There were two young bartenders. Both wore green suspenders, and both had green bow ties to match. The larger of the two stood in front of me. He was heavyset, leaning to fat, and he had a modified crew cut that seemed to be the Laurel rage. The little tuft of hair that remained on the top of his head had been gelled up.
“What can I get you?” he said. A button on his suspender said HAVE A REAL COOL YULE.
“Just a Coke, please.”
“Would you like to see a menu?”
“No, thanks.”
He pointed to a machine behind him that had a tap protruding from the front of a clear plastic plate. Behind the plate something swirled like a brown and white pinwheel. “How ’bout a Coke-a-Doke?” the bartender said.
“What the hell’s that?”
He looked at me through a sour smile. “Rum and Coke. You know, frozen.”
“A regular Coke’ll do it,” I said. “And don’t do anything cute to it, hear?”
He nodded and came back with my drink. I placed my card next to the coaster (which advertised COKE-A-DOKE) where he set the glass. He picked up the card and looked it over. His mouth dropped open and his lips moved as he did it.
“You wanna talk to the manager?” he said. “Is that it?”
“No. I can talk to you if it’s all right.”
“What about?”
I reached inside my overcoat and pulled out the photo of April that Billy had sent me and placed it on the bar. The bartender glanced down but didn’t touch the photo. “She was in here about a week and a half ago,” I said, “on a Tuesday night. Drinking at this bar, I think.”
“I don’t work Tuesday nights.”
“Who does?”
The bartender jerked his thumb toward the service area, where his partner was garnishing some frozen drinks on a tray. “He does. He works the main bar at night and service bar on the weekends.”
“Ask him to come over here for a second, will you?” I pulled my wallet and from that a five. I placed the five on the bar and pushed it into my friend’s hand. “Thanks.”
“Sure thing.”
Bartender Number One walked over to Bartender Number Two to talk things over. As they talked, Bartender Number One dropped the five into an empty pitcher that was their mutual tip jar. I listened to the Beach Boys’ pathetic “Little Saint Nick” on the house stereo while some whistles screamed and boingers boinged in the background, probably signaling someone else’s birthday. The place made me want to puke something, preferably Coke-a-Doke, directly on the bar.
Bartender Number Two walked my way. He puffed out his narrow chest and lowered his voice. “How’s it goin?”
“Good.” I tapped the photo once on the bar. “She was in here Tuesday night last week, with a friend of mine.”
“What’s this all about?”
“It’s about another five, for you and your buddy.”
Number Two looked around and leaned over the bar. “You’re talkin’ about a ten then, am I not right?”
“If ten can make you remember.”
He looked over the photo and back at me. “What’d your friend look like?”
“My age and size. Blond hair.”
“Drinkers, right?”
“You tell me.” I put the ten on the bar and kept my hand on it. He studied the photograph.
“Okay. They were in that night. The reason I remember is ’cause Tuesday’s rum night. You know, we do a special on it, get a premium back from the local distributor. Anyway, it doesn’t draw much of a crowd, but this particular lady”—he touched his finger to the photo—“she put away almost a liter of Bacardi Dark herself that night. Man, she could really pound it.”
I took my hand off the bill. Number Two pulled it off the bar, folded it, and slipped it into the breast pocket of his oxford shirt. “How much for the Coke?” I said.
“On the house,” he said, and winked as I put on my overcoat. “If you don’t mind my asking, why are you after those two? They done anything wrong?”
“No,” I said. “Nothing wrong. Just a man and his wife, gettin’ a load on for the holidays. Thanks for the information.”
“No problem. Have a real cool yule.”
“Right.”
ON THE WAY HOME I stopped at Town Hall in College Park for one beer that turned into four and two hours’ worth of pool with a biker named Robert. The sky was dark when I walked out. I drove down Rhode Island Avenue and cut across Northeast to my apartment in Shepherd Park.
