Born To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“I will.”

“Thanks.” He squared his hat on his head and made his way out the door.

In his mind’s eye he saw the dog, wrapped in a blanket, usually bright eyes dulled with pain as he lay beneath Eli’s short legs on the floor of the pickup. Damn, he hoped the mutt pulled through. Hands buried in his pockets, Trace jaywalked across the street, then peered through the glass doors of the pizzeria, where a Friday night crowd of patrons sat on benches surrounding long tables littered with half-eaten pizza pies and near-empty pitchers of beer.

Kacey had lifted Eli off his feet so that he could get a better view of the ice cream in the display case. Nearby a couple of grade-school girls in skinny jeans and oversized sweatshirts were discussin

g the options.

He pushed the door open, and the niggling sensation that something wasn’t quite right followed after him into the noisy restaurant. The air was thick with conversation and the scents of oregano and tomato sauce, warm bread and beer. A bevy of teenagers cleaned tables and waited at the counter, where a man in his seventies, sporting a thick gray mustache, striped shirt, and black pants, barked orders, manned the kegs and wine bottles, and kept an eagle eye on the cash register all at the same time.

As if by a sixth sense, Eli heard the door open. His head jerked up, and he twisted around, spying his father. Sliding out of Kacey’s arms, the boy hit the floor running. “Is Sarge okay?” he asked anxiously, his small face tight with concern.

“So far, so good, but he needs surgery.” Trace swung his son into his arms. “Dr. Eagle is doing her best.”

“You left him.” Tears puddled in his son’s accusing eyes. Embarrassed, Eli tried to swipe them away with the fingers poking out of his blue cast.

“Just for the night. The doc said she’d give us a call tomorrow.”

“But he’ll be okay?”

“As far as I know.”

“Can I see him?” Eli asked as a heavyset girl behind the pickup area spoke into a microphone. Her voice rang through the barnlike building. “Forty-seven. Brown party. Forty-seven.”

“Can I see Sarge?” Eli repeated.

“Maybe tomorrow. We’ll see.”

Eli wanted to argue; Trace saw it in his boy’s eyes, so he tried to derail the endless questions. “What do you say we get dinner?”

“She said I could have ice cream!” Eli swung his casted arm toward Kacey.

“That’s right,” she answered smartly. “And I think you wanted Christmas Cookie Swirl, right?”

“Yeah!”

“Sounds . . . interesting,” Trace said.

“Delicious,” Kacey proclaimed. “You just can’t go wrong with Oreo cookies, peppermint flakes, and mint ice cream. Yumm-o!” Her green eyes glinted with humor. “I think I’ll get a double scoop!”

“Me, too!” Eli shimmied from Trace’s arms and raced back to the barrels of ice cream.

“Thirty-nine,” a girl with a deep voice intoned. “Rosenberg party. Thirty-nine.” An athletic-looking teenager pushed away from a table of friends and headed for the pickup area, her long blond ponytail bouncing behind her.

“How about you?” Kacey asked, looking up at him. “Double scoop? Triple?”

“Uh . . . maybe I’ll settle for a beer.”

Her smile widened as they reached the counter near the ice cream barrels. “With your cone, right?”

“How ’bout with a Meat Lovers’ Special?” He hitched his chin toward the overhead menu, beneath which a skinny kid with bad skin, a shaved head, and thick glasses waited, ice cream scoop in hand, for them to order as the two girls in skinny jeans drifted off toward a round table.

Trace said, “I’ll buy.”

She was reading the menu. “Or we could order half a Meat Lovers’ Special and half a Veggie Delite and split the bill.”

“Only if you can eat half a pie yourself.”