Page 103 of Full Contact

“You want twenty thousand dollars,” Pickle said.

“I want both. I’m worth both.”

Pickle leaned forward and set his cup on the coaster I’d put out for Varga.

“Okay,” he said, much more quietly. “Is this a good time to meet her? Or should I wait?”

Peaches came back while Pickle was waiting for an answer.

She walked down the hallway at her usual pace and crossed the rug without looking at anyone. At the coffee table she stepped up onto the corner, then onto the couch at the far end from me. She sat on the cushion, tucked her tail around her feet, and looked at the room.

“Now’s fine,” I said. “She’ll let you know.”

Pickle stayed in his chair. He didn’t lean forward or hold out a hand. He looked at her and said, politely, “Hi, Peaches. I’m Pickle. Thanks for having us.”

Peaches looked at him for a long moment. Then she stood, stepped down onto the corner of the coffee table, stepped down to the rug, and walked out of the room.

Pickle sat back. “Okay.”

“That went well,” Varga said. “She met you.”

“She left.”

“She looked at you first. You’re doing better than most people.” Varga set his travel mug on the bare wood of the table, exactly where Mark had said he would. “When I met her, I was sleeping. That was my whole approach. I lay down on a couch and lost consciousness, and she chose me.”

“That’s not a strategy,” Adrian said.

“It worked.”

“So,” Mark said to Pickle. “How long have you known Heath?”

“Since he showed up in Thunder Bay with one bag and a terrible haircut.” Pickle turned his whole body toward the question. “He borrowed skate laces from me his first week. Snapped one in warmups, didn’t have a spare, and wouldn’t ask anybody else. I gave him a pair. Six dollars.”

“He paid you back,” I said. I knew Heath.

“He mailed me an envelope. Full of change. All from the cupholder in his car. Quarters, dimes, and two Canadian nickels.”

Varga leaned forward. “What did the postage cost?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

“It was heavy,” Adrian said. “It came postage due.”

Pickle closed his eyes.

“How much?” Varga asked.

“Pickle paid the post office four dollars,” Adrian said, “to receive six dollars in change.”

“Five-eighty,” Pickle said. “It was five-eighty. One of the quarters was American.”

Varga laughed loudly enough that Ben adjusted something on his recorder.

“He’d have mailed it if it was a penny,” Hog said.

Everybody looked at him.