by Harley Fox
I smile, leaning back as I look out over the room. Willy’s one of the best guys Gil has on his team. A little portly around the middle, he’s still charming as hell, and the smoothest talker I know. In his white suit and hat, he looks like he’s about to jet off to Africa to hunt rhinos. He’s the guy that Gil takes along to get information out of people who don’t want to give up any information, and all without using any violence.
Well … most of the time, that is.
“So, the job went all right?” Willy asks, keeping his voice low. I know he doesn’t want to speak too loudly. Lately, with Gil getting more and more into the coke, it’s been difficult knowing what could set him off. My stomach lurches but I try to ignore it.
“Yeah,” I say to him. “It was-”
But what it was is interrupted by the sound of an approaching voice.
“Well, well, well, our star player has decided to grace us with his presence.”
Both Willy and I turn to see Jackson sauntering over to us. Standing two inches shorter than me and about fifty pounds lighter, Jackson is the embodiment of every wannabe high school jock who never quite got his day. His hair is cut in a crewcut and he wears a dog tag, even though I know he’s never been in the army. He walks up until he’s six inches from my face and he’s staring me right in the eye.
“Didn’t think you worked here any more,” he says, his breath smelling of pepperoni grease and cigarette smoke. “I guess you finally remembered that this is a family, and in order to be a part of that, you gotta participate.”
“Hello Jackson,” Willy says with a fake smile. “So nice of you to say hello.”
Jackson glances at Willy and gets a look like he just stepped in something.
“Shut up, Aussie. Nobody’s talking to you.”
“Fuck off, Jackson,” I growl. “Don’t you have some puppies to kill?”
Jackson looks back at me and grins. “I took care of that this morning,” he says. “Crushed their little heads right underneath my boot.” My upper lip curls and that just makes him smile wider. “See? You’re not so heartless after all.”
“What do you want?” I ask.
“I just wanted to give you a little warning while you’re here,” Jackson says to me.
“And what warning would that be?”
“That you’re outta here, you fucking pecker,” he spits. “Your days in this business are fucking numbered.”
I grin. “That’s a shock. I didn’t know you ever learned how to count.”
His smile disappears.
“You’d better fucking watch it,” he snarls. “Because the times, they are a-changin’. And when they do I’m gonna be right here to help you punch in your retirement card.”
Jackson takes a step back and spins around, strutting back to his precious weights. I turn my back on him and look at Willy.
“Christ, I hate that fucking kid,” I tell him in a low voice again.
“You and everyone else,” Willy agrees. “Except Gil, and unfortunately his is the only opinion that matters.” He levels his gaze at me. “So the job tonight. How did it go?”
My stomach lurches again, but I keep a straight face.
“All right,” I say. Willy raises an eyebrow.
“All right?” he repeats. Then he shakes his head. “No it wasn’t. Tell me the truth.”
I can’t help but smile. Willy’s the only one who can read me, even when no one else can. Even as kids I found it hard to keep secrets from him.
“No, it wasn’t,” I agree, my voice so low now it’s almost a rumble.
Willy nods.
“Hey. You look like you could use a drink.”
I nod.
“That’s not a bad idea,” I say, so we both turn and head towards the bolted door together. But when we’re halfway there Gil’s voice calls out and stops us.
“Hey!” he shouts, and everybody turns to look at him. “Where do you two think you’re going?”
“We’re just grabbing a drink at the bar,” Willy says with a smile. But Gil isn’t smiling.
“I never said you could leave,” he says. Nobody speaks, and even the pool game has stopped. Outside I’m still as a statue, but inside I’m watching for any quick movement on Gil’s part. He’s staring at us, his eyes glassy and wide. But then he bursts out into great bales of laughter and I hear nervous chuckles joining in.
“I’m just fucking with you!” he shouts to the both of us. “Go, go! The drinks are on the house!”
We thank him and make for the door again. The drinks are always on the house, but neither of us say anything. The metal lock is slid back and we’re let out, into the relative calm of the hallway as the door slams shut behind us.
Willy and I give each other a look before walking down the hall and through the double doors, into the restaurant and into the noise of conversation again. All the tables are filled, but there’s space at the bar so we grab a couple of seats side by side. The bartender comes over right away.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he says. “What can I get for you?”
“Bourbon, two fingers, neat,” I tell him.
“I’ll have a Manhattan,” Willy says.
The bartender nods and goes to make the drinks. Willy turns to me. “So, the job. It didn’t go well?” I try not to cringe as my stomach twists around again, writhing in acid-coated pain.
“I did it. I got it done. Okay?”
“So what happened?”
Please! Just make sure Nathan’s okay!
My stomach lurches again and it feels like I’ve been punched. Or poisoned.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
The bartender comes back with our drinks and I look at him.
“Hey. You got any antacid?” I ask. He nods and leaves to go get it as I pick up my drink and down it in one go. The fiery burn of the bourbon in my acid-filled stomach feels like a taste of hell, but at least the alcohol’s inside of me.
