CHAPTER 4: TWELVE STEPS

Oh. Lord.

This was why he stopped drinking. Because no matter how conscientious you were about taking aspirin the night before, the morning after was torture, pure and simple. The best you could hope for was hammer-in-your-head torture instead of chainsaw-in-your-head.

Sending him into further agony, the apartment and his head were rent in two by an earsplitting shriek, like a cat being mauled to death by other cats. That was the sound that had woken him up. What the hell was it?

The phone.

He better get it before his ears started to bleed.

"Hello?"

"Detective Briscoe, it's Lieutenant Van Buren," Van Buren began crisply, eviscerating Lennie's ears with her cool voice. He felt like she was screaming, but knew she really wasn't. "Have I called at a bad time?"

What? No of course not it's not a bad time, I was just sitting down to have some tea and crumpets with the Queen when my head exploded. "Uh, no, no," he managed to croak.

"I've been informed about the accident last night. Detective Curtis said you were unharmed?" He made an acknowledging sound. "I was also informed that you were drunk," she said bluntly.

Lennie sighed. "Yeah."

"Very well. I would like you and Detective Curtis to come to my office at 2:30 this afternoon."

"Yeah, OK. I'll be there," he replied quietly. She didn't sound pissed off, but she was like a parent who uses their child's full name to let the kid know they're in big trouble. He'd gotten the hint. Not Lennie, how about you and Rey come see me. Detective Briscoe. Leonard Walter Briscoe, when your father gets home you'll get what's coming to you, his mother used to say.

"I'll see you at 2:30 then," she hung up abruptly.

Crap. What time was it? 9:30a.m.

Ugh. His head was pounding. All of a sudden he felt like he was going to lose the breakfast he hadn't eaten yet, and he quickly got to the washroom and leaned over the sink. Nope, he was OK. Just felt nauseous.

So. 2:30 p.m. meeting with Van Buren. Rey must have let her know he'd been hammered the night before. He didn't envy the kid – he'd hate to have to rat out a partner, but it wasn't like he'd given Rey much of a choice. They both knew his history, and they both knew he couldn't work Homicide if he was drinking again.

Was there even a point to his showing up at this meeting? He knew what Van Buren would say. Couldn't he just mail in his resignation or something? Go mourn Claire's death and celebrate his newfound unemployment at a local tavern while Van Buren paired Rey up with a new partner?

Oh, come off it, Lennie, he gave himself a mental shake. Don't be more of a sap than you have to be. Show up, let Van Buren rail at you for a while, probably let Rey rail at you if he's finally over his weird bout of compassion, then go to a tavern to mourn and celebrate.

Was that what he was gonna do? Get drunk as soon as he was fired?

Yeah, probably. Not much point in holding back, was there?

And what if he wasn't fired?

Right.

No, really. What if he wasn't fired?

Uh… then he supposed he'd try to not drink again. Right?

Sure. Talk about pie in the sky.

He took a sleeping pill and went back to bed, setting the alarm for 12:00 p.m.

ooo000ooo

Lennie walked into Van Buren's office, sighing as he took in her stern, disapproving expression. Yeah. This was it for his career. Within moments, Rey had joined them, looking tired and subdued. Van Buren waited until Rey was seated and launched into Lennie.

"We need to talk about what happened yesterday. Detective Briscoe, as you know, I am aware that you were intoxicated. I have serious doubts about your ability to work here if you are unable to keep yourself away from alcohol. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

What could he possibly have to say for himself? "No," Lennie replied flatly and felt Van Buren's glare grow even icier, if that was possible.

"No? That's it? You fall off the wagon and you just have no comment?"

To Lennie's surprise, Rey spoke up. "What's he supposed to say? You got a script you want him to follow?" he asked her belligerently. Lennie stared at him.

"I would like an explanation for his behaviour, Detective Curtis," Van Buren said coldly, "And when he's done I would like an explanation for yours."

What behaviour? But Van Buren was looking at him again. "Detective?" she prompted him.

