Page 82 of The Lie Maker

I dug my wallet from my back pocket and set it on the table, opened it and pulled out my Visa.

“Jesus,” Dad said, staring at the wallet. “Is that...”

I had been so used to carrying it all these years, I suppose, in that moment, I had forgotten who had given it to me and under what circumstances.

“Oh, yeah, it is,” I said.

He held out a hand. “May I?”

I slid it across the table toward him, steering it around the basket of chicken-wing bones. He made a point of cleaning his fingers with the moist towelette before picking up the wallet, treating it like some rare artifact.

Dad held it between his palms, absorbing its energy. The wallet had become a talisman, empowering my father to go back to another time.

“I can’t... I can’t believe you still have it,” he said, his eyes glistening. “Shit.” After holding it for about fifteen seconds, he gave it back to me. “Let me buy you a new one.”

“It does the job,” I said offhandedly. I didn’t want to get emotional here, awash in the aromas of Buffalo wings and fries.

“I hope I left you some money in it.”

“Fifteen bucks,” I said.

He shook his head. “Fifteen bucks. Some parting gift. God, what an asshole.”

Once the bill was paid, we went back out to the parking lot and, in the moment before we parted, stood facing each other awkwardly.

“It was good to see you,” he said.

“Thanks for showing up when you did. How many other times you been watching me?”

Dad smiled. “Maybe I’m always there.”

I returned the smile. “Just might track you down.”

“Good luck with that,” he said.

“Maybe this time that plate’s the real deal,” I said, nodding my head toward his car. I had made a note of it, photographed it in my head.

That made him laugh. “Check it out. Be my guest.”

And then he hugged me. I responded in kind. After the short embrace, he gave me another pat on the shoulder, laughed, and said, “Be sure to invite me to your wedding. Maybe this time I won’t sneak out the back of the church.”

He got in his car and drove away.

“And now,” I told Lana, “I think he’s in trouble.”

“How would you know?” Lana asked.

I got up from the couch and wandered over to the window again. Saw an Air Canada jet take off, climb sharply into the sky. I turned around slowly.

“You can’t repeat what I’m about to tell you.”

“Okay,” she said, dragging out the word.

“I don’t want to put you in a tough spot, given what you do for a living. It’s not like I think you’re going to broadcast what I’m about to say. But this has to be between us.”

“Christ, Jack, if you’re going to tell me, tell me and cut the shit.”

“I’m working for the witness protection service.”