High Noon

beer, all right?”
    “Yeah, a beer’d be good.”
    “Joe?” Her voice was as cool as the bottles in her hand as one of the cops fitted her with a wire, removed her weapon. “Are you going to commit suicide?”
    “That’s the plan.”
    “Well now, if that’s your plan, I don’t know as it’s a good one.”
    She followed one of the uniforms out of the apartment, then up the stairs to the roof.
    “Got nothing better to do.”
    “Nothing better? You sound like you’re feeling pretty low. I’m at the roof door now, Joe. Is it all right if I come on out?”
    “Yeah, yeah, I said so, didn’t I?”
    She’d been right about the sun. It was strong enough to bounce off the roof like a hot red ball. She looked to her immediate left, and saw him.
    He was wearing nothing but what looked like black boxers. Sandy-haired guy with fair skin—and that skin had already turned a painfully bright pink. He squinted at her out of eyes swollen from crying.
    “I guess I should’ve brought out some sunscreen along with the beer.” She held the bottle up so he could see it. “You’re getting toasted out here, Joe.”
    “Don’t matter.”
    “I’d sure appreciate it if you’d put that gun down, Joe, so I could bring you your beer.”
    He shook his head. “You might try something.”
    “I promise not to try anything if you put the gun down while I bring you the beer. All I want to do is talk, Joe, you and me. Talking’s thirsty work out here in the sun.”
    With his feet dangling over the roof ledge, he lowered the gun, laid it in his lap. “Just put it down there, then step back.”
    “All right.” She kept her eyes on his as she walked over. She could smell him, sweat and despair; she could see the misery in his bloodshot brown eyes. She set the bottle down carefully on the ledge, stepped back. “Okay?”
    “You try anything, I’m going off.”
    “I understand. What happened to make you feel so low?”
    He picked up the beer and, closing his hand over the gun again, took a long pull. “Why’d they send you out here?”
    “They didn’t send me, I came. It’s what I do.”
    “What? You a shrink or something?” He snorted on the idea, drank again.
    “Not exactly. I talk to people, especially people in trouble, or who think they are. What happened to make you think you’re in trouble, Joe?”
    “I’m a fuck-up, that’s all.”
    “What makes you think you’re a fuck-up?”
    “Wife walked out on me. We hadn’t even been married six months and she walks. She told me she would, over and over. If I started betting again, she was out the door. I didn’t listen; I didn’t believe her.”
    “It sounds like that makes you feel awful sad.”
    “Best thing in my life, and I screw it up. I thought I could score—just a couple of good scores and that would be it. Didn’t work out.” He shrugged. “Never does.”
    “It’s not enough to die for, Joe. It’s hard, and it’s painful when someone you love walks away. But dying means you can’t ever make it right. What’s your wife’s name?”
    “Lori,” he mumbled as tears filled his eyes again.
    “I don’t think you want to hurt Lori. How do you think she’ll feel if you do this?”
    “Why should she care?”
    “She cared enough to marry you. Do you mind if I sit here?” She tapped the ledge a few feet away from him. When he shrugged, she eased a hip onto it, sipped her drink. “I think we can figure this out, Joe. Figure out how to get you help, how to get you and Lori help. You sound like you want to find a way to fix things.”
    “Lost my job.”
    “That’s hard. What kind of work did you do?”
    “Tending bar. Sports bar down below. Lori, she didn’t want me to work in a sports bar, but I told her I could handle it. But I didn’t. Couldn’t. Started making bets on the side. And when I started losing, I shorted the till so Lori wouldn’t find out. Bet more, lose more, steal more. Got caught, got fired. Behind on the rent, too.”
    He picked up the gun, turned it in his hand. Phoebe braced, and fought back the instinct to duck and cover. “What’s the point? I got nothing.”
    “I understand how you might feel that way right now. But the fact is, Joe, there are plenty of chances left. Everybody deserves more than one of them. If you kill yourself, it’s just done. It’s just over all the way. No coming back, no making it up to Lori, or to yourself. How would you make it up to her if you got the chance?”
    “I don’t