3 Women Walk Into A Bar

by Linda Sands

  We pulled into a spot across the street and checked the meter. Fifteen minutes left. We felt lucky.

  The dry cleaning shop was like all the others I’d been in—hot, cramped, and disorganized. It smelled like the underside of a sink mixed with the odor of the household products row in the dollar store, like fake sunshine and bug killer.

  “How can I help you?”

  An Indian man in a brilliant-white shirt and pressed khakis shuffled to the front, appearing from behind a rack of plastic-wrapped clothing. Shirts, suits, and dresses swayed in his wake, offering glimpses into the back where a handful of workers were cleaning, pressing, buttoning, and sorting the garments of strangers.

  Snippets of an argument and raised voices filtered to the front of the store. The language could have been Hindi or Swedish. I wasn’t very good at languages, and if you talked to me long enough in your foreign patter, I might start mimicking the sounds back at you, though I meant no disrespect. I didn’t even realize I was doing it, until my first ex-wife pointed it out to me. She said I was embarrassing her, that I was being demeaning to Italians. I tried to explain all the ways that couldn’t be possible, but I think she took it personally. She brought the whole thing up again during the divorce. It was her fault for hiring a lawyer with a Southern accent. She knew I wouldn’t be able to help myself. It was a social disorder. Probably a great talent to possess if you were a salesman or a professional pickup artist—two things I’ve never been.

  Since I wasn’t there to sell timeshares or pick up anything but the stuff Smith had dropped off, I let Tommy do the talking. We waited until we were in the car before we opened the manila envelope Mr. Lee had given us. Tommy threw plastic-draped pants and a white shirt into the backseat, then slit the envelope and upended it—a pen from a bank, two paper clips, a stick of spearmint gum, and a folded receipt.

  I opened the faded receipt carefully. I recognized the logo for a national gas station franchise, the name James John Smith, and when I held it to the light I could make out the location: Wolfeboro, New Hampshire. It was a start.

  Chapter 26

  JUDGMENTS, EXPECTATIONS, AND DEJA VOODOO

  Roxie flattened the sheet of paper across the steering wheel. She’d forgotten, again, to check her pockets on laundry day. There was a hole in the middle of the page, and the handwriting had faded, but she could make out the words “Dr. Hanna” and “Professional Drive.”

  She drove around the hospital and pulled up to a row of office buildings. Roxie found a listing for Hanna, MD, in the third office building. She skipped the elevator and jogged up two flights of stairs, rushed into the waiting room, and tapped on the glass divider at the nurse’s station.

  “I’m here to pick up a friend. James Smith?”

  “Still with the doctor,” the nurse said. “You’re welcome to wait.”

  Roxie looked around the empty waiting area. What kind of doctor was this? The ones she went to always had crying babies and teenagers on cell phones, a pile of plastic toys in a corner, and a stack of outdated magazines to peruse. She couldn’t sit. It was a sick room and she had a thing about germs. Just standing there made her want to wash her hands.

  “I’ll be out there,” she said, motioning to the door, the world, another place with fresh air, sunshine and normal, healthy sounds. “Could you tell him when he comes out?”

  The nurse nodded.

  Roxie walked down the hall to the area overlooking the lobby. Outside, banished smokers puffed away, polluting everyone’s environment instead of just a bathroom or their own offices.

  She read the names on the marquee, started to run her finger down the list until she imagined how many sick people might have done that before her. She shuddered, then looked around for a restroom with a sink, soap, and hot water.

  When Roxie returned, James was leaning against the wall, his face unguarded, innocent, and a bit sad.

  “James?”

  He straightened up and switched on his usual face. “Hey. There you are.” He scooped her into his side, a comforting gesture, something a father or brother would do, or a gay friend.

  “Everything okay?” Roxie asked. “Anything you want to talk about?”

  “Nope,” he said, pressing the elevator button.

  Their reflection in the metal doors was warped, twisting their faces into one mass, compacting their bodies into a senseless blob. When the doors parted, they were split in two, and Roxie felt loss.

