The Emperor of Any Place (12 page)

“My father and I had a road trip planned.”

“What’s that?”

At first Evan thinks maybe he’s never heard of the concept of a father and son going on a road trip. Then he realizes Griff didn’t hear him. He steps farther into the low-ceilinged room.

“My dad and I. We were going on a road trip,” he says loudly. Griff nods. “Down to Cleveland to visit the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.” He waits, watches Griff ’s eyes stray back to the silent image on the television. The Dodgers are up to bat, two men on base, tied three to three in the top of the ninth. Griff shakes his head.

“We were thinking of catching a Blue Jays away game there. You know, sometime when they were playing the Tribe.”

Griff ’s eyes find him. “The A.L.,” he says.
“Pfhu.”

Evan’s jaw drops a little, and then he catches something that might actually be described as a twinkle in the old man’s eyes.

“You got a problem with the American League?”

“I most certainly do.”

“Let me guess. You don’t buy the whole designated hitter thing?”

“You can bet on it,” says Griff. He sits up a little straighter in his chair. “A pitcher’s got to be able to step up to the plate like the rest of his teammates. No sitting it out.” He stops, his thin old lips tight. “No running away,” he says.

Evan rolls his eyes.

Just then the old man groans and switches the sound back on. Gonzalez has hit a line drive to right, bringing in the runner from second and ending the tie.

The Dodgers are beating the Cardinals.

The irony of it suddenly occurs to Evan. “Boy, those
Dodgers,
huh? I mean they really are something, aren’t they?” he says. “Gotta love those
Dodgers.
”

A rusty scraping sound comes from deep in Griff ’s throat, vaguely recognizable as being of the same species as laughter. He turns off the sound again. Then turns off the game.

“I took Clifford to a game up in Baltimore once. Not Camden Yards, the old Memorial Stadium. A road trip, as you call it. Quite a hike from Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, which is where I was stationed at the time. Took ’bout eight hours in those days.”

“Baltimore’s in the American League.”

“Baltimore was the closest venue. There wasn’t a team in Atlanta back then. The Braves were still up in Milwaukee.”

“Was it a good game?”

“Can’t rightly remember the
game.
The boy went on and on about wanting this and that, cotton candy, Coke, and whatnot.”

“That must have been tough,” says Evan. “Kids, eh?”

He meets Griff ’s eyes. They look like a bull’s eyes, a bull that just noticed the matador’s pants are down around his ankles. Evan is surprised at what is coming out of his mouth.
This is suicidal.

“He loved the game,” says Griff. “Never played it, mind you. Not the sporting type.”

“Not the sporting type” comes out sounding like his dad was some kind of a Froot Loop in a tutu.

Evan is not going to put up with this. But another scene right now just seems too hard to deal with. “Yeah, well, he’s . . .”

Why is it so hard to say it?
“. . . was . . .”

There. Done.

“He was a big-time Toronto fan. We never got, like, season’s tickets, or anything, but we’d always catch a few games.”

Griff nods. He looks as if he’s about to say more, but Evan interrupts him.

“I’m going to get something to eat,” he says.

“You do that, soldier,” says Griff.

Evan turns to leave. Then he turns back. “I haven’t been sleeping so well,” he says. “I’m usually up by about nine.”

Griff has turned the game back on, but now he turns to Evan, his gaze level, giving nothing away.
Marine blue,
Evan’s father whispers to him.
Griff got his eyes issued along with the rest of his kit.
Now the old man squints as if he has seen something unexpected. He sticks his old head out on his wattled neck, waggles two fingers, beckoning Evan closer, never taking his eye off him. Evan hesitantly approaches, stops just out of arm’s reach. The soldier is staring at Evan’s neck, frowning.

“What happened to the .44 caliber love letter?” he asks.

For a moment Evan feels like he just stumbled down a rabbit hole. Then he remembers the tat. “Oh, yeah. That.” He feels his neck. “It was just a transfer. There was this concert . . .” He stops himself. No need to explain. As if the old man would know Alexisonfire. “I rubbed it off.” He stares at his grandfather. “I’m amazed you remember what it said.”

