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“How would she feel about you spending a few days with me in Iowa?” Dan asked. “Strictly on my
dime, you understand. I have to make a Twelfth Step call on an uncle who’s killing himself with booze
and cocaine. My family’s begging me to step in, and I can’t do it alone.”
AA had no rules but many traditions (that were, in fact, rules). One of the most ironclad was that
you never made a Twelfth Step call on an active alcoholic by yourself, unless the alkie in question was
safely incarcerated in a hospital, detox, or the local bughouse. If you did, you were apt to end up
matching him drink for drink and line for line. Addiction, Casey Kingsley liked to say, was the gift
that kept on giving.
Dan looked at Billy Freeman and smiled. “Got something to say? Go ahead, feel free.”
“I don’t think you got an uncle. I’m not sure you’ve got any family left at all.”
“Is that it? You’re just not sure?”
“Well . . . you never talk about em.”
“Plenty of people have family and don’t talk about them. But you know I don’t have anyone, don’t
you, Billy?”
Billy said nothing, but looked uneasy.
“Danny, I can’t go to Iowa,” John said. “I’m booked right into the weekend.”
Dan was still focused on Billy. Now he reached into his pocket, grabbed something, and held out
his closed fist. “What have I got?”
Billy looked more uneasy than ever. He glanced at John, saw no help there, then back to Dan.
“John knows what I am,” Dan said. “I helped him once, and he knows I’ve helped a few others in
the Program. You’re among friends here.”
Billy thought about it, then said: “Might be a coin, but I think it’s one of your AA medals. The
kind they give you every time you get in another year sober.”
“What year’s this one?”
Billy hesitated, looking at Dan’s fisted hand.
“Let me help you out,” John said. “He’s been sober since the spring of 2001, so if he’s carrying a
medallion around, it’s probably a Year Twelve.”
“Makes sense, but it ain’t.” Billy was concentrating now, two deep vertical lines grooving his
forehead just about his eyes. “I think it might be . . . a seven?”
Dan opened his palm. The medallion had a big VI on it.
“Fuckaroo,” Billy said. “I’m usually good at guessing.”
“You were close enough,” Dan said. “And it’s not guessing, it’s shining.”
Billy took out his cigarettes, looked at the doctor sitting on the bench next to him, and put them
back. “If you say so.”
“Let me tell you a little about yourself, Billy. When you were small, you were great at guessing
things. You knew when your mother was in a good mood and you could hit her for an extra buck or
two. You knew when your dad was in a bad one, and you steered clear of him.”
“I sure knew there were nights when bitchin about having to eat leftover pot roast would be a
goddam bad idea,” Billy said.
“Did you gamble?”
“Hoss-races down Salem. Made a bundle. Then, when I was twenty-five or so, I kinda lost the
knack of picking winners. I had a month when I had to beg an extension on the rent, and that cured
me of railbirding.”
“Yes, the talent fades as people grow older, but you still have some.”
“You got more,” Billy said. No hesitation now.
“This is real, isn’t it?” John said. It really wasn’t a question; it was an observation.