Burn by Sean Doolittle

Mingo, ” Andrew said. “She paid for it.”
    Larry chuckled at that.
    “She always wished you and me had patched things up, ” Andrew told him. He didn't know why he suddenly felt the need. “Mom. She told me that once, toward the end.”
    Larry nodded. Then he just sat there for a minute or two.
    “Wanna ask you something, ” he finally said.
    “Yeah.”
    “That the reason you decided to come down the docks that night like the dumbest mutt in the free world?”
    “Does it really matter?”
    Larry shrugged. “Not really.”
    They sat awhile longer, listening to the surf, the hum of the refrigerator motor kicking in. Somewhere beyond the walls, they heard the brief distant Doppler effect of a car shooting PCH with its top down, stereo system pumping a drum-and-bass line like an amplified pulse. Neither of them said much of anything.
    Andrew finally looked Larry in the eye.
    “This business you settled. How much territory did it cost you?”
    “Enough.”
    “I want to know.”
    “That ain't important.”
    “It is to me.”
    “Then you and Cedric got at least one thing in common.” Larry grinned and drank. “Which brings us back to that favor you owe me.”
    Andrew sighed and finally took a stool. He reached for the bottle, poured another for each of them, and asked the same question once again.
    “What are you doing here, Larry?”
    One of these times, he figured he was bound to get an answer.
    But Larry only said, “Hey. You been to Disneyland yet?”
    “What does that have to do with anything?”
    “I was just thinking about that ride they got there. Too bad I don't have more time. We could go check it out for laughs.”
    As he took a fresh sip, Larry began humming a tune. When Andrew finally placed the melody, he shook his head, crossed his arms, settled in.
    And waited for Eyebrow Larry to explain exactly how it had turned out to be a small world after all.

11
    “HELLO? ”
    “Guess what day it is?”
    On the other end of the line, she cleared her sleep-croaked throat. It sounded like music.
    “Hello?”
    “Heather.” He gave her another moment to absorb his voice. “I woke you.”
    “Todd?”
    “Hey sleepyhead.”
    “What time is it?”
    “I have … let's see … midnight-oh-two. Sorry: oh-three.”
    “Is there news? Todd? Did somebody hear from David?”
    At the bedside phone in his Westwood condo, Todd Todman sipped Beaujolais. He said, “Sweetie, I'm sorry.There's no word. I didn't mean to put you on pins and needles.”
    In the pause on her end, he could hear the rustle of bedsheets. Satin? Silk?
    “Todd?”
    “Right here.”
    “Why are you calling me?”
    “Hey. Somebody around here has to remember a girl's birthday don't they?”
    “Tell me you're joking.”
    “Did you really think I'd forget?”
    “You? Todd, even forgot I was thirty today. Thanks for waking me up just to depress me.”
    “Forget that, ” Todd said. “Thirty is sensational on you.”
    Her yawn: a symphony.
    “You're sweet, Todd. I'm going back to sleep now.”
    “You do that, birthday girl. Just do me a favor: when you wake up, remember that you have plans for the evening.”
    “Mmm. Me, a tub of Häagen-Dazs, and a stack of John Cusack DVDs.”
    “Sorry. I'm taking you out.”
    “Are you, now?”
    “Well, I would have brought your birthday present to you, but it was already booked.”
    “It's a little early in the morning for riddles, my friend.” Another yawn.
    “Okay okay have it your way, I'll blow the big surprise.” He sipped more wine. “I was going to get you that Sam Phillips box set you wanted, then I found out she's playing Royce Hall this week. So I got tickets instead. Double C, right in the middle. We'll have some food at Le Dome first. What do you think?”
    “I think my father pays you too much.” Her voice had gone drowsy again. “If you're wasting your money on my stupid birthday.”
    “Listen, these past couple of weeks have been a hell of a strain for everybody. I