He shakes his head. He’s quiet a second, but once the water’s loose, it’s loose.
“I’ll tell you another thing I didn’t bank on, Tom. Linda hates sports. I mean she hates them. I can’t put a game on without her rolling her eyes.”
“Maybe she’s related to my roommates.”
“You should see our weekends. Guess what we did last Friday? Friday night, while you and Dave were out getting loaded. Guess what we did.”
“I can’t.”
“Go ahead. Guess.” Jimmy waves his shot glass in the air.
“Rented a movie.”
“I wish. We watched the Three Tenors, Tommy. Can you believe it? I’m twenty-three and I spent Friday night on the sofa watching the Three Tenors. Christ.”
“Well, at least you had a little action at the end, I hope. Married life ain’t all bad.”
Jimmy spins his glass on its edge, draws with his finger in the water stain. “Yeah, there’s that.” He looks up. “Man, I’m drunk. That’s why I’m mouthing off like this. Listen, Tommy, can I ask you something? Just between us?”
“Sure.”
“I mean really just between us. You tell Dave and I’ll play for Duggan next season.”
“Hey Jimmy, it’s me.”
“Okay.” He pauses. “When you were with Lisa. Fucking her, I mean. Did you ever pretend she was someone else?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know—someone else. Like a fantasy.”
“Hell no. Why?”
Jimmy looks at the ceiling. “Forget it.” He looks back at me. “Ah, fuck it. Christ, Tom—it’s been a year since I could fuck Linda without pretending she’s somebody else.”
“Jesus. Like who?”
“Anybody. Some dish on the street that day. Demi Moore in her latest flick. Anybody who gets me hot.”
I look at him.
“Hey, you wait. Maybe if you got laid more often … Mason, two more here. But it’s more than that, Tommy. Before I screw Linda I need a little while to prepare myself. Down a few beers, get something going in my head. And then I’m okay, more or less. Usually it’s twice a week and I can gauge the nights, you know, get ready for it. But sometimes she springs it on me. I get home and she’s waiting in bed, or she drops the groceries on the table and wants to go at it right there in the kitchen. And Tommy, I’m not kidding, I can’t always get the damn thing up.”
We take a good draw from our pints.
“And the thing of it is, Tommy, it’s not me. Because if I see some knockout on the subway, or my secretary comes in in a mini, man, I’m aching to bust her one right there. It’s just … where’s the thrill, you know? Even if it’s lobster, you can’t eat lobster every night. You need a burger now and then.”
I have Linda slotted closer to a good salmon on my menu, but I don’t press the point.
“I’m only twenty-three, Tommy. I don’t know how long I can keep this up.”
We’re silent.
“Well, say something. What do you think?”
I take another swig and spread my hands on the bar.
“I think you’re fucked, Jimmy. Bad as it is, you have to figure it’ll get worse. She’ll want a kid in the pipeline in the next year, right? No doubt a few more after that. Raising them Catholic means church every Sunday, no more beer and football, and with the little monsters running around, no late nights during the week. Hell, I’ll be surprised if you’re even on the team this time next year.”
Jimmy stares at me, then laughs, his mood broken.
“You bastard. Just you wait, Tommy. You won’t hold out forever.”
We down our pints and walk outside. Only in New York can a guy with no shirt flag down a cab at three in the morning and ride home without explanation. Jimmy ducks into one, but before it starts off he sticks his head out the window.
“Forget all that stuff I said, Tommy. It was the beer talking. We were something else tonight, huh?”
“We were the best.”
I watch his face, still out the window as the cab rolls away. I stand on the empty sidewalk a second, then start the walk home. I love the city this time of night. Quiet, but with a hum to it. As I walk along I think of Jimmy. Can you believe it? You should have seen that pair in college. Couldn’t pry them off each other. Graduation day they almost missed the ceremony slipping in an extra one in the shower. Now look at him. It’s only been a year, and before he can fuck her he’s got to get all liquored up and pretend she’s someone else. Jesus. If that’s what’s waiting at the end of that middle aisle, you can count me out.
