With a trembling finger she dialed 911 for the police.

12

“You still renting in the city?”

Jack nodded. “Yep.”

His father grimaced and shook his head. “That’s like throwing your money away.”

Jack had changed into the shirt and slacks he had brought along, and now they were back at the house after a late, leisurely dinner at a Mount Holly seafood restaurant. They sat in the living room sipping Jack Daniels in near-total darkness, the only light coming in from the adjoining dining room.

“You’re right, Dad. No argument there.”

“I know houses are ridiculously expensive these days, and a guy in your position really doesn’t need one, but how about a condo? Get ahold of something you can build up equity in.”

It was an oft-held discussion, one they had whenever they got together. Dad would go on about the tax benefits of owning your own home while Jack lied and hedged, unable to say that tax deductions were irrelevant to a man who didn’t pay taxes.

“I don’t know why you stay in that city, Jack. Not only’ve you got federal and state taxes, but the goddamn city sticks its hand in your pocket, too.”

“My business is there.”

His father stood up and took both glasses into the dining room for refills. When they had returned to the house after dinner, he hadn’t asked Jack what he wanted; he’d simply poured a couple of fingers on the rocks and handed him one. Jack Daniels wasn’t something he ordered much, but by the end of the first glass he found himself enjoying it. He didn’t know how many glasses they had had since the first.

Jack closed his eyes and absorbed the feel of the house. He had grown up here. He knew every crack in the walls, every squeaky step, every hiding place. This living room had been so big then; now it seemed tiny. He could still remember that man in the next room carrying him around the house on his shoulders when he was about five. And when he was older they had played catch out in the backyard. Jack had been the youngest of the three kids. There had been something special between his father and him. They used to go everywhere together on weekends, and whenever he had the chance, his father would float a little propaganda toward him. Not lectures really, but a pitch on getting into a profession when he grew up. He worked on all the kids that way, telling them how much better it was to be your own boss rather than be like him and have to work for somebody else. They had been close then. Not anymore. Now they were like acquaintances… near-friends… almost-relatives.

His father handed him the glass of fresh ice and sour mash, then returned to his seat.

“Why don’t you move down here?”

“Dad—”

“Hear me out. I’m doing better than I ever dreamed. I could take you in with me and show you how it’s done. You could take some business courses and learn the ropes. And while you’re going to school I could manage a portfolio for you to pay your expenses. ’Earn while you learn,’ as the saying goes.”