Free The Turnaround by George Pelecanos Page A

something that he had initiated. Callie, in keeping with her personality, took charge and managed the aftermath. She dealt with the press, the school, the insurance company, the police, and the prosecutors, keeping Alex’s contact with them to a minimum. His father became more introspective, simply choosing to hold his emotions in check. Matthew, Alex’s younger brother, did not seem affected at all.
    With outsiders, it was different. Alex became increasingly uncomfortable around people who were not family. He could see their reaction, even if they were polite and tried to conceal it, when they got a look at his face. It just felt better to be alone. He found it easier, not having to explain himself or repeat the story, which he couldn’t help but rewrite, slightly, in his favor. None of them meant for anyone to get hurt. He was only a passenger. Billy and Pete were just horsing around. Looking to “raise a little hell” is what the prosecuting attorney said.
    If Alex had thought about it logically, he would have admitted that becoming an author, or anything of that nature, was a rather foolish and unrealistic ambition given his background. In any case, his father’s condition had derailed Alex’s dreams. He did not reenter college that semester. In fact, he never returned to school.
    Before his heart attack, John Pappas had never missed a day of work. Blizzards couldn’t stop him from getting downtown. To him, illness, no matter how severe, was only a distraction. “If I can be sick at home, I can be sick at work,” he said. But it went deeper than a stubborn work ethic. He had no sick leave to collect, and neither did his help. If the store was locked and dark, no one got paid, neither John nor the help nor the vendors. Consequently, the Pappas family rarely took vacations, and they never took one with their father. He said, “If a magazi like mine closes its doors, even for a week, it’s likely that those doors gonna be closed forever.” And: “What, I’m gonna sit on some goddamn beach while my customers are eatin across the street at that other guy’s place? How am I gonna relax, huh? By makin sand castles?”
    The doctor called it a myocardial infarction and said that it was “significant.” John Pappas would be off his feet and off work for several months. From his bed in the intensive care unit, with clouded tubes going up his nose, his father had looked up at Alex and spoken softly and with effort. “We’re gonna lose everything unless you do it, boy. I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t be sorry, Dad,” said Alex, hating himself for the tears that had come to his eyes. “Just get well.”
    “Take care of the help,” said his father. “They prop the place up. Don’t ever shortchange them, hear?”
    “I hear you, Pop.”
    That night, Alex and his mother talked, sitting at the table in their kitchen. There was a cigarette going in her hand, the pack of Silva Thins neatly placed beside the blue green ashtray with the notches in its lip, which had always made Alex think of a castle when he was a boy. His mother was not wearing makeup.
    “You can do it, honey,” said Calliope Pappas.
    “I know I can, Ma.”
    “You’re the only one who can. I don’t know the business like you do. Your brother’s too young.”
    Alex had been working at the coffee shop for eight summers now, and through osmosis he had learned. He’d get the place set up before dawn, make the caffe, receive the deliveries, and turn on the grill. The crew knew their jobs. They would do the rest. He could run the register, and there was a paper history with the vendors, receipts and so on, so the ordering procedures would be learned quickly. He wasn’t afraid. There wasn’t time to be afraid.
    “What do I do with the money?” said Alex.
    “Tear off the register tape at three,” said his mother. “The last two hours are for us, not the tax man. Put about fifty dollars, bills and coins, in the metal cash box and lock it in the