Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 47165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 157(@300wpm)
The closest thing to a mom I ever had, too.
God bless and watch over every one of those nuns who have been doing his work every day for decades now.
There is still good in the world, ya know, Steve. Just gotta learn to see it.
Hmm. Not sure about that one most days. My world is a dog-eat-dog kind of place.
There’s a hurried knock at my open office door, and even though I make a low sound of annoyance, it’s what I do. What I’m here for.
“Uh, Mr. Carter? Paris is on one. And the D.A. is still on hold, line two.” The familiar and clipped voice of my personal assistant, Madison, reminds me with the look I’ve grown to ignore.
“I’m in a meeting,” I murmur absently, not even looking at him as I turn my back to the doorway.
Looking at the snow again, sensing the quiet outside. The quiet that exists somewhere else but here, and I finally turn around.
“I’m still here,” my faithful assistant almost snaps at me. “The D.A. doesn’t buy the meeting story anymore, and Paris…?” he starts, but my eyes have moved past him toward my coat.
“Alright. Think I’ll go for a walk instead,” I tell him, creasing a smile and noticing his effort not to roll his eyes in my presence.
“A walk…,” he parrots back somberly, pretending to jot it down on his legal pad before spinning on his heel and leaving me alone as I slide into my coat and scarf.
I mean it, though. A walk in the winter snow will do me good.
Clear my head.
Paris and the D.A. They’ll still be there when I get back, or maybe even tomorrow if I can make it through the rest of today without being interrupted again.
Just don’t forget about the hospital. Sister O’ Halloran.
I won’t.
I promise.
The thought echoes in my mind as the voice of the good Sisters. Almost like angels themselves.
And that quiet solitude I was yearning for?
It certainly looked possible forty stories up, but at street level, the noise, smells, and skiddy slipperiness of downtown sidewalks a few days before Christmas hit me in the face like a ton of bricks.
With my collar turned up against the icy wind whipping up from the alleys, I keep my eyes down, watching my steps on the icy pavement.
I thrust my hands into my pockets, and feeling my thin wallet reminds me I’ll need some more ready cash.
Donations are one thing, but Steve Carter has a reputation for visiting sick kids and handing out crisp hundred-dollar bills around Christmas time.
Some people call it other things, nasty, jealous things. But the face of a sick kid who can choose what they want, or maybe help mom or dad with something like rent or food when they see sorely needed cash?
That means a hell of a lot more than wrapping paper and stuffed toys.
More than newspaper or TV spots on what a ‘helluva guy’ some rich asshole is for just turning up and smiling for the cameras.
The corner branch is closed early, but there are a dozen ATMs on the way, so I decide to stock up on money before I get there, as most seem to be doling out a limited amount.
Christmas… Bah, humbug! I smile to myself. The sound and feel of crisp hundred-dollar bills that were once beyond my wildest dreams always make me smile, even to this day.
But only because there were so many years when I couldn’t even afford to eat, let alone live the life I take for granted now.
I make a few stops, and once I feel the wallet straining to close at the last ATM, I figure I’m good to go until my next visit on Christmas Eve.
The kids on the ward, the ones with moms and dads as well as the sisters, will all rest a little easier tonight, I hope.
Turning to put my wallet back into my pocket, I bump into a thick-set man and offer an automatic apology in a low voice, but the guy doesn’t move.
Then one guy turns into three as I look up from my wallet, stifling a groan at their cruel, creased faces.
The dull sheen of a Glock grabs my attention from under number one’s coat.
“Just hand it over and keep walking,” he says in an equally low but more edgy voice than my own.
That hand has a slight tremor, and it’s not just from the cold.
I don’t feel like getting shot today, and anyone living in the city has their own mugging stories, but today? Right now?
With all those Ben Franklins I just took out for those sick kids?
I don’t fucking think so.
“Uh, fellas,” I say calmly, eying each of them with a small smile.
“I can buy us all a nice hot cup of coffee, give ya a hundred a piece even, but I can’t give you my wallet,” I tell them, suddenly deadpan.