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

his shoulder. Down at her hands. “It’s ancient history.”
    Roy eats again. Angela is quiet. Roy wonders if he’s said the wrong thing, if he’s screwed something up. He hopes not. This was good, this meal. Sitting down for lunch, forgetting about the con. Just talking. Like with Dr. Klein, only it was closer. Like talking to himself. Over lunch. Pleasant, in an odd way.
    “You got a Dairy Queen nearby?” Angela asks, her blue eyes shining in the fluorescent diner light. Roy nods, and his daughter smiles and claps her hands. He hopes that all is forgiven.

    Roy opens Angela’s door outside the train station and helps her out of the car. A steady stream of passengers pour in and out of the revolving doors.
    “You got everything?” he asks. “Your purse, your book bag—”
    “I got it.”
    Roy reaches into his pocket and pulls out his money clip. Slides a hundred-dollar bill off the top, hands it to the girl. Her eyes widen. “That’s for something to eat on the train.”
    “Jesus.” She laughs. “What, they’re serving caviar?”
    Roy laughs, too. “No, I just thought—you need cash, right? For a drink or something.”
    “Hundred bucks for a Coke? You don’t get out much.” Roy grins, and Angela nods toward the station. “You wanna come inside? I got like a half hour to wait around. I was gonna do some studying, but if you wanna come talk, we can—”
    “No,” says Roy. “No, you go inside. Do your work.”
    “You sure?”
    “Yeah, I gotta—” In an hour, he’s got to meet Frankie down at the docks. But he’s not going to tell Angela that. Strange thing is, he wants to. “I gotta meet a client for dinner.”
    “An antiques client.”
    “Yeah, an antiques client.”
    “Uh-huh.” She folds the hundred-dollar bill into her pocket, other hand on her hip. Grabs her book bag by the strap andhauls it up and onto a delicate shoulder. From inside, she withdraws a pen and a pad of paper with cats on it. Scribbles something down.
    “This is my cell phone,” she says, handing the sheet of paper to Roy. “Mom got it for me last year when I had a phone-a-thon with Becky. We were on the phone for sixteen hours straight, no breaks. Becky’s mom took away her phone privileges for a month, but I got my own mobile. Pretty cool, huh?”
    “Pretty cool.”
    “Anyway,” she says, “you call that, and you get me. You don’t have to worry about talking to my mom.”
    “I don’t worry about it. In fact, you tell her I said hi, okay?”
    “Won’t do much good.”
    “I know, just tell her I said—”
    “I’ll tell her, I’ll tell her.”
    Roy sticks out his hand, and Angela pumps it. His arm is pulled close, and he follows the motion as Angela leans up, on her toes, stretching. She kisses his cheek. It’s small. Soft.
    “See you next week?” she says.
    “Next week?” He can still feel her lips on his cheek. It’s wet there. Cool in the breeze. “Sure. Sure. Next week.”
    Roy watches as his daughter hikes the bag up on her shoulder and walks away, into the train station. A few young men standing on the steps watch her go, too. They watch too much. They leer. Roy’s first instinct is to smash their heads in. To break their arms so they can’t touch her. To crush their legs so they can’t follow her. To choke off their windpipes so they can’t talk to her.
    But there’s no pressure there. No pain in his skull. No bile rising in his throat. Everything’s working out fine. Angela disappearsinto the crowd, her ponytail swishing behind her, blending in. She’s gone. Roy can’t remember what he was angry about. People walk past him on all sides, moving to and from their destinations. The revolving door spins around again. Angela’s still not there. He climbs back into his car and drives away. He’s got deals to make.

SEVEN

    F rankie’s car is already parked at the docks when Roy pulls up. His headlights are cut, and the music, for once, is off. Roy is glad. He likes crooners as much