook it and let me take you to dinner?”

“You didn’t come in here for this dog, did you?”

“I did,” he said. “I’m taking the dog.”

“Max.”

“I’m taking Max. Max is going to have a great home. It’s just when I saw you, I didn’t want it to be one of those things I didn’t do but wish I did for a long time afterward.”

She looked at him carefully like a cop considering an alibi.

“You can come for Max tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

He turned and started out.

“And you can come back for me at seven,” she said. “I’ll be here, closing the store, if you still want to get something to eat.”

“I’d like that. I’ll see you at seven.”

Mason went back outside into the hot sun. He was as surprised as Lauren was that he had asked her out. But it felt good to have something to look forward to that evening. This chance to connect with someone.

He wondered what her last name was, if she’d ever been married, if she had any kids. There’d be time enough to find out. He was open for anything.

He was still getting used to it, this thing that everybody else walking by on the street took for granted. Choice. He could go anywhere in Chicago, do anything he wanted. Until Quintero called again.

Forget about him, he thought, and the possibility that he may call at any minute. When it happens, it happens. For now, he had the rest of a summer afternoon to kill and he didn’t want to go back to the town house and sit there by himself. He wasn’t about to go to Elmhurst again. Not yet. The next soccer game was there on the calendar, waiting for him. Another chance to see his daughter.

For today, he had enough. One of the last things he ever thought would happen. A date for dinner with a woman not named Gina.





18




As Mason parked the car on Thirty-fifth Street, he remembered an old joke. What’s the difference between Bridgeport and Canaryville? People in Bridgeport take the dishes out of the sink before they piss in it.

Bridgeport’s closer to the ballpark, closer to the river. There’s a little more “diversity,” meaning it wasn’t just Irish American kids hanging out at every corner. There were Latinos and even an Asian community in this part of town. The houses were packed tight on narrow lots, just like in Canaryville, with the detached garages in back feeding out into the alleyways that run between the streets, but the houses were a little bigger and a little nicer. There were a few more neighborhood parks and a few more places to eat. Good deep-dish pizza and those breaded steak sandwiches they made here. That’s Bridgeport.

Jokes aside, if you were honest about it, you’d have to admit it was a step up from Canaryville. You moved from there to here, you were moving in the right direction. Of course, you were still on the South Side. That was important. You move to Bridgeport, it’s not like you went too far north and started rooting for the f*cking Cubs.

There was one house in particular that Mason was looking at. One narrow, two-story much like the others on the block, although this one actually had a little fenced-in strip of grass on one side. You couldn’t just reach out from your window and borrow a cup of sugar from your next-door neighbor. Mason wasn’t totally sure he had the right place, so he was sitting out on the street. The Camaro’s engine was off but still ticking as it cooled down.

He saw a little boy come running out from behind the house and into the little side yard. The kid was maybe three years old. Red hair and freckles. He was wearing shorts and a White Sox T-shirt, and he had a big plastic baseball bat in one hand, a plastic ball in the other.

A few seconds later, another boy came running after him. He was an exact copy, same size, same red hair and freckles. He was also wearing a White Sox T-shirt, but a different variation. Maybe that was so people could tell them apart.