Lennie sighed. Fine. What was there to say? "I wasn't feeling too good about the execution. Then I went and had lunch with my daughter and it didn't go great, so I had a few vodkas."

"That's it? This isn't making me feel confident in your ability to be steady enough to do your job."

"He wasn't drunk on the job," Rey pointed out. Huh?

"It's not your turn to speak, Detective Curtis."

"I don't see what you got us in here for if-" he started to say hotly, and she snapped at him, angry with him all out of proportion to his tone.

"Detective Curtis, if you can't control yourself any better than you did yesterday I suggest you go for a walk while I talk to your partner." Rey glanced at Lennie and pressed his lips together.

"Fine," he said tightly. Van Buren turned back to Lennie.

"What happened yesterday is inexcusable," she informed him coldly. "You are an alcoholic. The one thing you cannot do is consume alcohol. You are in a dangerous profession in which you need to have all your faculties clear. Your partner's life depends on your steadiness and self-control. I will not have you jeopardize your partner's life or your own by your conduct."

Yeah. This is not news, Lieu. Lennie stared at the floor. This is the part where you ask for my resignation. And where I say OK.

"I am tempted to ask you to hand in your resignation," Rey made a small sound of protest as Lennie kept his eyes on the floor. "Unfortunately I don't know what the PBA would say about that. I haven't talked to them yet, but I will once we finish this meeting."

Lennie nodded glumly. Yeah, talk to my PBA rep. And he'll either back you up all the way, 'cause he'll know that he's gotta protect other cops from a screw-up like me, or he'll say you have no right to railroad me over this… and he'll be full of it, 'cause you've got every right.

"Detective Briscoe?"

"Yeah," he muttered. What? What did she want from him?

"Do you think I should I ask for your resignation?"

Lennie shrugged. Why bother asking him? She'd obviously made up her mind before he walked in. There was a small silence. "Lennie. Do you think I should ask for your resignation?" she asked, her tone suddenly almost gentle.

Ah, crap, not you too, LT. He could deal with her anger, but if hard-ass Van Buren was gonna start being all soothing with him like Rey had been yesterday, he couldn't take that. Was he that pitiful, that tough cops like Van Buren and Rey felt they had to treat like he was made of glass?

"I dunno," Lennie muttered.

Rey cleared his throat and spoke up. "Do you mind if I talk for a minute?" Van Buren nodded. "LT… he made a mistake," he paused, and Lennie looked at him. "He's been sober for years, yesterday was a bad day, and he made a mistake. He deserves a second chance." This wasn't making any sense, thought Lennie as he stared at his partner, who apparently had grown another head in the last two days. "You do," he told Lennie gently.

"He had a second chance. And a third and a fourth. His record isn't spotless, Detective Curtis. There's only so many times you can get another chance," Van Buren pointed out firmly. She didn't seem so pissed off any more, but… she was right.

"Doesn't it make any difference that nothing like this has happened for years? We're not talking about him screwing up at work over and over and the last time was last week. We're talking about Lennie being sober for years, being a hell of a detective, with a hell of a close rate, and screwing up once, off the job, after watching an execution. He didn't break any laws. Nobody would've even known about it if it hadn't been for the accident. Which wasn't his fault," he added. He paused and Lennie thought over what he had just said. Put like that, it didn't sound that bad. "LT, don't fire him," he finished, "the punishment doesn't fit the crime."

Lennie considered Rey's words. This was one hell of a time to find out that Rey apparently did think highly of him, snide comments about his past, his ethics, and his age aside.

"Do you trust him to watch your back?" Van Buren asked Rey.

"Absolutely," Rey answered firmly, looking straight at Lennie. Absolutely? I don't trust me absolutely, kid, thought Lennie. I don't trust me at all.

"Lennie?" Van Buren asked him.

"Where'd my regular partner, Pat Buchanan, go?" Lennie asked Rey. Rey smiled at him slightly.

"I just think you're a good cop. You don't deserve to get kicked off the force over this."

