Page 35 of The Alibi Club

“I’m starting a security business here, for homes and small businesses. Needed a fresh start.”

“You’ll be in high demand here. Paranoia runs deep among the affluent.”

“Speaking of security.” Cliff gestured to the walls. “These guitars, some are priceless, no?”

“Indeed they are.” Paul sat back and gazed at him.

“I could help you with a security system.”

“I might take you up on that.” Paul nodded as if he approved. “So, a fresh start, huh? You running from something or to something?” Paul asked.

This put Cliff on edge, but as soon as he looked over at Paul, who was wearing an easygoing smile, he forced himself to lean into his freedom, to calm down and answer. “I guess you could say I’m running from an old way of life.”

Paul nodded and took this in. “I’ve brushed up against my share of wayward souls, hell, I even was one as a younger man.”

Not one to trust so easily, Cliff simply said, “Hence the fresh start.”

“My favorite stories.”

“How’s that?” Cliff asked.

“New beginnings are my favorite stories. Usually rife with freshly learned lessons from mistakes that were made, decisions that were catastrophic, loves that were lost.”

“I’ve made my share of mistakes, and bad decisions, and … loves lost, too,” Cliff said, trying to hide the regret in his voice.

Paul took a pause and a sip, then put the glass down. “I have this theory that mistakes are just your subconscious working toward a different solution. All the decisions you’ve ever made up to this point, even the disastrous ones, are what got you exactly where you are right now.” Paul picked up and began to strum at the guitar again. “And where you are right now ain’t too shabby, my friend.” Paul gestured toward the picture window, where Cliff could see waves crashing on the sandy beach.

Cliff’s mind quieted in that moment. He took in the sounds of Paul strumming, his bare feet keeping a beat on the Persian rug. The golden sunshine streaming through the window lighting up the dust motes in the parlor. Here he was, a free man. Here in the presence of Paul, some sort of Buddha of the Beach. He could feel himself relaxing for the first time since he’d gotten out. “I think you might be right.”

“Of course I’m right,” Paul said as he strummed “Hallelujah” by Leonard Cohen. Paul didn’t look up, he just kept playing until he got to the chorus of the song and said, “It’s about being true. You’ll never get what you want with a lie. That’s now how love or the universe works, man. To thine own self be true.”

Cliff suddenly felt like he’d said too much although the contrary was true. He’d shared vague details, nothing concrete, but somehow Paul sensed the turbulence and uncertainty that lay just under the surface. His quest to build the life he wanted on this last chance was already marred by a roll in the hay with the unstable waitress from OB’s. He swore that he would not fuck up further, that he would get back to the good and decent version of himself that his mother raised him to be, but somehow, he felt he was on precarious footing, as if he was trying to cross the narrowest of rickety bridges with a thousand-yard drop-off that led straight back to prison. “Can I ask you a question?”

“I’m here to answer all your questions.” Paul looked Cliff in the eye.

Odd reply, but somehow Cliff thought it was completely true.

“Where can a guy get a good steak around here? I’m celebrating.”

Paul smiled. “I got just the place.”

Cliff saw the sign for the Arthur J., and his mouth began to water.

As he opened the door, he was greeted by a stunning young hostess wearing a skintight black dress and sparkly gold earrings. She graced him with an enormous smile. “Welcome to the Arthur J., table for one?”

Cliff looked over at the small oak bar. The only other soul over there was a woman sitting by herself, sipping a martini. The faint scent of honeysuckle wafted over in his direction. He knew that scent. His eyes grew bright and all at once, he knew who it was.

“I’ll just take a seat at the bar,” he said to the hostess as he brushed by her.

It was time for a proper celebration.

Even if it included risking parole with one perfect martini.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

New Client, Fresh Hell

JAMIE