My cat was lapping water from her dish when I entered my apartment. I spooned some salmon into her food dish and tapped the can with the spoon. She abandoned the water for the salmon. In my bedroom I hit the power button on my stereo—Weasel was still on, moving from the Kinks’ “Father Christmas” to the Pogues/Kirsty MacColl duet, “Fairytale of New York”—and I let it play. Out in the hall I opened the closet door and searched until I found a two-foot-high plastic Christmas tree with retractable arms, buried in the clutter. I dusted off the tree and set it up on the small table in my living room.
After that I made coffee and poured some whiskey in it and took it out to my couch. I drank it to the fade-in of the Pretenders’ “2000 Miles.” When I woke up, my cat was sleeping in my lap. I talked to her for a long while as I scratched behind her ears. Then I picked her up and carried her into my bedroom, where I put her in the cardboard box. The clock on my nightstand said 2:14 A.M.
I undressed and removed my wristwatch and laid it on my dresser. Next to the watch were the earrings and the ring from Tommy Crane’s cottage. I picked up the ring and looked closely at the silver antique setting. Then I absently rubbed the tiny ruby that was set like a spot of blood in the middle of the ring.
I switched off the light and got into bed. I thought of April and Billy, and of Tommy Crane. The next time I looked at the clock it read 4:05. I sat up in bed, reached for my cigarettes, and lighted one off a match. A half hour later I sat up again and put fire to another one in the dark.
SEVENTEEN
JACKIE KAHN’S ACCORDION-GATED elevator rose through the center of the marble staircase and stopped with pneumatic ease. My footsteps echoed on the marble floor that led to her door. I knocked once on the door. It opened and Jackie leaned in the frame.
She was wearing a mustard-colored bathrobe. Something black and lacy showed from beneath the collar of the bathrobe. She smiled. “Nicky.”
“Hey, Jackie.”
“You’re mighty punctual tonight.”
“That’s me. Johnny-on-the-Spot. Here.” I handed her a bottle of Chilean cabernet. She inspected the label.
“Looks fine,” she said with a nod.
“Gran Torres, 1982.”
“Come on in.”
I stepped into the condo and removed my overcoat in the marble foyer. Jackie hung it in a hall closet, and then I followed her into the living room. A Yule log burned in the fireplace set in the lavender west wall, and in the dining room a beveled glass table was set for two. On the center of the table one lavender candle was lit. Jackie kept walking and I followed as I talked to her back and watched the shimmer of her thin calves.
“Where we going?”
“To the bedroom, pal. We’ve got a date, remember?”
“Sure, I do. But this is all happening so fast.” Jackie stopped walking, turned, and rolled her eyes.
“Dinner’s almost ready. Let’s do it, okay?”
“Do it?”
“Yeah.”
“How about a drink first?”
“Nope.”
“Hinders the sample, right?” Jackie didn’t answer.
We moved into her bedroom. It was a futon-and-halogen-lamp affair with a fireplace on the wall adjacent to the bed. She had built a small fire, and the halogen lamp was dimmed to its lowest degree. Two Bose 301s were mounted in a teak wall unit behind the bed. Chaka Khan was doing “Everlasting Love” through the speakers. I nodded to the speakers.
“Chaka a relative of yours?”
�
�She spells it differently,” Jackie Kahn said. “Quit stalling, Nick. Let’s make a baby.”
Jackie undid her robe and sat facing out on a sky blue towel that she had spread on the edge of the futon. She spread her knees and leaned back, resting her palms on the futon. The black lace teddy she was wearing ended at her midriff. Below that was her flat abdomen and below that faint tan lines where her panties would have been. The muscles of her inner thighs rippled and then met in one beautifully manicured vee of cleanly shaved pudendum. I felt slightly dizzy as the blood in my head quickly headed south.
“You plan on doing this through osmosis?” Jackie said.
I shook my head, closed my mouth, gulped, and removed my shirt. I tripped climbing out of my slacks, then did the one-legged hop as I pulled off my socks. Chaka Khan screamed as I took off my underwear and dropped it in the pile with the rest of my clothes.
“Okay, I’m ready.”
Jackie smirked. “You only look half-ready.”
“It would help if you’d say something romantic.”
“How about grabbing that Vaseline off the nightstand?”
