Page 62 of We Could Be So Good
A uniformed officer emerges from a car, the door slamming behind him with enough noise to draw everyone’s attention. He looks at the gathering throng of reporters with a little surprise and a lot of disgust, his eyes scanning the crowd. Then he stops scanning and looks at Nick.
Nick has the feeling of time stopping, of the ground shifting under his feet until he’s in a different part of Brooklyn, skinnier and reckless, afraid of all the wrong things.
He’s always known it’s a possibility, that he could run into a cop who recognizes him. He’s been banking on the hope that a nice enough suit and a respectable haircut make him look different at twenty-six than he had at eighteen. He’s been counting on what he now realizes is enough optimism and faith to found a religion.
“You’re Mike’s brother,” the cop says, actually smiling, like he’s meeting an old friend. “Michael Russo? I used to work with him at the Sixty-Eighth. Nicholas, right? You’re with some newspaper now. I heard about that.”
He could deny it. He can almost taste the words:Sorry, youmust be thinking of someone else. But half the reporters here know Nick by name, and the last thing he needs is a reporter wondering why he lied about his name to a cop. “That’s right,” he says. “We’re here from theChronicleabout any new leads in the arson cases.”
“Can’t help you with that, pal,” the cop says, holding his hands up and stepping backward. “Tell Mikey that Jimmy Walsh says hi.” Nick can’t tell whether there’s a threat in there, because right now everything feels like a threat.
Andy doesn’t say anything, which at least gives Nick some time to stop feeling like he’s about to throw up. Nick doesn’t dare turn to look at him, but he can still tell that Andy’s watching him carefully.
“Want to talk about it?” Andy asks after a few minutes.
He isn’t going to lie to Andy. But he doesn’t think he can tell the truth, either, not now, at least. Not here. He’s supposed to be working, and he’s never let the bullshit inside his brain or the garbage in his past get in the way of doing his job.
He’s used to coping with a certain amount of anxiety always simmering on the back burner—the old familiar fear of cops materializing out of nowhere, like they had that one time. He doesn’t even mind it—that steady hum of fear is a reminder to stay quiet, to keep to himself. It keeps him safe.
Except that’s a delusion. He was never going to be safe. Something like this was always going to happen, and it’ll happen again. And eventually it will all come back to hurt him.
This is the usual fear, but instead of it being in his head, it feels like it’s in his whole body, in his heart and fingers and toes. Like fear is the only thing holding him together, the only thing that stops him from breaking down into his component parts and dissolving in the rain.
“I gotta get out of here,” Nick says, urgent and low. “Can you handle this?” He pushes his notebook into Andy’s hand. He can’t believe he’s doing this, can’t believe he’s walking away from work, and he doesn’t like to think about what he’d do if Andy weren’t around to cover for him.
Andy nods, doesn’t ask whether Nick has suddenly lost his mind. “You don’t look great. Do you need me to—”
“No,” he says with enough force that Andy doesn’t finish the question.
“Where will you go?”
Nick has no idea. Just... not anywhere near the police. “I’ll see you later.”
And he walks away.
***
Andy finds him at O’Connell’s, two hours and four bourbons later.
“I filed the story,” Andy says. “Told everyone you were under the weather.”
Nick kicks out a chair for him. “Thanks.” Nobody will believe that, of course. For one, Nick has never taken a sick day. For another, those are two of theChroniclecopy editors over at the bar.
Andy holds up a hand for the bartender and gestures that he wants a round of whatever Nick’s having. “You want to tell me about it?”
Of course Nick doesn’t. But he’ll do it anyway.
When their drinks come, Nick drains his in two gulps. “I don’t want to tell you.”
Andy doesn’t say anything. He slowly sips his drink.
Nick lights a pair of cigarettes and hands one to Andy. Aminute passes, then another. “I don’t want to tell you,” Nick repeats, a pitiful effort for someone whose job is literally stringing words together. He’s being infantile and irrational. Andy’s probably annoyed with him. He dares a glance at Andy, and what he sees in Andy’s face isn’t irritation, of course it isn’t. It’s pure undiluted concern and that’s a hundred times worse.
“Nick.” Just that one word, just his name, spoken gently and without reproach, and Nick is ready to cry for the first time in years.
He lowers his voice and makes himself look Andy in the eye. “I was arrested.”
Andy’s eyes widen. “Okay.” He doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t ask when. The number of questions Andy isn’t asking could probably fill a book.