  In the car, Roxie didn’t ask how he’d gotten to the appointment or what it was for or if he needed to go to the pharmacy.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “I could eat. Though I shouldn’t. Girl’s gotta watch her figure, you know.”

  “Why don’t you let me watch it?” James grinned.

  Roxie glanced over. Even though the guy looked a bit paler than normal and he had seemed thinner, less energetic lately at work, he was grinning at her like the old James. Like the guy who had flirted with her all through her hiring interview and always had something sweet to say. Not bullshit. Not just words, but a sentence that made her feel sexy, powerful, made her—if she was totally honest—wet.

  Some guys could do that. Not many. And most of them were assholes. Hot, well-built assholes. But when you found a guy who was kind and sweet and attractive and had that talent, well, hell, you’d be stupid to pass it up. Unless of course it was your boss. Your friend. And your friends’ friend. She’d be stupid to blow something like that—or him. She started to laugh.

  “Want to let me in on the joke?” James asked, smiling.

  “What? Um, no.” She pulled up to the stoplight, looked around. “Want to get Mexican?”

  “I have a better idea.” James pointed. “Take the next left.”

  Roxie followed his instructions and ended up on a crowded street lined with junker cars. Skinny black kids sat on the steps of tenement-style brick buildings, shaking their arms and shoulders in complicated dance moves that looked to her like slow-motion fighting. Roxie clicked the door lock and shoved her purse under the seat.

  “Be cool, Roxie,” James said. “You’re with me.” He waved his arm out the window and all the kids on the steps waved back. Two removed their hats.

  “How do you know them?” She shook her head. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  “Pull up there, at the brown gate,” he said.

  It swung open as they approached. Roxie drove into a cobblestone courtyard that reminded her of something she’d seen on the travel channel during Italy Week.

  “What. The. Fuck?”

  James laughed. “Yeah, that’s the normal reaction. Wait till you see the inside.”

  The gate squeaked closed behind them as they rolled past an ornate fountain of cherubs and busty women. She parked her Honda near an artful arrangement of sculptured shrubs and trees.

  They stepped up wide marble stairs to the largest doors Roxie had ever seen. Before James could use the lion-head knocker, one huge door swung inward. Roxie was certain Lurch was going to poke his head out, but no one did. James put his hand on the small of her back and guided her inside.

  The gold-domed ceiling in the entry was at least thirty feet high. Chubby angels painted by a brave artist circled the lip of the dome, and trailed ribbons and stars down the walls to stained-glass windows. She was staring at the art when a short, mustachioed man appeared from behind velvet curtains. He approached, arms wide. “Buongiorno, Signore Smith!”

  James returned the man’s cheek kisses, said something in Italian, then tipped his head in Roxie’s direction. “Signore Aldo Lombardi, this is Miss Roxanne Dupont.”

  Roxie leaned down to take the man’s hand. He pulled her into him, saying, “Welcome to my palace, bella.”

  She smashed her cheeks up against his, right then left. He smelled of talcum powder and musk, like a baby grandpa.

  “We are happy to have you,” he said. “This way, per favore.” He motioned them through the curtains into a sunken room of tables and c
hairs, of waiters and diners, of candlelight and soft opera arias. A very plush, very private Italian restaurant.

  Two hours later, after the antipasti and the soup, after the risotto and the salad, after the pasta and the veal and the cheese and the digestives, after the sampling of the tiramisu and the torte, after multiple glasses of wine and bottles of mineral water, after all of it, Roxie cried “uncle” for the second time and James agreed. It was time to go.

  “Aldo, my friend.” James motioned to Aldo with one hand while reaching in his back pocket for his wallet. “We have to go. Tell me, what do I owe you?”

  Aldo brushed him off like a fly, pushed away his wallet. “No, no. We have an arrangement? Do we not? It is my pleasure.”

  He collected the dessert plates, bowed to Roxie. “Is there anything else I can bring you?”

  “Oh, no. I really couldn’t.” She ran a hand over her stomach, exhaled loudly. “It was all so fantastic, really. I am just. Wow. Thank you.”

  “And I think that says it all,” James said. “Grazie, Aldo.”

