Truth Like the Sun by Jim Lynch Read Free Book Online Page A

get me home? I’m dragging a bit here, in case you haven’t noticed.”
    HELEN SAT ACROSS from a smiling, ponytailed man and read the button on his hemp jacket:
I’ll have a mocha vodka marijuana latte to go, please
.
    Omar Duran was the executive director of Small Footprint, a one-man nonprofit advocating tiny cars and houses, less trash and fewer possessions. When Helen called for a quote on a global-warming story, she’d found him so entertaining that she profiled him a week later. The photos alone were worth it—six-foot-three Omar crammed inside his Smart Car, and another of him standing next to his tiny houseboat.
    “I’m no fan of the mayor, but at least we know what he’ll do.” He leaned across the table so only she could hear. “He’s into
appearing
green, not
being
green.” His eyes scanned hers for comprehension. “Makes pledges he has no intention of fulfilling. There’s no real commitment to anything beyond stroking his own carrot.”
    “Charming endorsement,” Helen said, increasingly impatient,though her tone remained gentle. “But I’m not writing about the mayor.”
    Having learned long ago not to socialize with radicals, she’d ducked Omar’s prior attempts to coax her out for coffee, yet here she was with this uncompromising enviro-madman on the edge of Pioneer Square sitting outside Café Bengodi in brilliant rush-hour daylight, a pint of Guinness on his side of the table, an ice water on hers, all because he’d hinted that he might have something on Roger Morgan.
    The sudden screech of a violin somewhere in the square launched a flock of pigeons into the sky behind him, followed by a messy two-octave scale in A minor and another piercingly high G sharp. Helen chided herself that this was how bad she’d sound if she didn’t practice more. Glancing back down, she caught Omar staring at the scar that ran like a pink bead of caulk across the base of her neck and resisted offering her standard explanation that the noose broke.
    “Look, I’m not an environmental reporter, and I’m not even covering this race, okay? I wrote a quickie daily because Morgan announced when I happened to be there. I’m writing about the fair, not …” She glanced at her ringing phone, saw her mother’s number flashing on the screen. “My editor,” she said. “I’ve gotta run, but please tell me what you’ve heard.”
    “Can I tell you something else first?”
    Checking her watch, she felt the mounting pressure to go pick up her son before she got trapped in traffic. Eight joggers grunted past, followed by the whoosh of three bicyclists in skin-tight neon. “No,” she said softly, “you can’t. And I’m sorry, but I doubt you’ve got anything really useful anyway.”
    He laughed and finished his beer. “O ye of no faith.”
    She grabbed her satchel, slid her chair back without any intention of leaving and listened to the deranged outdoor violinist make the opening to Bach’s Sonata no. 1 in G Minor sound like a wounded cat.
    “There’s an old gadfly I’ve known ever since I moved here,” he said. “Used to make a career out of suing the city for this and that. Probably in his mid-seventies by now. Not an altogether appealing guy, to be honest, but his shit checks out.”
    She held her bag across her chest, as if she was still about to flee.
    “He challenged the cruise ships coming in here. Lots of people were pissed, though he’s the only one to give ’em hell at every turn. But he does everything behind the scenes. Practically nobody’s heard of him.”
    There was no obvious reason to find Omar appealing, especially if you broke him into parts—gap-toothed smile, boxer’s nose, sunken eyes and a receding hairline yanked back into a short ponytail he obsessively retightened. Maybe it was his irreverence, how he left price tags on his Value Village shirts so you could see how little he paid for them. Or perhaps his boyish enthusiasm reminded her of Elias. His Midwest roots also