"By the way," he asked before disengaging. "Who the f.u.c.k is Willie Whitman?"

"A snake oil salesman."

"What does he sell?"

"False hope."

"What specifically?" Marlon pressed.

"NOTHING specifically," I told him. "It's all a bunch of self-help nonsense. Some bulls.h.i.t training courses-a lot of books. A lot of nothing."

"Sounds fascinating, I can't wait to hear the details."

"THERE ARE NO DETAILS."

With that we ended the call but had agreed to meet next week before he headed to Sarasota. In the meantime, however, Amy had been living at her stepmother's condo and I'd been calling there in an attempt to convince her to let me have Savannah for a week or so. The weekly roundtrip voyage to Jupiter was losing its l.u.s.ter, as I would spend six hours driving just to spend three or four hours with Savannah and hoped my new living arrangement would enable me to work during the day while Kristen babysat, and then spend time with my daughter in the evenings and over the weekend. Unfortunately, Amy would dismiss my request by insisting she was still too young, and then try to impress me with details about her newest boyfriend.

"But in a couple of weeks I'll take a ride out there with her to see what you're living in," she said before terminating the call as she seemed to doubt my ability to provide Savannah with a safe or decent place to visit.

On Sat.u.r.day Marlon arrived in Fort Myers and I was twenty minutes late meeting him at a cafe in Downtown Fort Myers.

"Where the f.u.c.k have you been?" he asked me the moment I walked into the establishment. "I was about to give up on you."

"Sorry," I said. "I was stuck with Willie Whitman."

"On Sat.u.r.day?"

"He was suddenly inspired and couldn't wait to share the stupid details."

"Another self-help deal?" my buddy asked.

"Of course."

"What's it called?"

"Why do you care?"

"I wanna know what not to buy."

"It's called Cash Flow Generator-if you can believe it," I told him.

"Wow, Craig! A Willie Whitman Cash Flow Generator sounds like something people might really be interested in," he said-with unbridled, unadulterated and unrelenting sarcasm.

"It may be a cash flow generator for Willie Whitman-I'm not so sure about anyone else. But enough about my miserable life, what's going on in your miserable life?"

"I'm working with Immigration and Naturalization in Miami," he said.

"Doing what?"

"Ah, you know-helping out with interviews mostly, some investigations here and there."

"I bet you've got a nose for sniffing out the c.o.ke smugglers."

"No, that's a customs thing. I mostly investigate potentially fraudulent marriages. You know, weeding out anyone trying to marry their way into the country," Marlon explained.

"So, no c.o.ke then?"

"No c.o.ke. But what about you, smack-head?"

"Clean as a whistle. Except when I'm smoking weed."

"How often do you smoke?"

"As often as I can."

"That doesn't sound like such a good idea. Sounds like maybe you're just subst.i.tuting one drug for another."

"That's exactly what I'm doing."

"Well, I suppose it's better than shooting dope."

"It's nowhere near better."

23.

In April, Amy finally agreed to bring Savannah to the Cape for a visit. Before she arrived, however, I spent three hours cleaning and baby-proofing an apartment that was littered with toys, coloring books and magic markers left behind by Kristen's five-year-old twins, Jeremy and Zach. Indeed, I could leave nothing to chance as earlier that morning I could tell by the tone of Amy's voice she'd be looking to find fault with something.

Savannah and Amy arrived at the apartment by 1 p.m. and the moment they did, Amy looked at my roommate suspiciously. I'm not sure why that was the case because, not that it should've mattered, she knew the nature of the platonic relationship I shared with Kristen and besides, we agreed long ago to raise Savannah separately, realizing that although it was an unconventional arrangement it would be the healthiest arrangement.

After visiting for a half-hour and then giving the spotless apartment an inspection of sorts, Amy left to visit family in Fort Myers. Then, after about an hour of fussing over Savannah, Kristen suddenly picked her up, brought her into the master bedroom and laid her down on the king-sized bed as the most putrid smell in the world began to attack me from every direction.

"WOW-she is really cute, Craig," Kristen said. "And she s.h.i.ts like my ex-husband."

"Does he wear Pampers also?" I asked my fantastic friend as she showed me how to change a diaper.

"No, but he acts like a f.u.c.king two-year-old," she said as she suddenly covered her mouth to prevent anymore R-rated verbiage from slipping away.

At that point Savannah rolled over on the bed and smiled.