  “Anytime my friend, and let me know if there are any more problems with . . .” He leaned in, lowered his voice. “The other thing.”

  James’s smile faded. He dabbed his lips with the napkin, said something behind it while pulling Aldo close. The man nodded, then smiled at Roxie, who pretended to be very interested in the tablecloth’s design.

  They were quiet in the car, sedated by carbohydrates, by Chianti, by the remnant of music written centuries ago. Roxie was glad for the stillness. She wondered how she could ask James all the things she’d been thinking about. They were personal, and that wasn’t a place anyone went with James. She waited, hoping he’d say something to give her an in. He didn’t.

  So she drove to Flannigan’s, pulled to the curb, and pressed button to unlock the doors, saying, “Home sweet home.”

  James stared out the window as if he was seeing the bar for the first time. “Yeah. Home.” He reached for the handle and said, “Thanks, Roxie, for picking me up and for having lunch with me.” He yawned. “I might need a nap before work. You?” He waggled his brows Groucho-style.

  Roxie laughed. “Afraid not. I still have work to do. No rest for the wicked, you know.”

  James stepped out of the car and closed the door, murmuring, “I know that’s right.”

  “What’s that?” Roxie called after him.

  “Just saying, gonna be a slow night,” James said, waving as he walked away.

  Roxie watched as he unlocked the door to Flannigan’s and stepped in, pulling it shut behind him. Through the bay window she could see him cross the room. He ran his hand through his hair, then over his face. He seemed to have aged ten years in seconds. She watched until he moved out of view, then she pulled away from the curb and made her way down the block.

  Lost in thought, she jumped when her cell phone’s ring filled the car speakers. The caller ID lit up the dash as she clicked the Bluetooth. “Hey, Cress. You’ll never believe where I was.”

  “Let me guess,” Cress said. “You finally got that colonic you’ve been talking about?”

  “Ha ha. No. I was in a real live fucking palace!”

  “A fucking palace? You are one sick girl!”

  “No! And what? It was a mansion on the south side done up to look like a palace, and there’s a restaurant there. Omigod. I had the most amazing meal. Seriously, you would not believe the food we ate.”

  “We?”

  “Me and James.”

  “Since when do you go out for lunch with James?”

  “Since he invited me.”

  “I see. So where did you go again?” Cress asked, thinking how she and Chamonix had just said Roxie was the best one of the three, the one you could depend on like a mother, and that when they were all together—all four of them, how James was like the older brother. He was the necessary fourth, the one that made pairing up okay, because no one wanted to be the odd man out when you rode rollercoasters and no one liked being the third in a car. The backseat never felt full.

  Roxie said, “I don’t know exactly—you know me and directions. But the guy knew James and brought out all this food and wine and never charged us a cent! It was great.”

  “What guy?”

  “Some old Italian dude. Aldo something.”

  “Aldo? Not Lombardi?”

  “Yeah, that was it.” Roxie put on a deep Italian voice. “Signore Aldo Lombardi.”

  “Holyfuckingshit, Roxie. He’s a don.”

  “No, Cress. His name’s Aldo.”

  “I mean he’s a don? As in the head of the Lombardi family? As in Mafia?”

  “What? That sweet old man? C’mon. I went to school with a bunch of Lombardis. It’s a common name. You know, in Italy it’s as common as—”

  “Smith?” Cress said.

  Upstairs, in his apartment over the bar, James stared at the blank calendar. The doctor had given him three months—maybe six—to live. He’d known something was wrong, that there was something dead inside him already. He wondered if he had made that dead part grow even faster with the choices he’d made. He hated thinking like that. As if he’d ever mattered.

