Read Online A Better Goodbye by John Schulian - Free Book Online

right?”
    â€œYeah,” Nick said.
    Coyle dug a roll of twenties out of his pants pocket. As he peeled off ten of them for Nick, he said, “I can’t believe you’re not going to be on the news.”
    But TV let the story slide, and the next day’s L.A. Times gave it maybe two hundred words, identifying Nick as a former boxer working as a fill-in truck driver and letting it go at that. If it hadn’t been a busy news day locally—an eight-year-old girl killed by a stray bullet in South-Central, the new chief of police raising hell about gangs, poor people dying in a hospital that was supposed to heal them—it might have been different. But Nick didn’t keep up with the news.
    The cops from Robbery-Homicide had him come downtown to give his formal statement. One of them said he’d seen Nick fight, and they all talked boxing, asking him to show them how he’d thrown the punch. He ducked that one by mumbling something about digging up an old Joe Frazier fight on tape if they wanted to see a hook that was really a wrecking ball. Next thing Nick knew, the cops were laughing about how that dumb fucking gangbanger’s head was still ringing. But that didn’t spare him from worrying someone would bring up Burgess until he was out of there and on his way home.
    A couple of days later Coyle called, sounding like there weren’t any flies on him. Said his wife was none the wiser: “If it’s not Survivor or J. Lo and Ben, she don’t want to know about it.” There hadn’t been any trouble at work either. Coyle had concocted a story about how he thought he had appendicitis so he called his buddy Nick to cover for him while he went to the clinica on Figueroa.
    â€œLike I just happened to be in the neighborhood?” Nick asked.
    â€œI said you lived around there.” Coyle didn’t give Nick a chance to protest. “Hey, we’re talking about my brother-in-law here. It’s not like he’s going to ask for your address.”
    â€œIf you say so.”
    â€œMatter of fact, he wants you to stop by and see him. Next time he has an opening for a driver, you could be at the top of his list, you play your cards right.”
    Nick said he would. What the hell, he didn’t have anything else going for him.

    As soon as he heard someone knock on the door, Nick remembered that the security gate was broken. Going on four months now and the landlord hadn’t laid a glove on it. Another knock and he decided that whoever was out there wasn’t going away.
    He opened the door and found himself staring at a man in a faded Hawaiian shirt that was just right for a day that was sunny and seventy. He was a couple of inches taller than Nick, but his watery blue eyes negated any danger in the size advantage. There was a hopeful smile beneath a badly trimmed gray Fu Manchu mustache that told the world he had worn his hair long before he lost it.
    â€œNick?” the man said.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œI thought it was you, but there wasn’t any name on your mailbox.” The man extended his right hand. “Andy Rigby. From the Times .”
    â€œOh, right. Andy.” Nick shook with him, more polite than glad to have a visitor. “I didn’t recognize you. Been a long time.”
    â€œFor both of us,” Rigby said, laughing self-consciously.
    Nick thought he smelled alcohol when he invited Rigby in. Pretty early for that. And there was what looked to be a fresh scrape on Rigby’s forehead, the kind he might have acquired falling off a barstool.
    â€œHow’d you find me?”
    â€œAsked around. I don’t live too far from here actually. Over in Venice.”
    Nick wondered which of the old fight guys had an address for him. It might have been Cecil. Nick had heard he was back in town.
    â€œStill writing sports?” Nick asked.
    â€œWhenever they let me,” Rigby said.
    They were sitting now, Rigby on the sofa,