“That’s a start,” I said.
I retrieved the blue-and-gold jar from the nightstand, removed the top, and dipped two fingers into the petroleum jelly. I walked toward Jackie with a cupped hand and a smile of crocodilian sensitivity.
Jackie said, “Hold it right there, soldier. I’ll do that.”
I nodded bashfully and handed her the jar. Jackie scooped out some Vaseline and massaged it into her vulva with two index fingers. When one of the fingers disappeared knuckle-deep into her vagina, the dizziness returned, and I glanced down to see my dick jumping about like some rude marionette.
“I think I’m about ready now,” I said.
“Well, you look it. Come on.”
I moved forward, and we did the dance. Except at the moment of entry, when she grudgingly let a parted-lip wince cross her face, Jackie remained quite expressionless throughout. Twice during our “lovemaking” I greedily reached inside her negligee to feel her breasts, and both times she mechanically slapped my hand away. That slowed things down a bit, as did my lame attempts at humor (“Jackieee,” I shouted at one point, “oh, Jackie, oh, Jackie, uh-Ooooh!”), but when I finally closed my eyes and began to enjoy the great pureness of sensation, the shortness of breath, and the last tongue-biting, eyes-rolled-up-into-the-head preejaculatory seconds, then everything in the room, everything in the world in fact, was better than fine.
When it was over I removed my sweaty forehead from Jackie’s dry shoulder. The edges of Jackie’s deep brown eyes crinkled as her smirk twisted up on one side. She brushed a hand back through her short black hair and leaned back on the futon.
“Well?”
“Well, I can’t tell for certain, of course,” I said. “But it sure felt like the mother load.” Then I cocked my head thoughtfully to one side. “Was it beautiful for you?”
“Nicky,” she said. “You are such an asshole.”
JACKIE HAD GRILLED SWORDFISH steaks on the Jenn-Air and served them topped with a mustard, butter, and dill sauce. We ate them with grilled new potatoes and a green salad lightly seasoned with oregano and pepper and garlic vinegar. I had a sip of the cabernet and Jackie did the same.
“Nice wine,” she said.
“I’m a hero, then. I thought the red might not go with the fish.”
“A myth. The red goes fine. As for being a hero, I’ll tell you in a couple weeks.”
“That when you find out?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, if it doesn’t happen this time—you know, I’ll always be there for you.” I slid an oily nod toward her bedroom, and Jackie laughed.
“If it doesn’t work out, I’ll try the insemination route next time, thanks.”
I put my wineglass on the table. “It wasn’t all that awful, was it?”
“No, it wasn’t all that awful. But I didn’t enjoy it, if that’s what you mean. I went through my entire youth and my twenties not enjoying it, as a matter of fact.” Jackie had a taste of fish and closed her eyes briefly as she chewed and swallowed. “When I finally did admit to myself what I really wanted, there was a long period of curiosity, and then some guilt, and after that acceptance. And now I just feel right. And happy.”
“Well, then I am too,” I said. “Happy for you. We’re friends, right?”
Jackie smiled radiantly in the light of the single candle that stood between us on the beveled glass table. “You are a good friend.” She leaned in on her forearms. “So I was wondering if you could scare up the energy to give it another shot after dinner. For insurance. I know I’m ovulating—I’ve been on Pergonal to stimulate it, and I can feel it, like a little tickle down there.” She looked toward her lap and back at me. “What do you think?”
“It’s been a while since I’ve Done the Deuce.”
“Is that a yes?”
“It is.”
I LEFT JACKIE’S AROUND midnight and drove out of Kalorama, up Connecticut and west to Wisconsin, where I turned right and headed uptown. Christmas lights were strung in the windows of the bars and in the pizza parlors that served AU students in that part of town. I listened to the Cure’s “Pictures of You” and kept listening after I had cut the engine of my Dart in front of Lee’s apartment. When the song was done I climbed out of my car and turned the collar up on my overcoat as I took the stairs to Lee’s.
She answered on the third knock after a check through her peephole. I straightened up as the door opened. Lee wore black jeans and a hip-length, army green sweater. The sweater picked up the green from her eyes.
