Glazed and lifeless, she timed the dramatic movements in her limbs to the singer’s tortured treatment of the lyrics, like whatever emotion she was feeling was in her fingers.
“Nazareth,” Harry said.
Cedric said, “What?”
“The name of the band. Nazareth. Had a big hit with this tune when I was a kid.” Cedric was giving him a skeptical look. “I couldn’t remember at first. Then it came to me.”
The corners of Cedric’s mouth crept up. “What’re you thinking about, son?”
Harry said, “Nothing.”
“No, I’ll tell you what you’re thinking about,” Cedric said. “You’re thinking about a shoe box that’s got seven thousand dollars in it.”
Whatever property taxes were being spent on around here, it wasn’t streetlights. The four-room cottage was silhouetted against a moonless horizon, not even a porchlamp burning to scare them away. Most of his fear was dulled by booze, but the adrenaline that flowed on any job was pulsing, a flutter in his gut that if you didn’t feel, you were probably dead. Harry, at this moment, was feeling very much alive, but it wasn’t the thrill of the job that was moving him. It was something else.
The steady drone of air conditioners whirred up and down the quiet street. Television shadows bounced through windows. All of a sudden, there looked like lots of chances to get caught. Dozens of potential witnesses with nothing to do but take a gander outside and see a man with his arms full, waddling toward a ’91 Grand Am, its lights off and its motor running, Florida license plate number 3TG-7751.
Child on the way, thirty-five hundred dollars could come in handy. And you didn’t change a man overnight. That just wasn’t how it worked. But looking at the cottage they were about to go into, all Harry could think about was the look he’d see on Aggie’s face if it went wrong.
“Ced, I’m not gonna do this one.”
“What the fuck,” Cedric said. “We’re here now.”
“I’m still on parole.”
“So?” Cedric said. “Who ain’t?”
“Sorry, man. I’ll drive you home.”
“Fuck that shit,” Cedric said. He got out of the car and slammed the door. He started walking toward the busy street that brought them here.
Harry put the car in gear and rolled down the passenger window, Cedric staring straight ahead, his brilliant plans shot down in flames.
“Get in the car, Cedric. The cops are gonna pick you up just for walking around this neighborhood.”
Cedric kept walking. “I can take the bus. Don’t need no pussy-ass white boy.”
“That’s shitty, Cedric. I didn’t say anything about you being black.”
They had reached the corner and Cedric’s last chance to reconsider. Harry said, “Do you want a ride, or not?” and when Cedric didn’t answer, Harry rolled up the window and hit the gas and drove back home to Sunrise.
After the fifteenth ring, somebody picked up the phone at Sailor Randy’s, the voice on the other end hollering over the noise. It wasn’t Bryce Peyton. Harry had to say Aggie’s name three times. Two long minutes later, Aggie came on with a suspicious hello, loud music and loud voices behind her. Somebody emptied a bucket of ice into a bin.
“Hey, how you doing?” Harry yelled into the halfdark.
“I’m doing fine,” she said. “How’re you?”
“Good,” Harry said.
“I can’t talk to you right now. I’m really slammed.”
“You still wanna get married?”
“Did I want to in the first place?”
“I just wanna be with you.”
“We’ll talk about it when I get home.”
“I’ll be asleep.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
Harry said, “I was drinking.”
“No shit, Harry. Listen, I’m all backed up here. I gotta go.”
The room was doing a see-saw. He closed one eye on it, got it to level off, and flopped on the couch. This was him, just about ready to be redeemed. Married or not, on or off probation, father-to-be, the future was bound to arrive, anyway. Harry was going to sit right here and wait for it.