"Lennie? Can I trust you to not do this again?" Van Buren asked.

Oh hell. No, no you can't. I'm not even sure I want to keep trying to be sober. I'm not even sure about the whole Twelve Step thing. Of course you can't trust me. "I'd like to say yeah, but I woulda said that two days ago and I woulda been wrong," Lennie answered her, casting his eyes back down.

"Lennie, how long since you had a drink?" Rey asked.

Suddenly Lennie was pissed off. Not paying attention, are we, Junior? "One day," he snapped.

"I'm not talking about the AA count where the only thing that matters is the last time you drank. I mean for real, before yesterday, how long since you'd had a drink?"

"One day," Lennie repeated. "That's all that matters. There's a reason you start the count over whenever you drink, 'cause otherwise you tell yourself I've been sober five years, I only had one drink, and the one drink turns into two, and three, and then you're right back where you started. You're a drunk but you still think you've been sober for five years." Almost four years, in his case. Almost four years, gone, poof, just like that.

"Have you been going to AA meetings lately?" Van Buren asked him.

"Not really… I kinda got out of the habit," he admitted. Kinda didn't think I needed to any more.

"Then you need to get back in the habit," she told him. Lennie nodded. If that's what it took… was she seriously gonna give him another chance?

"I'll have to put this in your record. If you do this again…" Van Buren warned.

"Yeah. I know." Another black mark. He'd worked so hard to keep his record clean after sobering up. But hey, he supposed it was nice to still have a record to try to keep clean again.

"And I need you to promise to attend your meetings."

"Yeah." Back up the steps. My name is Lennie and I'm an alcoholic, Hi, Lennie.

"You're on very, very thin ice, Lennie."

"I know." No kidding. I thought I'd fallen through the ice already.

"OK. Contact your PBA rep, we'll set up a meeting and work something out."

Lennie nodded, not quite believing that he wasn't being fired.

"Detective Curtis," she turned to Rey. "What's your explanation for your own behaviour?" Rey hesitated and Lennie looked from one to the other. What behaviour? "Detective?" Van Buren prompted him.

"What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry I didn't tell you?" Rey asked. Lennie felt his eyebrows climb to his hairline. What?!

"That would be a good start," Van Buren replied. Holy crap. Rey kept quiet?

"You didn't tell her?" Lennie asked, hearing the disbelief in his voice. Rey shook his head silently. Holy shit. Now I really do believe pigs will fly.

"No, I got to hear it from the investigating officer, which I shouldn't have," Van Buren informed Lennie. Right – he vaguely remembered a grey-haired lady uni. She turned back to Rey. "I will repeat what I said to you this morning, Detective, this is not a game. You are responsible for your partner's safety as well as your own. His behaviour if he relapses could seriously compromise his safety and yours, and you aren't doing anybody any favours by keeping quiet about it."

Rey nodded. Lennie frowned, wondering what Rey had been thinking, covering for him. Feeling bad that Rey was getting into trouble over this, that Van Buren was deeply pissed off at Rey, and rightfully so, because of him. Because Rey had tried to keep him out of trouble.

"I expect you to keep me informed if Lennie backslides. Do I make myself clear?" Van Buren demanded. Rey nodded. "Do either of you have anything else to say about this?" They both shook their heads. "Fine," Van Buren leaned back. "Lennie, I expect you to set up that meeting with your PBA rep, and I expect both of you to return to work tomorrow. That's all."

They both stood up quickly, grateful that they were done, and headed for the door. "One more thing," Van Buren added. "Jack McCoy called to let me know that Claire Kincaid's funeral will be tomorrow at the Ginghampton Funeral Home. 2pm."

Lennie nodded, shuddering inwardly. Claire's funeral. God. Barely thirty years old, being put into the ground or cremated or whatever. And all because he couldn't stay on the straight and narrow.

Damn it. Don't think like that.

