What was his name again? George . . ."
"Nakashima."
"The man!" Mark drank. "So how did you hear about him?"
"My father sent me the book I was telling you about."
"You never told me about your father." Oliver's explanation took them
through another pint.
"Something else," Mark said. "You're lucky. My father was a drunk--took
off when I was pretty young. He was hard on my mom."
"Do you ever see him?"
"No. She heard that he died a few years ago."
"Too bad," Oliver said.
"I don't know what his problem was," Mark said. "My mom said that he
had a bad time in the Korean War. But . . ."
"How's your mom doing?"
"Fine. She's got a boyfriend with a bike. They tool around Albuquerque,
have a good time."
"Love it! Look, I'm out of here."
"See you," Mark said.
Oliver walked home thinking that Mark seemed more vulnerable than
usual. Everybody's got a story. Everybody's got some kind of problem.
It started raining. He was wet through when he got home.
"Soaked, Verdi," he said. He changed into dry clothes and considered
dinner. Instant red beans and rice? The doorbell rang. He went down the
stairs and opened the door to the street.
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