I bump into a hydrant and realize for the first time how rocked I am. The next one bites on a head fake and I dance around it. Looking up, in place of the stars I see the few lights still on in the high-rises. Who’s still up at this hour, I wonder? I picture a thin beauty, her twenty-second birthday tomorrow, sitting at the window in a lonely sweater. A cup of cocoa in her hands, humming along to the radio as she looks down at me in the street. Just give the sign and I’ll come up, honey. We can talk all night about music, if you want, or go at it on the carpet without a word. I’m easy. I walk into a mailbox. Damn.
Between the shots and the beers we must have set a record tonight. I’ll pay for it in the morning, but it was worth it. Manhattan champions—what a ring that has. At my building I skip up the stairs and on the third try the key slips into the lock.
“College boy.”
I jump. Below me in the street is Duggan. He wears an Irish cap and a coat tied at the waist. He lights a cigarette and shakes out the match.
“Been celebrating, I see.”
I look around for the rest of them but he’s alone. I should probably feel pretty foolish in just my tie, but not tonight. Let’s not forget who the winner is. I look him over. Alone in the street, in that coat and cap, he doesn’t look so tough. Hell, he looks like just another down-and-outer. This is the guy who gave me the creeps? I slide down the handrail and land in front of him.
“Let me guess, Duggan—you want to join the team. I’d love to, but there aren’t any spots. We could use a chalker, though.”
His yellow eyes start to burn, then look down. “What you fellas did tonight was a fluke. It won’t happen again.”
“I agree with you there. Next time I don’t expect you’ll get a point.”
He tenses, and I think he’s coming at me. I’m ready for him, but he looks away, and when he looks back it’s with a crooked smile.
“You sure can talk, college boy. Anything behind that mouth of yours?” He takes a long drag, drops his cigarette and grinds it under his heel. He lets the smoke out slowly. “What would you say to a real match, college boy? For money.”
I’ll be damned.
“Anytime, Duggan. What did you have in mind—five hundred?”
He snickers, blows the rest of the smoke down his chest.
“I’m not talking Girl Scout stakes, college boy. I’m talking real money.”
Bastard.
“You name it, we’ll play for it.”
“Twenty thousand dollars.”
“Fine.”
“Two weeks from Friday. Our place this time. Same players that played tonight. You don’t show, you owe.”
“Fine.”
“Did you hear me, college boy? I said twenty thousand.”
“I heard you. And I said yes.”
I turn to head up the stairs but he grabs my tie and pulls me to him. “A word of advice, college boy: Don’t run out on this one.”
I knock his hand off. “The next time it touches me it better have money in it.” I start up the stairs, whip back around. “And no checks, Duggan. And no Irish money. Tell your mick backers I want dollars.”
I can feel him burning in the street as I walk up the stairs. At the door I look back and he’s gone. I take a big drink of night air. Well, that was easy. Bastard thinks I don’t have any balls, does he? I’ll show him. Inside, I take the stairs in twos and laugh to myself. The times to be had in this
town! Kick Duggan’s ass at the dartboard, tell him off in the street and set up a big payday besides. Not a bad night’s work.
I soft-shoe into the apartment so as not to wake the girls. Mess with their REM sleep and it throws off their systems for a week. I down two quick pints of ice water, fall into bed in my pants, and grin up at the ceiling.
You the man, Tom.
CHAPTER SIX
NOTHING complements a killer hangover quite like a packed subway car. One more whiff of the guy next to me and I’m going to lose it. At Fourteenth Street it empties out a bit and I lower myself into a seat. That’s better. My bleary eyes meet the stare of the guy across from me, who looks to be on his way to church. A Sunday suit on, the Bible open in his lap, a crucifix soft against his neck. My headache worsens and I look away.
