Free Blizzard Ball by Dennis Kelly Page B

fugitives weighed heavily on her. She wasn’t sure what she would say tonight, if anything. Just hanging out with people who felt remorse for their past transgressions was some measure of comfort and kept her sober.
    “What’s your poison?” a first-stepper asked Alita as she stood in the hallway warming up and waiting for her meeting to begin. “I love Scotch,” the man said, pressing in on her. “And not the cheap shit, either. Single malts. Got a three-hundred-dollar bottle staring me in the face. My attorney said these bitch-and-moan meetings will help me plead out my DUI.” He threw his hand up on the wall over Alita’s head. “Name’s Lucky,” he said, his breath buffeting her face. Even in the dim hallway she could see red and blue capillaries bursting on his cheeks and nose. “I’m forty-six, but I got the energy of a horse, if you get my drift. Just because we’re dry-docked don’t mean we can’t have some fun.”
    Lucky’s hand slid off the wall and stroked the side of Alita’s cheek, still rosy from the cold.
    Few people at the AA Eastside Clubhouse knew Kirchner was a cop. He preferred to keep it that way. The AA house was only five minutes from the BCA’s headquarters. His wife had died seven years ago, but he could barely remember the first two years after her passing. He’d lost her face, couldn’t picture her. But as he bit back on the bitter truth, it was clear he’d abandoned his wife, put his job before the marriage, certain she’d always be there.
    A story had circulated that the last thing he said to his wife was “I love you.” A lie. On their last rocky encounter, a Saturday morning, his wife had wanted him to stay in bed, hit the pause button on the job, make love. “Later,” he’d said, convinced that he was working for their future and the bad guys couldn’t wait. She became angry, bolted out of bed, told him to “get his fucking head on straight,” and locked herself in the bathroom.
    The loss and the guilt without recourse sucked him into a hopeless dark place. It had taken two tours in alcoholic treatment to lay the self-loathing to rest. Tonight, with a four-year chip in his pocket, Kirchner had been asked to introduce the First Step to new AA attendees and those who had fallen off the wagon. Rebounders.
    Kirchner heard someone say, “Trouble,” and he headed in the direction of the commotion where a circle of attendees were watching a man bent over, head low and holding his crotch.
    “Christ, just making conversation,” the stooped man coughed out. “What’s wrong with that woman?” he asked, pointing at Alita.
    Kirchner steered the hunched-over injured man toward the First Step meeting room and watched him waddle off, hoping he had learned AA etiquette.
    The petite woman was being given a wide berth by milling attendees. She stood by herself and appeared shaken and vulnerable. Yet, just moments ago, she had dispatched a man almost twice her size to his knees. Kirchner knew from police domestic calls the lashing fury of a Latina’s anger. In their macho culture, they learned early to push back, often violently, to keep from being dominated.
    He wasn’t sure if he had previously encountered this woman with midnight black hair, cinnamon colored skin, and full eyebrows that crowned her dark eyes. “First-stepper,” he said apologetically. “I should have collared that guy the minute he walked in the door. Teach him some manners. Is there anything I can do for you?”
    “Sorry,” she said, her defenses down. “I’m on overload.”
    “Are you going to be okay?” Kirchner asked. He felt an uncharacteristic urge to put a comforting arm around her shoulder. But he let the gesture pass, aware of the boundaries. “If you need anything, let me know. My name is Kirchner.” The words felt awkward. He had not extended himself to a woman since before the death of his wife.
    The woman looked at him curiously. As a rule people in AA did not use last