  He hung the calendar back on the fridge, drew the curtains, then laid down on his couch. TV flickered images from a black-and-white film, Double Indemnity. He reached under the couch for an ashtray, picked through the butts of half-smoked joints, and chose a fat one with a pink lipstick tinge. Jimbo fast-forwarded through the opening credits to a scene where Neff, played by Fred MacMurray, sat at his desk speaking into a dictation machine:

  “It was perfect, except that it wasn’t, because you made a mistake, just one tiny little mistake. When it came to picking the killer, you picked the wrong guy, if you know what I mean. Want to know who killed Dietrichson? Hold tight to that cheap cigar of yours, Keyes. I killed Dietrichson. Me, Walter Neff, insurance agent, thirty-five years old, unmarried, no visible scars—” (He glanced down at his wounded shoulder) “Until a little while ago, that is. Yes, I killed him. I killed him for money—and a woman—and I didn’t get the money and I didn’t get the woman. Pretty, isn’t it?”

  Neff interrupted the dictation, lay down the horn on the desk. He took his lighted cigarette from the ashtray, puffed it two or three times, and killed it. He picked up the horn again.

  James played out the scene on his end, lip-synching the monologue, mimicking the hand flourishes. He smoked when Neff smoked, stubbing his joint out simultaneously. He punched the Fast-Forward button, stopping on the part where Neff goes to the Dietrichsons’ house and meets Phyllis. He unzipped his pants, pulled out his cock, and spoke the lines out loud, stroking himself. Barbara Stanwyck had been something else back then.

  Later that night, after closing the bar, Jimbo lay in bed staring at the ceiling. He thought about how there are certain things in life that, once you start doing them, you can’t stop. Like a gateway drug. He thought about the first kiss—just a peck, but a few of those and it led to inserting the tongue, which led to groping over the clothes, then under the clothes, then without clothes, which led to trying all those same things with other people. And once you went there . . . The possibilities were endless, especially if you liked to travel. And maybe you stumble on a certain inappropriate picture or website or magazine and you think that wasn’t so bad, so you go a little farther and then . . . it’s no big deal. None of it is any big deal.

  Until you wake up one morning totally uninhibited, your innocence compromised beyond repair, and you ask yourself, who the fuck am I now?

  Chapter 27

  IF WISHES WERE HORSES, TEDESCO WOULD BE IN DEEP MANURE

  It felt a bit surreal, being there with her, alone. I tried to not think of the possibilities, but walking behind Barbara, following the sway of her hips, possibility was definitely one of the things on my mind.

  She led me to the sunroom, a glass-walled outcropping expanding the already-too-large house. The view was spectacular. A manicured lawn rolled away t
o a wide expanse of field and forest beyond, like something you’d see on one of those horror movies that start out all nice and sunny, or a made-for-TV drama where the mean guy is dying of cancer and builds an amusement park in his backyard so kids will always remember him.

  Barbara waved at a wicker bar in the corner. “Do you want a drink? It’s not too early, is it? Mick’s traveling and, I swear, I don’t keep a schedule when he’s gone. I don’t even like cooking for myself. It seems such a waste, all that preparation and cleanup. I’d just as soon eat a bowl of cereal.”

  I listened to her flit from subject to subject like a hummingbird. She was still cute, still had no idea the effect she had on men—on me. I had to watch myself or I’d fall in love with Buffy all over again. I sunk back into a chaise lounge angled to take in the view, the green expanse of lawn. That was the thing about Syracuse—precipitation and clouds were good for growing grass. Also for indoor sports and fat, lazy people.

  But on this day we were neither of those, doing nothing like that. We were instead two old friends reminiscing in a fancy house in the suburbs while the hard-working husband was away.

  “Why didn’t you ever come back for the reunions?” she asked.

  “There were reunions?”

  “Stop it. You know there were. I sent the invites, made the list myself.”

  “Is that right? I should have come, then.”

  “Why didn’t you, Bill? Didn’t you wonder, I mean, about everyone?”

  “Sure I did,” I said. “But I was on the road with the guys then, and we hardly knew what city we were in much less what month it was. We did forty-eight states in ten months, made more in one night than some people make all year.”

  She raised her brows. I could almost hear the “cha-ching.”

  I shrugged. “I blew it all. Only one of us had any sense. Fifi put half his take away every month, played the market, did good for himself. Now he owns a few car dealerships in Miami, has oceanfront property, and travels to Europe with a new woman every spring.” I started feeling a bit depressed. “You know, I think I will have a drink.”