Church. Christ. The last time I went to Mass I was home on the base for the summer. I had written from school that I wasn’t making service anymore, but moms have a way of forgetting what they don’t like to hear. I spent the night before in the bars, showing my old high school buddies I’d learned something useful in college, so when Mom woke me at seven-thirty, my suit over her arm, I was more dead than alive. I might have come out okay pleading sickness, but I was a freshman in college, so I gave her a speech. Told her the way I felt that morning I didn’t doubt He was up there, and a mean one He was, too. She slapped me across the mouth, I put my suit on without a word, and we walked to church. Sat next to her in the pew, biting my lip till it bled to keep my stomach down. After the service we walked home in silence and I haven’t been back since.
At Delancey Street the train fills up again and I’m thankful for the open window behind me.
Here’s my two cents on religion: I don’t buy it. Sometimes I wish I did. It’s not easy thinking you get one crack at this place. I’ve looked at it up and down, though, and if you ask me the whole thing is a racket.
Take Joe Catholic across from me. He hasn’t lifted his face from the Book since Fourteenth Street. I’ll bet the guy is a real all-star. Been doing it by the Church’s rules all his life. Never misses a service, digs deep when the plate comes around, steers clear of the books they don’t want him to read. The works. All to make sure he’s taken care of when the time comes.
Now that’s a hell of a reason, sure, but look at the deal from the Church’s side a second. Seems to me they milk this guy pretty good. Take him for thousands of bucks, over the years, and when he’s not cutting them a check he’s out stumping in his free time, bringing in more business. Don’t think he sees any commission, either. Then you have his kids. Years of unpaid labor as altar boys and helpers, and when they get a little older the Church has the inside track on signing them up for the distance, too. Hey, if he ever stops to do the math, he’ll see the bill is starting to mount. I won’t even get into the opportunity cost.
And when does the guy get his payoff? When does the Church have to ante up, to show him all that soul work they were selling him wasn’t just a bill of goods? The second he dies. Now that’s what I call a smooth scam.
Up he went, they can say, we did our part, and no one can prove them wrong.
That’s what gets me about the whole business—they never have to prove anything. They have a little trick called faith to get around all that. The pastors used to spring it on me all the time. Thirteen years I kept asking how can you prove it and thirteen years they gave me the same answer: faith. “How can a man live in a whale, Father?” Faith. “How can a man part the ocean, Father?” Faith.
I didn’t want to hear about faith. I wanted to know did the stuff really happen or didn’t it? If it did where was the proof? If you can’t show the proof, well, that pretty much pulls the rug out from under the whole deal, doesn’t it? Faith, Tom. If you have faith you don’t ask those questions. Hell, any other salesman tried that line you’d boot him out the door. Put a robe on him and a steeple behind him, though, and I’m supposed to go along.
I’m not trying to pin everything on the Catholics. I’m just sore at them for all the Sundays I wasted in the pew. I’m sure the other religions are about the same.
Look around the subway car. Next to the Bible guy is a Rastafarian. Down from him a Hasidic Jew. You think they chose their faiths after looking hard at all the others and deciding where the truth was? Hell no. The one guy is Catholic and the other Jewish and the other a Rasta because that’s who got ahold of them first. By that logic any one of them could have wound up a Nazi.
I look at them. Each sits there with all the answers, knowing he’s all set come the big day, and at least two of them are dead wrong. I wouldn’t put a dime on the third one, either. Thanks anyway, guys, but I’ll take my chances.
At Wall Street I climb the sooty stairs into the August-morning heat. It isn’t even 9 A.M. and already my shirt sticks to me. As I walk the short block to work, picking my way through the throng, I fight back my hangover and the nagging feeling that I’m forgetting something. Something important about last night. The match is all pretty clear in my head, especially the big finish, but the rest is a little fuzzy. The victory party comes back in fits and starts. I remember shots, and singing, and taking off our shirts in the bar. I remember walking Stella home. And just how did I get home, anyway? Split a cab with Jimmy, I guess.
Kay smiles as I limp through the oak doors. Someone else’s hangover is always a riot.
