Page 101 of Full Contact

“Who is Hog?” Varga asked.

“You’ll know him when you see him.”

Varga crossed to the window bed, where Peaches was washing a front paw. He crouched at a respectful distance.

“Peaches. It’s me. From the couch photo.”

She went on washing.

“I was famous with you first,” he told her. “Before the wedding. Before him.” He pointed at Mark.

“She remembers,” I said.

He straightened and took the chair by the window, the one Mark used during shoots. Mark sat on the arm of the couch instead.

At quarter past eleven, my phone buzzed again. I went down myself.

The Storm group was standing just inside the lobby doors, three men in winter coats with snow melting on their shoulders. Hog was easy to identify. He was larger than anyone I’d played against in a month and was scrubbing the soles of his boots against the mat.

“You’re Trier,” the shortest of them said. He had disheveled hair sticking out from under a knit hat. “I’m Pickle. This is Adrian. He takes pictures. That’s Hog. He’s wiping his feet.”

Adrian, who had a camera bag over one shoulder, shook my hand. “Hi.”

“Hello.”

Hog finished with the mat and greeted me. His hand was enormous, but he wielded it with care.

“We didn’t bring anything,” he said. “For her. Mark said not to.”

“Thank you. She would only ignore it.”

“I wanted to,” Hog continued. “I want you to know that I wanted to.”

“We appreciate the sentiment.”

In the elevator Pickle read the floor numbers aloud as they lit up, and Adrian stood with his bag held in front of him, both hands on the strap. Hog took up the back half of the car and watched the doors.

Upstairs, I opened the door to the condo, and Pickle entered first and stopped.

Varga stood.

“You’re Varga,” Pickle said. “I watched you on TV.”

“You did.”

“I heard you on the radio too. ‘The opposite of strategy.’” Pickle pointed at him. “I sent it to everybody, even my mother.”

“Did she enjoy it?”

“She said you talk a lot.”

Varga put a hand on his chest. “She’s correct. I was at the wedding where all of this started. I gave the speech. Mark missed the beginning of it.”

“I was working,” Mark said, from the kitchen.

“He was in the shade flirting with Trier.”

Pickle turned to Mark, delighted, and then back to Varga. “How far into a speech do you get before you notice somebody’s chair is empty?”