Free The Missing Piece by Kevin Egan Page B

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    Afterwards, folded together over the sink, Ivan rubbed the arch of one foot against the laces of her sneaker. His chin lay in the hollow of her shoulder, his stubble tickling her skin. She reached around to pat his thigh.
    â€œOff with you,” she whispered.
    He groaned, kissed her shoulder, pushed himself back.
    She dressed quickly. He reached down to the coveralls puddled around his ankles and plunged a hand into each sleeve. She unhooked her jacket.
    â€œGoing somewhere?” he said.
    â€œI have an errand.” She spoke this way, running “errands,” meeting “people,” scheduling “appointments.” At first, he thought these generalities were meant to keep him at a distance. Now he understood them simply to be her way.
    She patted her pockets, then pulled back her hair and tied a scarf over her head.
    â€œYou don’t need to leave,” she said.
    â€œAre you coming back soon?”
    â€œNot that soon.” She laughed and kissed him on the mouth. “It was nice.”
    â€œOnly nice?”
    â€œWonderful. How you say, stupendous.” She grabbed him between the legs. “See you later.”
    Jessima rarely went out of the courthouse during the day, and the brightness of the noontime sun and the noise of the streets assaulted her eyes and ears. Traffic was thick on Centre Street. Skateboarders zoomed around the fountain and launched themselves into the air. A small crowd stood in the park, holding signs and listening to a man speaking from a bench. A loudspeaker amplified his voice, but Jessima could catch only a smattering of words like justice and fairness and what’s right is right .
    She stayed on the courthouse side of Centre until she crossed over at the intersection with Worth Street. Along the north end of the park, several benches faced the sidewalk. She found an empty one and sat lightly at first, leaning forward on the front slat. The shade felt cool, almost cold. After a minute, she relaxed and settled back on the bench.
    *   *   *
    Foxx, dressed in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, lowered the freebie newspaper to his lap and turned the page. Across the park, Ronan Hannigan continued to speak indignantly about “money” and “power” and “the entrenched institutions of the city and state.” Foxx remembered Hannigan from Cardinal Hayes High School, a universe they occupied at the same time though in very different orbits. Hannigan had been a champion distance runner, while Foxx only ran from the authorities. Something happened to Hannigan during the summer before senior year. Foxx never knew exactly what, but it was school-wide news when Hannigan quit the cross-country team. Later, well after the college years passed, Foxx began seeing snippets of Hannigan on the local news, a firebrand tackling the many injustices in the city. Foxx had his own idiosyncratic worldview and found himself agreeing with much of what Hannigan said. But the protestors definitely seemed bored, except for a dreadlocked man who circulated among them and unsuccessfully tried to start them chanting.
    The speech ended. Foxx took the cell phone from his pocket and saw he had received a text message from Bev. Texting was her new ploy since he rarely answered his phone and still pretended not to know how to retrieve his voicemail.
    I MAY NEED YOU, the text read. Bev loved all caps.
    Foxx folded the newspaper and massaged his brow as he counted twenty protestors. He decided on reporting twenty-one, since Kearney would think it more accurate than a round number. Hannigan, down off the bench, crossed Centre Street and headed past the courthouse toward Chinatown. The dreadlocked man walked toward the benches facing Worth Street.
    W OMEN EITHER NEED ME OR NOT, Foxx texted back. W HICH IS IT ?
    The dreadlocked man reached the sidewalk and sat beside a woman on a bench. Foxx trashed his newspaper. He angled out of the park at the