Avis wasn’t looking good. He’d once thought her attractive, but the fluorescent lighting didn’t do her any favors. In her current state of inebriation, her eyes were out of focus and her loose-limbed swaying was such that he had to put a hand out to steady her.

She said, “Whoa.”

“I hope you didn’t drive over here in this condition.”

“I came by cab. My license was permanently yanked. What a drag,” she said. “And you?”

“I have a kid who squires me around town.”

“Lucky you. How many meetings? Is this your first?”

“Third.”

She smiled. “Clever move. Paying lip service so you’ll look good when your case goes to trial. I’ve done the same thing myself.”

Her tone was bantering but smug, and it annoyed the shit out of him. “How’s Carolyn holding up?” she asked, eyes wide with sympathy.

“Great. She’s been very supportive, a real brick.”

Avis made a face. “Well, that surprises me. I don’t think of her as understanding. She let you stay at the house?”

“Not at the moment. I’m at the Pelican in Montebello, two blocks from the bank, which simplifies life to some extent. I still see the kids.”

She looked around the room, which was empty except for the two of them. “I don’t suppose you could give me a ride home. I’m low on cash and the taxi over cost me twenty bucks. We could have a quick drink.”

“Jesus, Avis. Would you give it a rest?”

She laughed. “It was a joke.”

“Not a funny one.”

“Oh, lighten up. This isn’t the end of the world.”

“Thanks for the encouragement. Nice seeing you. Have a good life.”

“Good-bye to you, too. Change your mind, you know where I am. Second house on the right as you turn on Alita Lane.”

He moved past her, crossing to the exit, aware that she followed him with her gaze as he stepped out of the room. Four middle-aged men were standing on the patio, smoking, oversized coffee cups in hand. This was the life that awaited him, endless cups of coffee and a cloud of cigarette smoke. Avis, still plastered, represented the other end of the spectrum, which was no more attractive than the one in front of him. How had he ended up in this hell on earth?

Brent was parked across the street. Walker waved and he started the car, swinging around the block to pick him up. Walker got in the backseat. Sitting up front with Brent was a little too chummy for his taste. Fortunately, Brent was discreet and he knew his place. He and Walker exchanged only the most banal of remarks. Walker didn’t want to be Brent’s buddy and he was sure Brent wasn’t interested in being his. This was a business arrangement and Brent seemed to understand that Walker didn’t want to hear his observations or opinions. Brent conducted himself as though he were invisible, squiring Walker from one place to the next without comment.

Walker stared out the window as Brent navigated through the heart of town, following Capillo to the top of the hill. At the crest, he turned right on Palisade. The road curved down to Harley’s Beach and up the hill again on the far side. The route took them through the back entrance to Horton Ravine, stone pillars marking the outer limits of the enclave. Earlier in the day Walker had called Carolyn, asking if she objected to his stopping by after his AA meeting to pick up a load of clothes. He passed off the reference to AA as an afterthought, but he knew it would register with her, perhaps winning him points.

When possible, he avoided the motel he’d moved into. He’d have preferred a place with more class—the Edgewater Hotel being his first choice—but he didn’t want to give Carolyn the impression he was being extravagant. She was already pissed off about the money he paid Brent, but what was he supposed to do, take public transportation? He could just picture himself on a city bus. The Pelican Motel was perched on a rise overlooking the main road through what was known as “the lower Village” in Montebello. The building had a drab air about it, just the place for a penitent. All he needed was a hair shirt and a cat-o’-nine-tails and he’d be set.

Brent pulled up in front of his house and parked. Walker let himself out of the backseat, wondering what Brent’s impression was. The place looked good. He’d never liked the word “quaint,” but that’s how it struck him now. This charming home was forbidden turf until he’d straightened up his act. Carolyn was the keeper of the gate. He’d have to kiss serious butt for the rest of his life to get back into her good graces. The very idea made him tired, the pretense, the carefully guarded behavior, the facade of virtue when all he wanted was the life he’d had before. Plus, a drink, he thought.