“You don’t want to talk about it?” Willy asks, and I shake my head. The bartender comes back and puts down a pink bottle of PharmaChem-brand antacid. I hand him my empty glass and he takes it, going to fill it with more bourbon.
“No,” I say.
“Why not?”
I pop open the bottle and shake out a couple round, pink tablets, tossing them in my mouth. I chew down on them and they taste like candy. As I do, I turn my head and look out over the restaurant. There’s that family again, and that woman with the blonde hair. She’s wearing a white blouse and I can see a skirt covering her legs underneath the table. She looks up from her meal and our eyes meet. She looks frozen for a second, so I smile, and I swear I see her blush before she drops her gaze again. The sound of glass being set down makes me turn back around and my second drink is here.
“Lance,” Willy says. “Talk to me.”
I pick up the drink and wash down the antacid with a sip, then put it down and turn to look at Willy.
He’s staring at me and he hasn’t touched his drink. His face looks determined, compassionate. There’s something there that only decades of friendship can create. I can’t keep him in the dark about this. He deserves better.
“I …” I start to say, but for some reason the words can’t form in my mouth. I struggle for more, but nothing comes out.
“Lance?” Willy says, his eyebrows furrowed, and I drop my gaze. I pick up the glass and down the rest of my second drink.
“I’m sorry,” I manage to say. “But I … I can’t talk about it.”
Willy sighs and finally picks up his drink. I look over at the bartender and signal to him for another. He picks up the bottle and comes over.
“Well shit, Lance,” Willy says as the bartender arrives and begins pouring booze until I motion for him to stop. “It must’ve been something bad. You’ve never got shaken up like this from a job before.”
I nod, picking up my glass and only taking a sip now. At least my stomach’s feeling better. Thank God for modern medicine.
&n
bsp; Willy takes a sip of his drink, silent now.
“How’s the business?” I ask him, changing the subject. But instead of telling me some good news, Willy just shakes his head.
“Gil’s been getting worse,” he says, his voice solemn and low.
I don’t say anything. I should’ve expected that answer. Willy takes another sip and goes on.
“You’re not around a lot, right? So you don’t hear the talk. Gil’s been getting on edge with some of the crew. Accusing them of things that nobody’d ever do. You remember that guy Patrick? With the blond hair?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Well, just as well. Gil had him killed. He said Patrick was turning tail to run to the Gambinos. No evidence, just a hunch. You weren’t around and he was livid, so Jackson offered to go over to his house to take care of business. Now the body’s gone and Gil’s paid off the search party, so they’re running around with their heads up their asses for a month or so. Nobody knows what Jackson did, but knowing him, I don’t think I want to know.” Willy shakes his head again. “Things are getting tense around here, Lance. You felt it in the room tonight. And nobody knows what they’re going to do.”
Listening to Willy has made the antacid lose all its powers, because my stomach pains are back with a vengeance.
“So what?” I snarl as I pick up the bottle and shake out two more tablets.
“So, there have been rumors floating around. About who Gil’s gonna kill next. And some have said that it might be you.”
I turn to look at my friend, chewing on the candy-flavored medicine. Willy looks right back at me.
“Apparently,” he says in a lower tone, “Gil doesn’t like how you’re not around all the time. He says you’re not part of the team. And that you have an attitude, and that it needs to be worked on.”
“That’s bullshit,” I say to him. “I told him this is how I work. I told him that when we started.”
“I know that, and I think everybody else does too. But Gil wants what he wants. I guess he wants you to spend more time here, or something.”
My upper lip curls and I stay silent. The thought of spending more time with Gil than necessary is more than I can bear. Willy leans in and speaks even lower, despite nobody being close by.
“Look,” he tells me. “I know working for Gil sucks. I’m with you on that one buddy, one-hundred percent. But there just ain’t any other places to shack up in that aren’t any worse. At least with Gil we have some of our freedoms left, you know? It’s not like it was five years ago.”
My stomach turns in on itself and I can’t stop from tensing my muscles to absorb the pain. Willy looks down at my strange movements.
“Is everything all right? What’s with your stomach?”
“It’s nothing,” I lie as I shake out four more antacids and pop them in my mouth. As I chew them I turn my head and spot that woman again. Her plate is gone and she’s talking with the others. Fuck, she’s hot. And there’s something about her. I just want to get away from all this and see if I can fuck her.
“Have you been stressed out lately?” he asks. “That would explain why you’re so moody tonight.”
“I’m not moody,” I snarl, turning back, but Willy gives me a look.
“Come on, man,” he says. “I’ve known you since grade school. I know when you’re being moody. I’ve seen snatches of it here and there, but tonight it’s really come out. Why’re you hiding it?”
“Fuck you,” I say, picking up my glass but finding it empty. I slam it back down and look for the bartender, but he’s not around.
“Come on, tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Do you want to talk about anything?”
Nathan!!!
“NO!” I say too loudly, and the conversations around me all stumble like a shock wave.
I breathe in deep and steady, my stomach turning on me, writhing in absolute agony. I want to turn around and look at that woman again, but I keep my head where it is. Willy’s still looking at me as the conversations pick back up. Finally, silently, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a pen and a small notepad. Without speaking, he jots something down and rips off the sheet, handing it to me.