Lennie watched Rey heading out and decided he couldn't leave things as they were. He hurried to catch up. "Rey, can we go for coffee?" he asked. Rey nodded, and they headed out of the precinct.

ooo000ooo

Much later, back home, Lennie mulled over his situation. He and Rey had gone for coffee and had a fairly superficial chat about what had happened. He'd been puzzled as hell by his young partner's behaviour - covering up for him, getting Van Buren to give him another chance… but he hadn't really gotten anywhere with him as far as figuring him out. Very frustrating.

He'd tried to apologize to Rey for getting him in trouble with LT, for LT making him Lennie's babysitter, but hadn't gotten very far with that either. Rey had just dismissed his apologies, told him not to worry about it.

Don't worry about it. Right.

He'd pointed out that his alcoholism could affect the job, said he'd understand if Rey didn't want to work with him… "Don't assume just 'cause you messed up one time that it's gonna happen again," Rey had said dismissively.

Which wasn't like Rey at all. He'd gotten the distinct impression, from that and from a few other things Rey had let slip, that maybe something was wrong with Rey, something had happened to him the day before. That there was some reason why he was acting like some kinda pod person had taken over him. But what? He'd found out that the execution had bothered Rey after all, but that was about all he'd found out.

"Did it bother you?"

"Yeah."

Oh well, thanks for opening up, kid. Good to know that with my life a mess and you getting ringside seats to the whole show, that now you can just let it all hang out and share, share, share. Did it bother you? Yeah.

He knew he was dwelling on Rey's puzzling behaviour as a way to avoid thinking about what he was going to do now.

Back to square one. Almost four years sober, screwed up, got drunk, back to the beginning again. And now everybody knew, his boss, his partner, Jack McCoy, and if the officer in charge had friends at the 27th they'd know too. And now he'd have to call the PBA, probably get put on some kind of probationary status, mandatory attendance at AA, checking in with Rey and Van Buren, like a child who can't be trusted to do what's right.

And this was all good. He should be grateful. It was better than being out of a job. Embarrassing as this was, it was better than what could have been. He'd just have to take it and get on with his life. He'd done it before.

Take it, Briscoe. You earned this. Nobody put a gun to your head and forced you into that bar. Little angel, little devil my ass, they were both just you and you could've let the little angel win.

So now here he was, trying to go back to sleep. Alone, just him, his splitting hangover, and his guilt over Claire Kincaid. And his need to have a vodka.

Don't think like that.

ooo000ooo

Naptime was all done. The hangover had lifted, and he was feeling almost human again.

OK. The Twelve Steps.

He sighed. Took out an old AA pamphlet. Sighed again as he read it over. It looked like a crock of bull, a simplistic fundie recipe for fixing broken lives. But it had worked for him before.

Step One. Admit that you are powerless over alcohol.

Yeah, OK. No kidding. That one was easy, he was never under any illusion that he could just have a few. On the heels of every wish for Just one, just one, one is all I need to feel just a little better, always came the instant add-on: You know it's never just one. It never was just one, and it'll never be just one. Not for you.

Step Two. Come to believe that a Power greater than yourself can restore you to sanity.

Step Two, a sticky wicket for him. A Power greater than yourself.

This was where being some kinda God-boy would come in real handy. But Lennie was far too cynical to be able to wholeheartedly believe in a higher Power. God, the Creator, whatever you chose to call him. He didn't disbelieve; it just wasn't something that played a major role in Lennie's life.

He let his mind wander, remembering a case he'd had once with Mike Logan. Some whacko cult leader had led a bunch of street kids into believing in him as "The Lamb" who would save them all from the fires of Hell. Lennie knew street kids, knew their hardened, ugly expressions. Knew the needle tracks, the air of extreme age these kids wore at sixteen, fifteen, fourteen. And this guy had turned their lives around, like a miracle worker. The kids were off drugs, clean, the girls in pretty dresses and the boys in shirts and ties. Of course they all looked kind of whacked out too, high off God instead of crack, but still. At least being addicted to God wouldn't land you in jail or in an alley selling yourself for a cheap high.

