Confrontation

Frankie called at nine in the morning, which he had never done before, not once in six weeks, and I knew before I’d said a word into the phone that whatever this was, it wasn’t going to be about a forgotten kit bag.

“Kit needs you at the Longshore,” he said. “Now, not this afternoon. Now.”

“Frankie, what’s happened?”

“He’ll tell you himself. I’m not doing this over a phone that isn’t mine.” He hung up before I could ask anything else, and I stood in my kitchen for a long moment with the dead line still against my ear, toast forgotten again, the second time in a week I’d let breakfast go cold over a phone call I hadn’t wanted to have.

I had never seen the Longshore by daylight before, and the walk there felt strange for it, the whole route rearranged by ordinary morning traffic, a bin…