Page 132 of College Town

“Sure thing, boss,” Lawson says, and gets a kiss for his efforts.

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When, a week later, a Lowe’s truck does in fact show up with a brand new dishwasher onboard, Mom is too ecstatic for Lawson to be mad about it. If Tommy was spoilinghimpersonally, with clothes, or shoes, or Rolexes, he would have hated it. But spoiling his parents? He’s lost the will to argue about that. Lawson says thank you on his knees, and there’s a few gold hairs caught around Tommy’s knuckles afterward to prove how appreciated a thank you it was.

Things are…good.

They might even be great, if Lawson didn’t still harbor misgivings. They’re getting easier and easier to shove to the back of his mind, though.

He lets his guard down. He finds himself smiling for no reason, evenwhistlingwhile he makes lattes at the shop. He works on his space opera on his lunch break, and then forwards the new pages to Tommy, who always responds in a timely fashion, no matter how much he’s got on his plate withfamilybusiness.

He doesn’t ask, and Tommy doesn’t volunteer the information, but Lawson senses an underlying hum, at the mansion, and even in Tommy, little bursts of energy in his touch, and a feral, anticipatory gleam in his dark eyes. Things arehappening, and Tommy feels good about them, clearly, so Lawson allows himself to feel good about them, too.

He's not on high alert, is the point. Which is how he gets blindsided.

It’s a week before Halloween, and the coffeeshop is packed with students cramming for midterms. Lawson makes three baggie-for-cash exchanges before noon, and wonders if they’re after uppers or downers, and doesn’t much care either way.Godspeed, dumbass, he thinks to the fractious, bespectacled kid with shaking hands he passes an empty cup to.

“Thanks, man.” The kid ducks to the side.

In his place, someone who is definitely not a student steps up to the counter.

Lawson’s struck initially by the man’s face: heavy, pouchy, blotchy, the skin uneven and flaking. Heavy drinker, is Lawson’s first thought. His hair is blond – or it was, before most of it fell out, and most of what’s left turned to gray. A thickset, meaty man, with huge hands he rests on the edge of the counter, scars pale across his knuckles. He’s dressed in a dirty t-shirt, a dirtier flannel, and a filthy canvas duct jacket with what Lawson hopes is paint dried all over the front of it. A sour, unwashed odor rolls off of him at this close distance, strong enough to compete with all the coffee and pastry scents of the shop. He scowls at Lawson with pure malice, and it’s the small, piggish eyes, set in the dough of his puffy face, that jogs Lawson’s memory, and then sends a hard shudder down his spine.

His rote greeting dies in the back of his throat, and he blurts, “Mark Walton.” Because that’s who’s giving him the stink eye right now.

Mark doesn’t appear shocked to see him. In fact, he leans his weight onto his fist and shoves his head forward on his neck. “I fuckingknewit was you,” he hisses. “Fucking fairy. Your fucking boyfriend comes back to town and of course he gets you to do his fucking dirty work.” His lip peels back off teeth that haven’t seen a dentist in awhile.

Lawson’s brain scrambles to process all ofthatat once. “Hey, Mark. I’d say it’s good to see you, but, I mean, it’snot.”

Mark moves as if to reach across the counter, and Lawson steps back in a hurry.

“Whoa, okay, I have no idea what you’re talking about, man.” Lawson’s taller than Mark –ha!his teenage self crows – but Mark has the weight advantage, and is clearly enraged, so Lawson doesn’t want to get within striking distance. “Why don’t we–”

“Why don’t you” – Mark shoves a meaty, trembling finger in his face – “mind your own fucking business and tell your boyfriend to get outta my goddamn town!” He shouts the last, and startled heads whip their direction.

Oh God, oh God. Lawson’s pulse leaps and jerks. He swallows, and keeps his voice as calm as he can, and says, “Mark, buddy–”

“I’m not yourfucking buddy.”

“Clearly. But I don’t understand,” he lies. “What are you–”

“Tommy Cattaneo’s a dead man,” Mark declares, turns, and stomps to the door. He collides with a girl lugging an art portfolio, and clips her hard in the shoulder. The portfolio goes flying, and huge sheets of paper whirl and loop through the air like leaves, flashing glimpses of charcoal drawings. The girl shouts in alarm and dismay, and several young guys leap to help her gather her work. The bell jangles merrily as Mark shoves his way through it, and stalks across the lot to a battered pickup.

The line is long, and the shop is now in a state of chaos thanks to Mark’s shouting and the spilled art, but Lawson spins on his heel and ducks through the swinging door into the back.

“What’s going on out there?” Jessica asks where she’s helping Jen frost cupcakes.

Lawson throws up a hand and keeps going, through the breakroom and out the back door to the alley.

His hands are shaking so badly he almost drops his phone. “Shit.” He dials Tommy.

It rings, and rings, and rings. Cold, damp wind sweeps down the alley, scouring his bare arms and face. He’s too flushed with fear to shiver

Ring, ring…“This is Tom, leave a message.”

“Fuck,” Lawson swears. He digs his smokes out and it takes three tries to get one lit. He sucks down half of it too quickly, gets a sore throat – shit, he really doesn’t do this much anymore – then flicks it away and dials again.

“This is Tom, leave a message.”

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