“Hi, Nick.” She smiled weakly and looked behind her toward the living room, then back at me.
“Hi. Can I come in?”
“I don’t think it’s such a good idea,” she said.
“Got company?”
Her features softened. “Yes.”
“Talk to me for a minute?”
Lee looked behind her once more and nodded. She checked the lock and closed the door, and stepped out with me into the yellow light of the stairwell. Her arms folded up and she began to shiver. I took off my overcoat and draped it over her shoulders. The hem of the coat nearly touched the ground. Lee looked up.
“How’d it go tonight?” she said.
“It went okay.”
“I’m sure you found a way to make it interesting. Anyway, I didn’t expect to see you tonight.” She turned her head and nodded at the door. “Obviously.”
I shuffled my feet. “Listen, Lee. I’m not drunk…. I didn’t come over here tonight to bother you. I just wanted to talk, maybe spend the night. Just sleep with you.”
Lee looked down at the overcoat that was billowing at her slippered feet. “Sorry, Nick. About my friend in there”—Lee motioned her chin—“it’s nothing serious really, he’s just a friend.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything.”
“Well, I want to. And I want to talk. I’ve been meaning to call, to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
Lee looked down again and then raised her head. She brushed some of her brown hair off her face. “This isn’t a good time, I know. But I’m graduating in January, in a couple of weeks. And after that… I’ve decided to leave town, Nick.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. My parents have been bugging me all year, ‘What are you going to do after graduation?’ I guess they’re probably right. My father wants me to do some paralegal work, he’s got a job lined up for me. I’m going back up to Long Island. It’s not like I’ll never be back. Who knows, right?”
“You’ll figure it out,” I said. “You’ll do fine.”
“Thanks.” Lee put her arms under mine and locked her hands behind my back. She kissed me lightly on the base of my ear. “How’s it going for you?”
“Things are moving.”
“Yeah?” She smiled. “What about your friend’s wife? You find her?”
“I’m close, I think.”
“Anything on your friend Henry?”
“I’m getting close on that too.”
“What happens to you after that?”
I chuckled unconvincingly. “Short-term goals for me, Lee. You know that.”
Lee kissed me on the lips for a long while. I didn’t want her to pull away. I didn’t want to lose the warmth of her face, or her smell. When she backed up, her eyes were wet. It could have been the bitter air, but I wanted it to be the loss.
Lee handed me my overcoat and smiled. “Bye, Nicky. I’ll call you. Soon.”
“So long, Lee.” I turned and walked down the stairs to my car.
I stopped once more that night around the corner at May’s, for a bourbon and a glass of beer. Steve Maroulis was behind the bar. Before I left I placed a ten-dollar bet with Maroulis on a horse named Miss Emmy and then drove back by Lee’s. The windows of her second-story apartment were dark now. I headed for Military Road and drove home through empty streets.
EIGHTEEN
THE NEXT DAY I replaced Mai behind the bar at three o’clock. Monday night was the worst shift of the week, and it was traditionally hers, but Mai was making me do penance for my trip to southern Maryland. I stuffed my blue bar rag into the waistband of my jeans, smoothed it out on the side of my hip, and passed through the service entrance to the bar.
Happy sat on his favorite stool, staring straight ahead into the bar mirror, one hand around an up glass, the other holding a lit Chesterfield. Mai stood at the service bar and drank a shift Heineken while she talked to me about some unfortunate young marine she was dating. I stocked the backup liquor beneath the rack and nodded occasionally as she talked.
A guy named Dave drank coffee and sat alone at the end of the bar, reading a pulp novel called Violent Saturday, by W. L. Heath. Dave was the Spot’s reader—every joint had one—who never drank anything stronger than black coffee. I suspected he was an on-the-wagon alkie who simply liked the nostalgia of sitting in a bar, but I never confirmed it. The only time he ever spoke to me was when I tried to empty and clean his overflowed ashtray. “Don’t do that,” he had said quietly, gripping the side of it. “Dirty’s the way I like it.”
Nick's Trip Page 17