Griff smiles. “I never forget a caliber, son.”

There’s a text from Rollo on his cell phone.

— How goes the battle?

He sits on the side of his bed to answer.

— I think I’ve found a use for that pit in the back garden

— Lol — do it *soldier*

Evan almost phones, but he’s talked out. He’d spent most of the day with Rollo, on Rollo’s last day of freedom before he starts work at the Pulse, the new health food store in the mall. “Making the world a better place for vegetables,” Rollo has taken to saying at annoyingly regular intervals.

There was, however, some news about making the world a better place for Evan: a girl. Specifically, a girl who wants to meet him. A friend of a friend of a friend. “She saw us play,” Rollo said that afternoon. “She thought you were somewhat cool.”

“Her exact words?”

“She might have said ‘moderately cool.’ No wait, I remember. She said ‘not entirely a douchebag.’”

“Sweet.”

The idea of a girl who actually saw the band play and
still
wanted to meet him was within spitting range of astounding. He is supposed to phone her. He has her name and number somewhere on his phone. He starts scrolling, when suddenly the landline starts ringing the place down. He jumps to his feet and tears to the door.

“I’ll get it,” he shouts. The game is still on downstairs. He doubts Griff would hear the phone anyway; there’s no extension in the rec room. Breathlessly he picks up the receiver on his dad’s bedside table, standing in the darkened room. It’s Leo Kraft. He asks after Evan. Evan says he’s fine.

“It’s not too late, is it?”

“No, sir,” says Evan, catching his breath. He keeps his voice low, despite the fact that Griff is two floors away.

“I’m sorry to bother you, again, but by any chance is —”

“Listen,” says Evan. He sits on the bed. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you.” He swallows. “My father . . . uh . . . My father passed away.”

Evan counts: one steamboat, two steamboats, three steamboats —

“Did you just say what I thought you said?”

“Yeah. I’m . . . I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when you phoned the other day.”

“Oh, jeez. I’m . . . I don’t know what to say.”

Welcome to the club,
thinks Evan.

“God. I feel . . . I’m so sorry. I won’t bother you anymore.”

“No, wait. It’s all right,” says Evan. “I mean I’d like to help, if I can.” What he wants to say is that he’d love to have some task to perform that there was actually a chance in hell he could accomplish.

“That’s generous of you.”

“Except I don’t really know what you’re after.”

“It’s . . .” Again, Leo’s voice falters. He’s really shook up. “Under the circumstances, it’s —”

“I’m reading the book,” says Evan. “I’m a few chapters in.”

“Oh?”

“It’s pretty amazing. I mean kind of crazy.”

Leo doesn’t speak at first. “Evan, forgive me if this seems tactless, but are you in touch with your grandfather Griff at all?”

Evan actually laughs, although it’s more like a seal’s bark. Then he has to quickly put a lid on it for fear he’ll go ass-over-brain-stem hysterical and alert the troll in the rec room. “There has been this very weird development,” he says, as steadily as his voice will allow. He looks at the door, sees the light in the hallway, no looming shadow. Dimly he hears cheering from the tube.

“He’s here.”

“He . . .”

“Griff. He’s here.”

“Jesus!”

“Yeah, well . . . He came up to help me with, you know, the legal stuff . . .”

“Right. I see. Oh, boy.” Evan can imagine Leo shaking his head. “Excuse me, but I was under the impression your father and grandfather were not on speaking terms.”

“They’re not. I mean they weren’t. Maybe they talked about this thing . . . the book. I don’t know. Anyway, people had been telling me I should get in touch with him — my grandfather — since he’s about the only relative I’ve got and I didn’t know what else to do, so . . . That was before you called. Before I found out about the book.”

“Amazing. And you’re reading it?”

“Yeah.”

“Was there a letter with it?”

“Uh-huh. I read that, too.” Evan looks up anxiously at the bedroom doorway again. “Mr. Kraft —”

“Call me Leo.”

“Leo, what’s all this about lawyers? What is it you want to do?”

