24. Fabian

24

FABIAN

I jump down off the bridge, landing a hundred yards from where Hejay is standing, tapping an impatient finger on his leg. He goes for his pocket, shoulders tight, but then his face clears and he jerks his chin. When I reach him, he bumps my fist with his.

“What’s up?” he says.

“How are you doing? How’s your mom?”

His face morphs into a deep frown. “You relentless fuck,” he says. “Stop hassling me. I’m okay. She’s better. I got those diabetes drugs your woman recommended, and things are picking up with her, so get off my back.”

“Good. You still dealing?”

He looks to the side, and shakes his head, which I’m presuming is a yes. That’s how I met Hejay—he sold me some stuff. It didn’t take me long to catch on to the fact that he not only dealt drugs but also did other freelance jobs as well and was supporting two sick parents and four siblings. His dad was disabled in an industrial accident and his mom has diabetes and they have no healthcare. His life is shit. He’s been trying to escape the drug-dealing world for years, but some crisis or other always hits and he needs the money. He’s smart. Motivated. I want to get him to college, but every time I suggest it, he says he can teach himself and that it’s impossible right now. At least I can pay him to do jobs for me.

“I’ve got a job for you.”

He jerks his chin at me, still annoyed. I bump his shoulder.

“Don’t be pissed, man. It’s my mission to get you out of this shit.” I wave my arm around, and he scowls more. “You know Anna Talanova?”

The mid-afternoon sun makes him squint as his eyes come to mine. “The tennis player?”

“Yeah, she’s got an ex-boyfriend, a volatile guy named Arty Maroz.” I pull up a picture of him on my phone. “I need him followed. Photographed. The usual deal.”

He nods. “Send me the link. You got any more information? Where he lives, his schedule?”

I run through what little I know about the history of Anna and Arty.

Hejay pulls out a cigarette and lights it. “Why am I tracking him?”

I have to give him some version of the truth here; he’s too smart not to. He’ll connect all the dots anyway.

“Anna Talanova is seeing a friend of mine, Adam Miller, and Arty Maroz has been making a nuisance of himself. Adam has got into a couple of scraps with him when Arty’s tried to hassle Anna. I’d like to understand what we’re dealing with here, and what his gig is. I’d like to make him go away.”

“I saw something on my phone about a fight at some red-carpet event. How volatile is he? Do I need …?”

I shake my head. “He fights, but it’s not with guns or knives as far as I’m aware. Just make sure he never notices you.”

Hejay gives a little hiccupping laugh. “I hate it when people say no guns or knives. There’s always some weapon.”

I lift my hands. “If you want to protect yourself, that’s up to you.”

He laughs again. “I always do. Easy-peasy, then. Usual rate?”

I nod, and he grins. I don’t know whether he thinks he’s ripping off the poor white guy who doesn’t understand how the street works, or if he’s just pleased to have the work. I get it: I lived on the street for a while, but I’m happy to pay him well and I make enough money now to do that. Now Kate’s sorted out my finances and what I charge people.

“You wanna parkour sometime?” he says.

“I haven’t seen you out much,” I reply.

He snorts. “Like I’ve got time. Fucking homework with the kids.”

The images of my brother Zach bent over a textbook, scowling and shouting, bloom hot and sharp, and I still couldn’t save him from his relentless decline. I miss the crazy little shit.

“Some nights it’s better if I get out, you know?” Hejay adds.

Seven people in a two-bedroom apartment, I’ll bet. “Count me in,” I say.