“Thought I saw her somewhere.”
“Yeah? She used to be something?”
“Still is,” said Maven, staring out the window in the direction the cop cruiser went. “Still is.”
He felt something then, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Hope, it turned out, was a very real thing for a convenience-store clerk at three in the morning — as potent an impulse as hunger, or lust.
He was going to call this guy in the morning. As soon as he got off work, first thing.
Ricky broke into his reverie. “I got it. Check this out. How many Iraq War veterans does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”
Maven said, “I give up.”
“Only just one.”
Maven looked at him, shrugged.
Ricky continued, “But, hey, we got over one hundred thousand applications, we’ll give you a call.”
Royce
“Maven. I like that. What’s it mean, ‘expert’?”
Maven patted down his napkin. “It means ‘one who is experienced or knowledgeable.’”
“And is that accurate?”
“About some things. I guess.”
Brad Royce appraised him, and Maven felt something in the scrutiny, something he wanted to measure up to. Going in, he didn’t think he’d take to this guy at all, but Royce had won him over early by doing nothing more than talking and listening, and Maven wanted to impress him right back. This guy had a way. The way he wore his jacket. The way he folded his napkin across his leg. The way he sat at the corner table, surveying the restaurant as though it had been constructed to his precise specifications. His easy rapport with the server. His easy rapport with his utensils, with his food — with everything. Maven admired that immediately. Admired that which he himself lacked.
Authority without arrogance. Royce wasn’t putting on a show here. He talked to Maven not as an equal but as someone who one day could be. Royce had ten years on Maven, Maven wondering if it had taken him all that time to grow into himself. And thinking that he would like someday to achieve the same.
No idea what Royce’s game was here, but Maven was content to sit and listen. Danielle Vetti was not in attendance, and Maven tried to stop himself from wondering about them as a couple.
“So what I’m guessing is, based on what I saw in that parking lot, you’ve got some experience and knowledge that is, say, highly specialized. That doesn’t translate all that well to the States. To the here and the now.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“You’re overqualified for peaceful living. Overqualified and undercompensated. Sitting here in this restaurant with your back angled to the door, you can’t relax. You’re waiting for someone to come inside and start something.”
Maven eased back a little, feeling some tension go out of his shoulders.
Royce grinned. “And that’s not a bad thing. In fact, that’s a good thing. There’s not enough of that around. I’m talking about readiness. Readiness is all.”
Maven felt he was being too passive, too quiet. He said, “So what’s this about a job?”
Royce waved his hand as if he were clearing away a puff of smoke. Dismissive, but not rude. The gesture said, We have a ways to go before getting to that.
Chastened, Maven settled back even more. The restaurant, named Sonsie, was fronted with door-size windows that opened out onto Newbury Street and the midday shoppers, art-gallery owners, and day models parading past. He glanced at the mahogany bar, this grand old masterpiece that made you want to order a drink whether you were thirsty or not. Maven had asked for a Coke, like a kid. Royce drank premium water from a green bottle with a picture of Italy on it. Maven had ordered pizza because it was the only thing he recognized on the menu, but when his meal arrived, it looked like no pizza he had ever seen. Royce was eating a spicy noodle dish called Mee Krob. He had started with an Asian Mizuna Salad with Tempura Shiitake Nori Rolls, and iced market oysters ordered for the both of them. Maven had never eaten oysters before. They were an acquired taste he had yet to acquire.
Royce said, “I spent the bulk of my tour in Germany. We ramped up for the first Gulf War, but, as you know, that was all foreplay and no happy ending. I got over to Kuwait for about five months, just long enough to take friendly fire from some shithead alligator farmer from Florida, and to be surrendered to by three thirsty Iraqis. So I don’t pretend to know exactly what you feel. But at the same time — I know, you know? How long since you rotated out?”
“Nine months now.”
“Shows.” Royce forked some more Thai noodles into his mouth. “No offense, but you’re wearing it pretty heavy.”
Maven had on Old Navy khakis and the collared shirt he had worn to Alex’s funeral. Royce wore a charcoal jacket over dark pants, casual but put-together. Maven could see himself copping this guy’s style. He was on the lookout for somebody to model himself after.
Royce said, “That one-year demob anniversary, that’s the kicker. That’s when you take a long, hard look at where you used to be and where you are now. That’s when you have to decide if you are hacking it away from the discipline. A lot of guys, one year out, all they want to do is re-up. Crawl back inside a tank for three more years. You’re nodding.”
Maven said, “Guys I served with bet me I’d be back in Eden inside of a year.”
“And you’d like to prove them wrong. Send them a fuck-you postcard from Maui or New Zealand or something. From the Playboy Mansion. But here you are. Working in a parking lot.”
Maven sat up a little. “It’s not that bad.”
“No, because you’re on your own, because there’s no boss to fuck with you, and because you’re not some hamster in an office somewhere, scratching at the walls. And maybe there’s a little skim off the top every now and then. When the timing’s right, of course.”
Maven blinked, said nothing.
“It’s only natural.” Royce’s smile said that he was humoring Maven, but also that it was okay: he humored everybody. “I’m not looking for saints. We’ve all got crime in our hearts.” He pointed at Maven’s chest with his fork. “It’s how you manage that, where you channel it, that counts.”
Maven nodded, after a moment. This lunch had a rhythm, and Maven could feel himself falling into it.
Royce said, “You considering reenlisting?”
“Not seriously.”
“That’s a yes. What’s your current living situation? Apartment, right? Let me guess. Outside the city?”
“Over in Quincy.”
“Uh-huh. Nice building? Doorman? Bowl of mints in the lobby?”
“Not quite. A converted two-family.”
“Illegal apartment, you’re probably in the attic. Three-flight walk-up, galley kitchen, closet-sized bathroom. Split the utilities with the freaks downstairs, stoners growing marijuana in a spare closet, heat lamps threatening to burn the old place to the ground. What you pay, three fifty a month?”
Maven squinted. “Three ninety.”
“To answer what you’re thinking, yes, I am in real estate, but only tangentially. And, no, that is not what this” — indicating the lunch, the meeting, the interview — “is about. High school graduate, equivalent?”
“Graduate.”
“Grew up around here?”
“In Gridley.”
“South of here, right?”
“About thirty minutes.”
“Any family?”
“No.”
“Nobody?”
Maven shook his head.
Royce liked that answer. “What about friends, roommates?”
Maven shrugged. “I got a buddy I work with at my other job.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it right now.”
“No girlfriend?”
“Not really.”