Cop was bad enough. Cops had this habit of going all wiggy when you stole their shit. Anyone’s shit, though Eager had met cops who’d glance left while he ran right so long as some green passed hands. Hell, one graveyard five-o let him make off with the climate control cluster from a Honda CRV for the Jackson in his pocket and half an ounce of pot. But that asshole hadn’t been his old man. For the bulk of his thirteen and three-quarters years, he’d been only vaguely aware he even had a father. His mother rarely acknowledged the existence of Big Ed Gillespie, a name she’d mention in the same tone one might use to talk about the little man from under the basement stairs who crept out at night to spirit away naughty children. Eager couldn’t remember ever seeing his father. There were no pictures of him in photo albums or on the computer. After a few wine spritzers, Eager’s mother might admit a past life in southern Oregon—Eager and his sisters were all born at Sky Lakes Medical Center in Klamath Falls—and would sometimes grumble about a “leathery fuck who ruined her goddamn life over a goddamn prank.”