Lennie had been noncommittal about the whole thing. His general philosophy of life was Hey, whatever works for you. Mike, on the other hand, had a distinct opinion. He'd said something about how The Lamb took the kids off the street and then filled their minds with a bunch of religious garbage. Lennie, ready as always to play devil's advocate, had asked him curiously, "You sure it's garbage?"

Mike had good reason to be scornful. Mike wasn't so much a 'lapsed Catholic' as a 'bitter ex-Catholic'. Lapsed sounded like you just neglected to pay your fees and let your membership run out, like Lennie. Mike was more of a "tear up your membership card and burn it" kind of ex-Catholic. He'd answered Lennie with some comment about his mother holding a rosary in one hand while she beat the crap out him with the other, and asserted that the next time he was in a church, six of his closest buddies would be carrying him. Lennie had wisely backed off. Mike had had a horrific childhood, and bringing it up was no pleasant way to spend the afternoon.

Lennie had found out later there was another reason Mike was no longer a member of the faithful. He'd had a priest put some moves on him as a boy and Lennie was pretty sure he'd been molested as well, though Mike hadn't elaborated and he hadn't asked. No wonder the guy wanted nothing to do with religion.

And yet, at the end of that case, when the crazy Lamb convinced his faithful followers to off themselves, as Mike and Lennie viewed the horror of all those young bodies spread out across the floor, it was Mike, not Lennie, who had crossed himself. Who had found some measure of comfort in a meaningless ritual meant to… what? Reassure himself of God's presence? Ask God to explain this evil? Call upon God to accept the souls of the dead kids? What?

The point was, Mike, who had more than enough reason to distrust religion, had turned to it at least in a minor way. Whereas Lennie, who had nothing against it, had difficulty going along with it, even when he knew he needed to. He felt awkward, kinda silly. It's hard, when your self-identity is that of a cynic, to embrace a being you can't even see, put your life in the hands of a 'higher Power' and be around other people who are talking about God without making irreverent smartass remarks.

Thinking of Mike, Lennie sighed again. Of the two of them, Mike should've been the alcoholic. He'd had no reason not to be. Raised by two drunks, viciously beaten by his mother for years, abused by a Catholic priest… he should've died of cirrhosis of the liver before he turned thirty. And yet, there he was. Lousy temper and allergic to romantic commitment, but otherwise decent, law-abiding, generally easy to get along with, and not addicted to a single thing except chewing gum and ugly ties.

And there was Lennie. No major trauma in his past. Born of a religiously mixed marriage, moved around a bit as a kid, bunch of slightly quirky relatives. Not a Norman Rockwell past, but no beatings, divorces, alcoholism, or anything. Dad got a little tipsy just about every Saturday night at his poker game, but he didn't take it out on anybody and it never affected his job or his family.

And Lennie had guzzled booze like nobody's business. Drank his way through the destruction of his family and near-destruction of his career. And he was still turning to the bottle when things got tough.

And now he was supposed to do all this shit again to make sure it never happened again. He could feel himself stumbling on the second step. He skimmed through the pamphlet.

3. Make a decision to turn your will and your life over to the care of God as you understand Him.

4. Make a searching and fearless moral inventory of yourself.

5. Admit to God, to yourself and to another human being the exact nature of your wrongs.

6. Be entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.

7. Humbly ask Him to remove your shortcomings.

8. Make a list of all persons you harmed, and become willing to make amends to them all.

9. Make direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

10. Continue to take personal inventory and when you are wrong promptly admit it.

11. Seek through prayer and meditation to improve your conscious contact with God as you understand Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for you and the power to carry that out.

12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, try to carry this message to alcoholics and to practice these principles in all your affairs.

Spiritual awakening. Man, he was too old for this crap.

Rey and Van Buren seemed to assume he was going to get back on the wagon. They didn't know what it meant. They didn't know how much he wanted to drink, to blur everything away, to feel better in the easiest way he knew how. They didn't know that the night before had not only reminded him of how awful things were when he drank, it had also reminded him of why he used to drink in the first place. Because it felt good to let go. Because it felt good to relax, not have to think about his daughter, not have to feel guilty about everything he'd screwed up in his life. Because it was an easy out.