There’s a pause. “I don’t think I can talk about it,” Leo says, dragging the sentence out as if he is removing a really sticky Band-Aid.

“Okay,” says Evan, but it’s a long way from okay. “You need Griff on side, right?”

“Yes. But it’s . . . it’s complicated.” More Band-Aids.

“I get that,” says Evan. He can’t help sounding peevish.

“Evan, listen. Griff ’s got his own lawyer in on this. His latest curveball is that the book actually belongs to him — to Griff. That he only sent the diaries to my father for him to have a look at, and my father had no right to publish the thing, in the first place, without written permission.”

“Yeah, but only twenty copies.”

“That’s not the point.”

“So what is?”

“Griff claims that when he sent the diaries, his cover letter said, ‘I thought you’d like to
see
this,’ not ‘here, I’m giving you this.’”

“And that makes a difference?”

“It does to lawyers. We don’t have that original cover letter, if there even was one. It’s nowhere in my father’s files. So we’re on shaky ground.”

Evan tries to sort out what this means. Can’t. “Okay, so how did you want my father to help? Like getting Griff to talk to you? Maybe I could —”

“Evan.” Leo’s voice is firm. “I’m sorry to cut you off, but I don’t think Griff would be pleased that you have a copy of the book — that there is one in the house. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

“Yeah. I mean I hear you, but I don’t get it.”

Leo sighs. “Don’t worry about this, okay?”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“No, really. I’m sorry, but I don’t feel comfortable about you getting involved.”

“I do,” says Evan, and surprises himself with the urgency in his voice. “I mean I’m not comfortable with it, but . . . It’s hard to explain. It’d just be good to have something to think about other than, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“And my dad — this was on his mind.”

“He talked to you?”

“No, not really. It’s hard to explain. He was pissed about something . . . confused, I guess. And I think this was it.”

The line goes quiet. Evan wonders if he’s lost the connection.

“Hello?”

“I’m still here. And I won’t lie to you; we could use some help. But if you don’t mind me saying this, your grandfather doesn’t strike me as someone to mess with. I only talked to your dad once. It was a good long call, but it was before he’d received the book. Then there was an e-mail or two. Anyway, he certainly didn’t have anything good to say about Griff. My own father admired Griff — was grateful for Ōshiro’s papers. But he didn’t like the man. Sorry for being so blunt.”

“Hey, you’ll get no argument here.”

“Gave Dad the heebie-jeebies,” says Leo. “And he was damn sure Griff wouldn’t have sent the diaries to him if he’d known what was in them.”

“I get that. I mean Griff isn’t even in the story yet, but —”

“Do you think Griff knows your father had a copy of the book?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because I’m wondering why he’s there.”

“Like I said, I asked —”

“Yeah, Evan — and sorry to keep interrupting — but think about it.”

“What are you saying?”

Leo doesn’t speak, but there is a whole freight load of unsaid words in the silence. And Evan wonders about Griff arriving early, like that — a whole week early.
The earlier the better . . .
Wasn’t that what he said?

“Evan, Griff does not want this to go public.”

“But there’s only, like, twenty copies. How public is it ever going to get?”

“That’s the whole point of the exercise.” Evan waits as if there is more — has to be more. He can almost hear the wheels turning at the other end of the line. And then, “The thing is, Evan, I’m not supposed to be talking to you about any of this. Your grandfather has had his attorney draft up a letter demanding that we, quote, ‘cease and desist with any further allegations.’”

“Allegations of what? I still don’t understand all these lawyers getting involved.”

Leo chuckles. “Wherever there’s money, there are lawyers.”

“Money?”

“Yeah. Potentially.”

“Okay,” says Evan with a sigh. “I totally have no idea what you’re talking about.”

It’s Leo’s turn to sigh. It’s a sigh-off. And when Leo speaks again, his voice drops to the level of a secret. “The cease-and-desist letter from Griff ’s people didn’t come until after I’d contacted Clifford, so I wasn’t in breach of any regulation. But talking to you with him around — Griff right there in the house . . . It’s just not a good idea. For us. And most certainly not for you.”