"Hooray, Savannah-that's great!!" rejoiced Kristen as she applauded. "Craig! What's wrong with you? Act excited, you idiot!"

"What for?"

"Because she just turned and rolled all the way to the other side of the mattress!"

"Big f.u.c.king deal. I did that in bed every night with her mother."

"And stop cursing. Before you know it she's gonna be repeating everything you say."

After celebrating Savannah's p.o.o.ping and rolling, we brought her into the boys' bedroom to do some army crawling on the thickly carpeted floor while she tried to put everything in her mouth. Then, suddenly, there was a loud and almost violent pounding on the front door.

"What's wrong with you?!" Amy screamed at me the moment I turned the k.n.o.b.

"What's wrong with you?!"

"Why was the door locked?!" she demanded as she barged in.

"Because that's what it f.u.c.king does! There are usually two little babies running around here and we'd rather them not stumble out on to the street and get flattened by a f.u.c.king truck! Is that okay with you, Amy?"

"Where's my daughter?!" she demanded again.

"She's in the bedroom with Kristen."

"Oh, that's just wonderful!"

"What's your problem?!"

"Don't worry about it!" she said as she stormed into the boys' bedroom, grabbed Savannah and then stormed out of the apartment.

24.

After Amy's meltdown in the Cape she refused to allow me any access to Savannah. And whenever I called her stepmother's condo she wouldn't come to the phone and I would soon learn from Jane-her father's new bride of six months-that my name wasn't even on the birth certificate.

"Oh, this is such a bunch of f.u.c.king bulls.h.i.t!" I told her. "And she has no right to prevent me from seeing my kid. I'm her father, everyone knows I'm her father and I'm not just gonna go away."

Jane was about twenty years younger than Amy's father who was almost sixty. She arrived on the scene and inserted herself in Amy's life just a few weeks prior to Savannah arriving, eventually insisting that Amy and the baby live with her at the condo for at least the short term. But then she made a fatal error by attempting to insert herself in my life as well: "Well-you know, Craig, you're not the most stable person in the world, so maybe at some point we can arrange for a supervised visitation," she told me.

And there it was. I knew it was coming. Indeed, I knew at some point my past would come back to haunt me in a terrible way and low and behold-a scarlet letter A for ADDICT was now burning a hole in my chest. Obviously, the virtue and value of being open and honest was overrated.

"Excuse me but uhhhwho the f.u.c.k are you?" I had to ask. "I don't know why I'm even talking to you. You don't matter. You're not relevant. You have no standing. You're not anyone to anyone."

"And you're not exactly father material-at least not yet," she told me. "But I won't give up on you, Craig, because with a little help from me you might just rise to the occasion."

"Maybe you're confusing me with the old man's p.e.c.k.e.r."

"Oh, how dare you!" she actually gasped. "You just wait and-"

"Listen, a.s.shole, you're just a f.u.c.king gold-digger, and judging from the dilapidated s.h.i.thole hubby used to live in-not a very good one at that."

"Why are you even getting into it with that stupid son of a b.i.t.c.h?" said the crusty old man in the background. "Just tell him to f.u.c.k off and hang up the phone!" I heard and decided I'd had enough of the bulls.h.i.t and hung up first.

So, for the next several months I'd be given no access to my daughter, and though I wouldn't hear directly from Amy I'd regularly get disturbing and occasionally threatening phone calls from a pathetic procession of underage boys, all of whom were barely out of high school.

"Don't worry, man, I got it covered," one of them once said to me.

"Tell me douche-what exactly do you have covered?"

"Being the father that Savannah deserves."

"You don't say?"

"Yep," he went on. "I play with the little cutie all the time. I even change her diapers."

"Who changes yours?"

"My mommy."

"Does she suck you off while she's doing it?"

"Yeah, you're a real funny guy. I tell Savannah what a funny guy you are when I feed her breakfast each morning."

"You've been feeding my daughter?"

"I certainly have."

"Well I hope at least you're breastfeeding."

"I'm gonna f.u.c.king kill you."

"Well you're gonna get the opportunity real soon, brotha-REAL SOON," I told him though I had no intention of heading to Jupiter with things the way they were, because I knew if I drove out there and was prevented from seeing Savannah I'd end up in jail.

"Oh, yeah? When exactly is that gonna be?!" the little boy asked as his voice cracked.

"Sooner than you can imagine-f.u.c.khead. Sooner than you can imagine."

25.