“What happened to you, Tom?”
“Just something going around.”
“Right. The Irish flu.” She laughs loudly and I grip the edge of her desk.
“Jesus, Kay, don’t do that. You got any aspirin?”
“Take my last two.”
Kay is a sweetheart. Our terminally cheerful receptionist, the only one in the firm who knows about my bets. She’s always setting me up with her girlfriends, and it’s only thanks to a cousin of hers that I’m not zero for ’96 in the sleepover department. Kay herself is cute as they come. From the shoulders up, anyway. Start moving downstairs and it’s a different story. She got married six months ago and already she’s put on twenty pounds. I feel bad for the new hubby. It’s probably just dawning on him what he’s let himself in for. From what I remember of her mom at the reception, the long-term outlook isn’t promising, either. I’m with Dave on this one. Once you fork over the ring, there ought to be a weight clause in there somewhere.
“Take one of my doughnuts, Tom. It will settle your stomach.”
There’s no way I can keep it down but I take it out of respect for her hubby. He always seemed like a nice guy.
At my desk I ditch the doughnut, wash down the aspirin with water, bury my face in a case file and close my eyes. Just let today be an easy one. The phone rings.
“Farrell Hawthorne.”
“How’s the head, college boy?”
Duggan. Why do I think I’ve just seen him?
“What do you want, Duggan?”
“Wanted to give you a chance to yellow out.”
Duggan. Duggan. It all comes back in a rush. The two of us in the street. Something about a rematch. For money this time. But how much? I stall him.
“I’d love to chat, Duggan, but some of us have real jobs to do.”
“Still talking a good game, I see. I assume we’re on then, college boy.”
Think, Tom, think.
“Sure we’re on. Only, aren’t you a little embarrassed to play for those stakes?”
“What’s that?”
“You want to play for money, Duggan, let’s play for money.” Silence on the line. What the hell—sometimes you floor it and hope the other guy moves. How much can it be, anyway? “Let’s double it.”
More silence.
“What’s the matter—don’t have that kind of dough? Or can’t your backers count that high?”
I can feel his hatred through the cord. When he speaks it’s through his teeth.
“Double it is, college boy—forty grand. But we see the dough before the match. And listen good. You’re not wanking
for drinks with the frat boys anymore. If I gotta come get you …”
Click.
I walk to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. Forty grand? Jesus, Tom, what the hell did you do last night? I splash myself again. Forty grand? Add up all the dough I’ve spent in my life and it doesn’t make forty grand. I towel off.
So call him back. Tell him it’s no go. I look at myself in the mirror and a strange feeling starts in the pit of my stomach. What a charge if I could raise it, though, huh? All that money riding on a night of darts. And the chance to stick it to Duggan, besides. I look myself over again. One thing I’m not up for, right now, is calling Duggan back to chicken out. No way.
Not that I have the first clue where I’d get the money. Even so. I shake my head. Maybe if I give myself a few days I can come up with something. I’m strictly in survival mode today, anyway, not in any shape to make a big decision. I’ll get through the day, sleep on it and see what I think in the morning.
I walk back to my desk and take a seat. I’m wondering if my stomach can handle a soda when the phone rings again. It’s Carter.
“Reasons, I need to see you in here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Carter is in high spirits, pacing the carpet behind his desk like a football coach walking the sidelines. He stops and looks me up and down.
“What’s wrong with you? You look awful.”
“Stomach flu, sir.”
“Yes. Well. I don’t want you having any late nights while the Garrett case is on. We need to be in peak form on this one.
Yeah, right.
“Yes, sir.”
He starts to pace again. “I thought the depositions went very well. No surprises. I want them summarized by Friday, and this afternoon I need you to sit in on two more. Prego’s, wife, and Winston Garrett.”
“Winston Garrett?”
“He was at the party, too. Not one of the sick ones, luckily. He’ll back up Regina on her cooking and catering knowhow. His word will look good.”
“Sir, can I ask you something? About Mrs. Garrett?”
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