It was too easy. It was too seductive. He needed a good solid reason to fight that seductive pull.

Other people beat the bottle for their wives, their children. He didn't have that any more. There wasn't really any reason, anybody to do this for. If he decided he couldn't be bothered, it wouldn't be a big loss to the world. Van Buren would get another detective, Rey would get another partner, and that would be that. The only person who would be affected would be him.

He knew that if he threw in the towel, he would have to tell Rey and Van Buren. There could be no hiding from them; they had given him their trust, Rey especially, literally putting his life on the line. And Van Buren, well, she could very well be putting her career on the line too. If he screwed up, and it came out that she had allowed an alcoholic with his record to continue on the force, in a demanding job with at least two lives depending on his sobriety, she could very well lose her position too.

He mulled for a few more minutes, staring at the pamphlet, then turned it over, picked up the phone, and punched in the numbers he'd scribbled on the back of the pamphlet so many years ago.

"Clemente residence," answered a pleasant female voice.

"Hi, Annie, it's Lennie. Do you know if Phil's around?"

"Lennie? Oh, hello! Long time no hear. Yeah, Phil's right here, hang on," Lennie heard the sound of the phone being put down and Annie's voice calling Phil.

"Lennie? Mah man, howzigoan?" a deep voice with a thick accent that Lennie had never for the life of him been able to place came on the line.

"OK, Phil. Yourself?"

"Cain't complain, cain't complain," Phil answered. "No use complainin' anyway, nobody listens."

Lennie chuckled, then was silent for a moment, unsure of what to say. Ah, might as well come right out. "Uh, this isn't a social call. You busy?"

"Ya'll fall off?" Phil asked immediately, genial manner still in place. Lennie chuckled wryly. Phil had a sixth sense about this. Of course, considering Phil was his AA sponsor and he was calling him out of the blue after months of no contact, it wasn't that big a leap to make.

"Yeah."

"Right. Want me to come over?"

"Nah, that's OK…" Lennie said, wishing he would. But no, that would be ridiculous.

"Lennie, Lennie, Lennie," Phil sighed. "Ya know, it's eight o'clock. Not that late. I've come over later. What time didja call me over that one time? Three in the morning? This here's peanuts. Besides, I gotta go return a video anyway, I'll drop by your place on my way back."

ooo000ooo

"So what happened, man?" Phil asked once they were seated in Lennie's kitchen with a coffee cup before each of them.

"I just drank, that's all."

"That ain't all there was to it."

"OK, I ordered a vodka, lifted the glass, tilted it so the vodka could go down my throat-"

"Yeah, yeah, Lennie, thanks for the wiseass routine," Phil cut him off with a smile. "And now…"

"I dunno."

"You dunno what?"

"I just don't know."

"You don't know about gettin' back on the straight 'n narrow again."

Lennie sighed. "How'd you know? Everybody else just seems to assume I'm gonna."

Phil chuckled. "Lemme guess. They ain't friendsa Bill W."

"Nah."

"So they dunno know it's a bitch. They ain't got a clue." Phil laughed softly, shaking his head. "What happened?"

"I uh… I went to this execution. You know Mickey Scott?"

Phil shook his head again and frowned, slightly puzzled. "I din' know New York had the death penalty. Really?"

"Yeah, dipstick, we got it a while ago. And Pataki's the Governor, didja know that?"

"Pataki? My dry cleaner?"

Lennie smiled. Phil wasn't the most educated or politically aware person he knew, but he was a good guy. "So anyway we went, and I had a tough time with it."

"Huccome?"

Lennie thought for a moment, holding his cup. "He just died. He… he just died. People are supposed to die when their bodies give out or something. Not like he did."

"Ain't you a murder police or something?"

"Yeah."

"Kinda weird somebody dyin' would bug you." Lennie shrugged. "And then?"

"Then I had lunch with my kid."

