The Missing Piece by Kevin Egan Read Free Book Online Page A

Martin offered many ways to separate people from their money, not that any of the many people who packed the restaurant cared. They ate, they drank, they danced, they mingled in ways that violated the stratified caste system of the courthouse because they wanted to support Gary. But even on a night rife with bittersweet bonhomie, Foxx and McQueen, two-thirds of what had been a triumvirate until that day, knew the virtue of variety. And so they had organized 50/50 cash raffles, balloons with gift certificates inside, silent auction items ranging from gift boxes of wine to weekends in the Berkshires. But the big event was the live auction, and McQueen, who could be caustically glib in private, froze up before a crowd, which left Foxx the auctioneer by default.
    McQueen sat at an empty table, transposing names and numbers from the silent auction cards onto a master list of donated merchandise. Meanwhile, Foxx paced the dance floor and tapped his finger on the wireless microphone. Each tap thudded in the speakers.
    â€œGive them another few minutes to settle down,” said McQueen.
    â€œI thought you wanted me to start right away.”
    â€œWho told you that?”
    â€œUrsula.”
    â€œTypical woman,” said McQueen. “She blames me that he spends too much time on the computer. Then he actually leaves his apartment, and she worries he’ll tire himself out. I ask her which is her main concern, the computer or the fatigue, and she walks away.”
    â€œThe computer was your idea,” said Foxx.
    â€œWell, you know the old saying. Teach a man to fish and he’ll never starve. Teach a man to surf the web and he’ll never stay sane.”
    *   *   *
    Gary Martin nudged the joystick, and his wheelchair lurched forward. The footrests hit the door, the door swung open, and he was away from the noise, away from the crowd, away from all the people who wished him well but would wake up tomorrow and not give him another thought till next year.
    The men’s room stank of pungent antiseptic and the floor was dotted with wads of paper towels. Gary rolled into the handicapped stall, where a log of shit turned slowly in the toilet. He pulled the white plastic bottle out of the side pocket of the wheelchair, then unzipped his fly to hang himself out. Well, not exactly hang, because hang implied being upright, and being upright was no longer possible. He worked the head of his dick into the mouth of the bottle and let go. The piss hissed as the plastic warmed in his hand.
    The door opened twice in quick succession, letting in two distinct blasts of noise from outside.
    â€œMr. Gavigan,” said a man’s voice.
    â€œCut the ‘mister’ crap. I’m Hugh.”
    â€œOf course, Hugh. I sent my résumé to your office last month. I wonder if you’ve had the chance to look at it.”
    â€œI haven’t, quite honestly. I’m leaving for a trial in Texas, so if I’ve seen anything else lately it’s only because my secretary stuck it in my face.”
    â€œOh.”
    Gary emptied his bottle into the toilet and zipped up.
    â€œMore than likely,” Hugh continued, “she would have passed it on to one of the partners on the hiring committee. They normally respond in a couple of weeks.”
    â€œIt’s been three.”
    Gary backed out of the stall. One of the men stood at the sink, while the other leaned into a urinal. The man at the sink was short and stocky with a head shaved like a bullet. He wore an olive suit and no tie with the top two buttons of his shirt open. He patted his neck with a paper towel. The other man wore gray pinstriped pants held up by maroon suspenders and a white shirt that had no business looking so starched at the end of a workday. He shook out, zipped up, and turned toward the other man.
    â€œI will talk to the committee tomorrow and see where things stand with your résumé,” he said.
    â€œWell,