“What’s this?” I say, looking at it. Scribbled on it is a woman’s name and an address.
“That,” he says, putting the pen and notepad away, “is the name of a therapist.”
I look at him. “A therapist? Are you fucking kidding me? I’m not going to some shrink.”
“She’s not a shrink,” he says. “She’s good. Really good. Give her a try, you might find it’ll help.”
I look at the paper in my hand before crumpling it in my fist.
“No,” I say, tossing the paper onto the bar. The bartender finally comes over and fills up my drink again, and all the while Willy stares at me. Finally, once the bartender’s gone again, I look over at him.
“What?” I say.
“Do you remember,” he says slowly, “how, when Danny died, I was the first person you opened up to about it?”
Sudden anger flares up inside of me but I keep my body still. I keep myself in check.
“This isn’t like that,” I say through my teeth.
“I know it’s not,” Willy replies, his voice calm. “But talking helped, didn’t it? It helped to get rid of that pain.”
I don’t respond. Instead I look forward again and take another sip.
“Just give her a chance,” he says, picking up the crumpled paper and smoothing it out. “Okay? Do it for me.”
Behind me I hear chairs scraping and I look back to see that family standing up, getting ready to leave. That woman glances my way and we lock eyes again. I feel my heartbeat pick up and then she looks away. I watch her for a second longer before turning back, shoving the note in my jacket pocket.
“There you go,” Willy says with a smile, clapping me on the back. “You won’t regret this, trust me.”
As he returns to his drink, I listen to the family make their way to the front door. I turn my head and watch them, then I down the rest of my drink.
“I’ll see you later, Willy,” I say to my friend. And as the family steps out into the dark evening air, I follow after them, my sights set on that woman in the skirt.
Katie
Amanda, Doug, Tyler, and I step out into the cool evening air. My stomach is pleasantly full of cannelloni, wine, and salad. The air seems to smell sweet as I breathe it in.
“Well, that was a pretty good meal,” Amanda says. “Tyler managed to eat most of his food.”
Doug laughs. “And hardly any of it went on the floor.”
Amanda turns to me. “Well Katie, we should probably head home.”
“Yeah, I should go too. I have some client files I want to read over before going to bed.”
Amanda gives me a look. “Really? You’re going to keeping working?”
“It’s not really work,” I say, feeling defensive. “It’s just going over some notes.”
Amanda shakes her head. “Katie, this is exactly what I’m talking about. You work way too much. You need to take a break and do something for you.”
“I know,” I say quickly. “I just … I need to go over these files.”
Tyler begins fussing in Doug’s arms.
“Honey?” Doug pipes up. “We’d better go.”
Amanda looks over at Tyler and nods.
“Okay.” Turning back to me, she adds, “Well, have a good night Katie. I’ll see you on Monday.”
She gives me a hug, but I can still feel that criticism there.
“Thanks, you too. See you later, Doug. Bye, Tyler.”
“Night,” Doug says, and the three of them head to their car as I turn around and begin towards mine.
When we got to the restaurant the parking lot was so full that I had to park close to the back while Doug parked close to the front. I head there now, the scraping of my shoes on the asphalt quickly becoming the on
ly sound I hear. As I walk Amanda’s comments during dinner come floating back to me.
Don’t you remember how stir-crazy I got when I was in my late stages with Tyler? she said to me. I just did the same thing day after day, and it almost drove me insane. You have a bigger threshold for that type of thing than me, but even so, I’m worried that one day it’ll get to you.
And as much as I hate to admit it, Amanda’s not far from being right. Lately I’ve been feeling like the work is kind of getting to me.
Well … I suppose it’s not so much the work as it is the repetition. Doing practically the same thing almost every day for seven years now, I’ve found that the novelty of the job has gone away. I’ve been noticing that I get the same types of clients over and over. They’re all valid people, and all of their issues are real. But it’s the same issue, day after day, week after week, year after year.
In fact, a few years ago it got to the point where I decided to try changing up my style of practice. Instead of taking notes about their stories, I began taking notes about their body language, their facial expressions, the tone of language they used when they described something. A couple of times I pointed these out to the clients and they had no idea that’s what they were doing.
But it helped me get deeper, to the root of the problems faster than I had before. And it made me very good at reading people, which has in turn greatly helped my reputation for the job. But now, years later, I’m almost stuck in that rut again. I’ve even had fleeting thoughts that if I can’t find a way to change things up, then it might be time for me to consider a different practice.
I reach my car and open up my purse, fishing around for my keys. There’s a tall lamp at the other end of the lot, casting a pale white glow over the cars close to it, but not so much mine. Over here I can only dimly make out what’s inside my purse.
“Hard to see over here, isn’t it?”
I shout in surprise, wheeling around as my heart skips a beat in my chest. Against the wall, a few yards away, stands a tall and broad-shouldered man. The dim light obscures his features, but when he takes a step forward I can make him out a bit more.