The Book of Lies by Brad Meltzer Read Free Book Online

motioning him inside. There’s no mentoring with this one.
    “I . . . uh . . . I’ll be inside pretending to get coffee,” Roosevelt announces as he heads back through the sliding doors.
    We stand silently outside the emergency room entrance. On both sides of the overhang, the rain continues its prickly tap dance. My father lowers himself onto a metal bench and looks my way. I’ve practiced this moment for years. How, depending on the mood I was in, I’d tell him off, or ask him questions, or even embrace him in the inevitable swell of tears and regret that would follow my ruthless verbal assault. But as I sit down next to him, the only thing I notice is the gold U.S. Navy military ring on his right hand. As far as I know, he was never in the military. And as much as I try to make eye contact, he won’t stop staring at the pile of designer clothes and shoes I’m still holding.
    “Calvin—”
    “Cal,” I correct him. “I go by Cal now.”
    “Yeah . . . no . . . I . . . Here’s the thing, Cal—” He cuts himself off. “I’m glad you’re the one who found me.”
    It’s a perfect line, delivered with as much polish and determination as my own preplanned speech. The only problem is, it doesn’t answer the only question that matters.
    “Where the hell have you been?” I blurt.
    “Y’mean with the park? I told you: I was at the bar, then got jumped . . .” He studies me, reading my anger all too well. “Ah. You mean for the past few years.”
    “Yes, Lloyd. For the past
nineteen
years. You left me, remember? And when you went to prison—” My voice cracks, and I curse myself for the weakness. But I’ve earned this answer. “Why didn’t you come back for me?”
    Staring over my shoulder, my dad anxiously studies both ends of the U-shaped driveway, then scans the empty sidewalk that runs in front of the hospital. Like he’s worried someone’s watching. “Calvin, is there anything I can possibly say to satisfy that question?”
    “That’s not the point. Y-You missed everything in my—” I shake my head. “You missed Aunt Rosey’s funeral.”
    I wait for his excuse. He’s too smart to make one. He knows there’s no changing the past. And the way he keeps checking the area, he’s far more worried about the future.
    “The doctor told me you drive around and pick up homeless people,” he offers, eyeing the parking garage on our right. “Good for you.”
    “Why’s that
good for me
?” I challenge.
    “This isn’t a fight, Calvin—”
    “Cal.”
    “—I just think it’s nice that you help people,” he adds, rechecking the street.
    “Oh, so now you like helping people?”
    “I’m just saying . . . it’s good to help people.”
    “Are you asking me for help, Lloyd?”
    For the first time, my father looks directly at me. I know he’s a truck driver. I know about the delivery slip. And I know that whatever it is he’s picking up at the port, he’s not getting that shipment unless he has someone remove the hold notice, a favor that wouldn’t take me more than a single phone call.
    “Thank you, but I’m fine,” he tells me, standing slowly from his seat. He’s clearly aching. But as he grips the armrest, I can’t help but stare at his fingers, which are marked by hairy knuckles and crooked pinkies. Just like mine. “Calvin, can we please have the rest of this argument later? With all this pain medication, it’s like everyone’s talking in slow motion.”
    I just stare as he limps away. Paulo said he hadn’t given him any pain medication. Just a shot of anesthetic by the wound.
    “Hey, Lloyd—you never told me what you do these days. You still painting restaurants?”
    “For sure. Lots of painting,” he says, his back still to me.
    “That’s great. And you can do it full-time? No odd jobs or anything else to make the rent?”
    My father stands up straight and looks back. But in his eyes . . . all I see is panic. Real panic. My father spent eight years in prison. If