U Is for Undertow

bypassed the bad coffee and headed for the side door, trying not to appear too thrilled to escape. The girl was a few steps in front of him and he flirted with the idea of making an offhand comment, something tongue-in-cheek to establish rapport. It would be nice to compare notes with someone in the same boat. He was beginning to understand why nondrinkers hung out together—misery loves company.
    Outside the afternoon sun was brighter than he expected and he raised a hand to shade his eyes. It was close to three, coming up on the treacherous five-hour stretch between happy hour and lights out. This was the period in which his desire for a drink chafed and his resolve wore thin. He could live without mimosas and Bloody Marys, though he remembered with fondness the many mornings when he was on vacation or invited to a brunch or out on someone’s boat. On those occasions drinking before noon was not only acceptable, but gleefully encouraged. He didn’t mind doing without beer or wine with lunch. Those were pleasures he’d sacrifice in a heartbeat if he could just have a cocktail or two in the late afternoon. Every day he played the same little game. Technically . . . in truth . . . and if you wanted to get right down to it . . . he was free to drink if he wanted. He hadn’t signed an oath . He wasn’t under doctor’s orders, forbidden to imbibe because of some dire medical condition. He hadn’t been admonished by the court, though he knew if he were picked up for any reason while inebriated, things would go badly. Still, he had a choice. He could choose. He could drink if he wanted to, especially if no one found out. For nine days in a row, he’d behaved himself, and he felt good about that. Now the next cocktail hour glimmered on the horizon, and with it came the debate. Should he or shouldn’t he? Would he or wouldn’t he?
    He scanned the parking lot for Brent, who preferred picking him up there instead of out on the street. He’d taken to running errands while Walker was tied up, timing his return so he could swing through just as Walker came out. The girl had paused, apparently waiting for a lift. A turquoise MG pulled to a stop and she got in on the passenger side, where an enormous golden retriever had taken up residence. He watched her wrestle with the dog, which had a prior claim on the seat. The dog rearranged itself, settling in the girl’s lap with an attitude of entitlement.
    Walker watched idly, smiling to himself. The car didn’t move and he realized the driver, a kid, was staring at him through the windshield. He caught only a quick glimpse, but in that instant, he knew who it was: Michael Sutton, whose face was indelibly imprinted on his mind’s eye. Incredible that all these years later, something as ephemeral as the slant of his cheek, the shape of his chin, could spark such a recollection. He’d last seen Michael when he was six and then only briefly. Walker had expected to run into him long before now, but it still came as a jolt.
    He redirected his gaze and walked through the parking lot, feigning a casualness he didn’t feel. He knew he had to put distance between himself and the kid. He glanced back and saw that Michael had turned his head, his gaze still fixed on him. The girl had turned to stare at him as well, probably wondering what Michael found so fascinating. Looking to his left, Walker saw Brent pull into the lot. Relieved, he moved forward as the car slowed. He opened the left rear door and slid into the backseat. “Hey, how’s it going,” he said to Brent as he closed the door.
    Brent made eye contact by way of the rearview mirror. “Fine. How are things with you?”
    “Good.” Walker kept his face averted as Brent turned into the next aisle, passing Michael’s MG. He pictured Michael’s head doing a slow swivel as Brent’s Toyota made the right onto Santa Teresa Street. Walker half turned in his seat and watched the exit. The turquoise MG nosed into view at an unhurried pace and fell into line behind them. Shit.
    Walker put a hand on the seat back in front of him. “I’m late for a meeting, so let’s get a move on. Take a right on Court and go the back way.”
    “The freeway’s quicker.”
    “The back way’s fine. Let’s just do it, okay?”
    Walker saw the shift in Brent’s expression, one of those “You’re the boss” looks. He turned the corner as instructed. Two blocks farther on, Walker took another quick look to see if the MG was still there.