Faith and Fidelity Read Online Free PDF Page A

shirtsleeves and collar. Matt spotted the USMC logo on his inner arm when he pointed out the short menu on the blackboard behind the bar.
    “Give me one of everything,” said Matt. That should cover them for the evening. Greasy bar food and beer. He was going to have to start jogging in the morning.
    The bartender grunted and slid the pitchers across the bar to Matt. “Tab?”
    “Oh yeah. You want a credit card?”
    “Nah, I trust cops.” He turned and went back to cleaning up some spills in front of a bleary-eyed businessman.
    As he balanced the pitchers and two glasses and wove in and out of the small tables back to their spot, Matt absently wondered if it was a learned skill or natural inclination that made bartenders able to spot a cop at forty paces.
    “Ta-da.” He put everything down on the table, impressed he didn't spill a precious drop. “I ordered some food, too.”
    Evan was already pouring beer into the glasses. “Uh, great. Thanks.”
    Matt sat down and took his beer, raising it to toast his partner in drinking to oblivion. “Here's to bad food, flat beer, and good company.”
    Evan returned his smile. “Sounds perfect.”
    They clinked their glasses and started the trip to numbness.

    * * * *

    That was the first time.
    Within a month, they were meeting for drinks on a weekly basis, whenever Evan was free. Evan's kids were his number one priority and he spent every possible night home with them, but more and more his in-laws were pushing for overnight stays. Unable to say no, Evan watched as his kids piled into their grandparent's station wagon and waved good-bye. He didn't blame their craving for home-cooked meals and warm hugs. He was a ghost now, haunting his house with quiet desperation that grew larger and heavier every day. He didn't know how to make things special like Sherri had. He could barely manage the minimum. His only outlet besides work was the simple comfort of sitting across from Matt Haight and drinking until he saw double.
    They kept going back to O'Malley's for the quiet and for the surprisingly good buffalo wings. Their table was kept available most of the time, the bartender knew them and their order by the third visit. The routine was comforting, they liked not having to think about anything but the beer and the conversation.
    It started out with sports, cop shit, superficial things until the buzz turned into a roar and then the ugly truth came out in a rush.
    Maybe it was the beer or the quiet intimacy of sitting so close together in the near dark. Whatever the combination, Evan found himself opening up to Matt like he'd done with no one else in his life. There were no soothing words or trite advice when Evan talked about his dead wife on the gurney, wishing he could have five minutes with the son of a bitch who killed her so he could crush his skull in the exact same manner.
    They became good enough friends to politely forget the tears, the self-pity, and the bitter outpouring of emotion. Matt kindly ignored the wet tracks down Evan's face.
    And Evan just nodded when Matt slurred out his hatred of his “brothers” for ruining his life, even though he knew it was his fault alone, his fault that he had lost everything. Evan agreed without judgment, reaching for the pitcher to refill both their glasses. He knew how that felt.

    * * * *

     
    Matt didn't know about Evan but it was the highlight of his week, sitting in the near-dark, just talking, listening, drinking. They created a little cocoon of their misery, a safe haven in which to feel like a piece of garbage. To be tired and bitter and a failure, with no apologies.
    How exactly that moved to daily “shoot the shit” phone calls, he couldn't exactly say.
    “So I got Giant tickets for this weekend— you game?”
    “Where the hell did you get those?”
    “Grateful client with box seats. So?”
    “Yeah. Kids are away again. My sister-in-law is taking them pumpkin picking.”
    “Why don't you go too?”
    Matt could