"Ah." All the understanding in the world was in that one syllable.

"Yeah."

"Which one?"

"Cathy." Phil nodded. "I screwed up. I screwed up so big with her when she was a kid. And… and there's no way to make up for it."

"And that gotcha thinkin' if there ain't no way to make up for it, why bother tryin' not to drink?"

"Something like that."

"So you fell off."

"Yeah."

"So whatcha gonna do now?"

"I wish that's all there was to the story."

"There's more?"

"Oh yeah, the fat lady hasn't sung yet."

"Why? What else happened?"

"This girl I work with – worked with – she saw me at a bar, drunk, and she offered to drive me home. And then we got in an accident. She's dead." That hurt, saying it. Claire Kincaid, dead.

Phil gave a low whistle. "Shit holy."

"Yeah," Lennie sipped his coffee thoughtfully.

"And?"

"And… and you know what I spent almost the whole time at the hospital thinking while she was dying?" he said slowly.

"I wanna vodka."

"Give the man a cigar," Lennie sighed, nodding. Damn pathetic.

"Yer an alcoholic."

"I know."

"And that's whatcha want. It's what yer body tells you you need."

"I know, I know. It's just this girl… she's not even cold and I'm wishing I could forget her with some booze."

"I know."

"So now I dunno."

They were silent for a moment. "Say you don't fight it," Phil mused. "Say you go ahead and do what you want."

"Say I do."

"You gonna go back to work, hope ya don't kill somebody else?"

"Nah. If I'm not gonna stay off the sauce, I can't work."

"Who's gonna know?"

"My partner's not that dumb. Little young, but he's not an idiot."

"You could hide it."

Lennie thought for a moment, looking down into his coffee. He probably could. "Nah. He's got a wife, three little kids. I drink, I might shoot him by accident some time when we're trying to take somebody down."

"So if you drink, yer gonna tell?"

"Yeah. And then I'll lose my job. I almost did already."

"OK. Then whatcha gonna do?"

"Dunno."

"You close enough to retirement?"

"Not really."

"You'd survive. Welfare, disability, whatever, you'd survive, fer a while at least."

"Probably."

"Here's how I see it. From what I remember, near the end you was a real mess. Not a 'high-functioning alcoholic' no more. You was missin' work, falling down wasted, the works."

"You're making it sound so attractive," Lennie remarked.

"Yer not so young, either. You fall back into the bottle, and yer gonna do yourself some major damage. Your liver… it cain't bounce back forever."

"No."

"Keep drinking and yer gonna be dead in a couple years," Phil said, and paused.

"But what a way to go, huh?" Lennie quipped, and they shared a smile.

Phil ran a hand through his hair. "So why not? Why'dja stop before?"

"I dunno. I was tired of living like that. You know, being a screw-up at work, throwing up every morning… hangovers."

"Say howdy to all that again. Except no, you wouldn't be working, so that wouldn't be a problem. And ya cain't have a hangover if yer still drunk, right?"

"Yeah. That woulda been real nice this morning," he remembered the bloodcurdling shriek of the phone.

"I bet. So why fight it?"

"I don't know. I don't have a wife or family to stop for. There's really not much."

Phil sipped his coffee for a moment, regarding him seriously over the rim of the cup. "You want I should remind you?"

"Shoot."

"You fight it for you. That's the only person you can fight it for. Yer all you got, man. Comes down to you. Always."

Lennie nodded. It came down to him. So he needed to decide, and keep deciding every day, whether he was worth fighting for.

He couldn't undo the damage he'd done to Cathy, he couldn't bring Claire back to life, he couldn't do anything about any of his past, and he didn't have anybody who would be seriously affected by his sobriety or lack thereof.

Going back to AA would be uncomfortable as hell and it would take willpower and perseverance. Going back to work with Rey and Van Buren would also be difficult to cope with. He was going to have to keep fighting every single day to deal with it and not drink away discomfort or difficulty, and he had no reason to do any of it other than himself.

So it came down to him. Was he worth it?