Free Matchstick Men: A Novel About Grifters With Issues by Eric Garcia

had pictures of me around?”
    “Sorta. Found ’em under a bunch of old junk in the closet when I was looking for some shoes. After that, she had to tell me who you were.”
    “In the closet …”
    “At least she didn’t cut your face out,” says Angela. “My friend Margaret, her mom got a divorce, and she cut out every picture of her dad. Just the face, though, so like, when you’re looking at the picture, there’s Margaret, and there’s her mom, and there’s some guy standing next to them only it’s empty where his face is supposed to be. It’s weird, it’s like Freddy Krueger got to ’em.”
    “Freddy who?”
    Angela laughs and jumps off the swing. Her ponytail bounces past Roy’s nose, hair tickling his forehead. She bends down, legs apart, hands on her knees, staring Roy in the eyes. Her irises are bright blue, sparkling, like Roy saw in the mirror this morning. Maybe that’s what she got from him. Maybe she got his eyes.
    “You got a car?” she asks.
    “Yeah, I got a car.”
    “Then let’s go for a ride.”

    The waitress at the diner isn’t surprised to see Roy, but she didn’t expect him without Frankie. Certainly didn’t expect him with a girl, not a little girl like that. She thinks about calling the cops. Decides against it. Maybe he’s got a niece or something. Maybe he’s doing the kid a favor.
    “Tables open, Sandi?” asks Roy, and the waitress spreads her arms wide.
    “Place is yours. Take your pick.”
    They find a booth off to one corner and sit. Roy doesn’t want to be too close to any other patrons. Maybe someone’s seen him in here, running a game. He and Frankie don’t usually play the short in their own hangouts, but sometimes, when they’re bored … Like those college kids and the card trick. Doesn’t want a scene.
    “What’s good here?” Angela asks.
    “Everything. I guess everything. Mostly, I have the turkey.”
    “On rye?”
    “On rye, yeah.”
    Angela beams. “That’s how I like it.”
    “No shit?” says Roy, quickly clamping his lips. “No kidding.”
    She laughs, a high, lovely sound. A giggle, still, but almost a laugh. Right on the edge. “I’m fourteen,” she tells him. “I’ve heard the word
shit
before.”
    “Better not to use it.”
    “Sure, but sometimes it’s all that works. Shit happens, shit hit the fan—sometimes you’ve got no choice.”
    Roy opens his menu, stares down at the words he’s seen over a thousand lunches. “Still, better to—there’s no need for it, that’s all I’m saying.” He doesn’t want to lecture the girl. Doesn’t want to give her rules. Just met her, after all. His fault for using the word in the first place. “Forget it,” he says.
    Angela shrugs. “Whatever.” She looks down at the menu, runs her finger along the edge. Roy can’t help but watch as she pores over the choices. Sticks her tongue out of the side of her mouth while she thinks. Heather used to do that. Roy smiles.
    The girl looks up, catches him. Smiles back. “Know whatcha want?” she asks.
    “Turkey on rye.”
    “Me too.”
    Sandi takes their orders, brings them drinks. Sodas on both sides. They sit silently. Roy looks away most of the time, but glances back and forth at his daughter. Trying to find more features, more similarities. Her shoulders, maybe. The chin, perhaps.
    “So, what do you … for fun, what do you do?”
    “Hang out, mostly,” she says. “With friends. Movies, run to the mall. Play video games.”
    Roy nods, as if he does the same things. “That’s fun.”
    “Yeah, it’s okay.”
    Silence again. Roy clears his throat, begins to speak, but Angela cuts him off. “Look, we can just sit quiet until the weird part passes, if that’s okay with you.”
    Roy is grateful. He chuckles a bit and nods his head. Angelasits back in the booth and looks around the diner. She takes the clips out of her hair and rearranges her ponytail, fixes her bangs.
    The food comes quickly. Roy picks at his food, tearing