“You look like panda, man,” N.J. says, seeing Morris’s swollen eye. He’s stopped in to say goodbye, is on his way to the airport with Hattie. “It hurt?” he asks, lightly touching Morris’s cheek.
Morris jerks back. “Yes, it hurts,” he says. “Don’t poke at it.”
“Got into a scrap myself last night, man.” He hitches his thumbs in his pants. He’s wearing his leather cowboy attire, but has added a bolo tie, the gold clasp stamped with the Red Thread symbol.
“With Hattie?”
“With a couple of Skunks.”
“Skunks?” Morris asks.
“A couple of the squatter friends of Hattie’s. After I slapped them up a bit, Hattie felt bad about the beating they took, so she gave them her apartment. We ended up staying at the Soho Grand. Room service sucked, man.”
“The squatters are in Hattie’s apartment?” Morris asks. “The one downstairs?”
“They were there for the night, man,” N.J. says. “She’s calling the cops once we reach the airport, reporting that they broke in. Then she’ll collect the insurance for theft, damages.”
“What a nice friend,” Morris says, now worried about his new downstairs’ neighbors.
“Hey, man,” N.J. says, “why don’t you ride with us to the airport. We’ve got a limo filled with liquor and snacks and stuff, man. And some ice for that shiner,” he says, pointing to Morris’s eye. “Come on, ride with us.”
“Stop it,” Morris says to N.J. He’s still recovering from his father’s conversation. The request that he find his own place. “Stop it with your stories. You’re not going anywhere.”
“I’m going ranching, man,” N.J. says. “Real buffali, real meat, the real West,” he says, then, his tone turning somber, he continues, “Hattie told me the whole thing about you and her, your little tiff Saturday night. I got to tell you, man, not cool on your part.”
“Not cool on my part?” Morris asks, piqued. “She and her friends fired roman candles or something at Jetski and me. Did she tell you that she nearly burned us to death?”
“She told me, man, but she’s a girl. And that’s not cool, attacking a girl like that, even if she did attack you first. She still has welts on her back, man. Anyway,” he says, straightening the strings of his bolo tie, “no worries. She’s not going to press charges.”
“Press charges? You’re fucking kidding. I should be the one pressing charges.”
“She was defending herself, man.”
“She was—” He breaks off, shakes his head. He’s got a headache and his eye throbs. “Whatever, N.J.,” he says.
From out on the street, a car horn sounds. “Listen, I got to go, man,” N.J. says. “Got a limo waiting. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” Morris says, still not believing his friend. “I’ll walk you out,” he says, grabbing his keys. “I want to see this limo of yours, see it with my own eyes.”
“Eye, man,” N.J. says. “The singular. You only got the one.”
Alternate side parking is in effect. Cars are double parked all down the street, waiting for the street cleaner to roar by before they grab their spaces again.
There in front of the building is a black stretch Mercedes.
“Shit,” Morris says, seeing it, “you weren’t kidding.”
The back window slides down halfway. “We’re late,” Hattie calls to N.J.
“Come with us,” N.J. offers again.
Morris shakes his head. “This is all you,” he tells N.J. “This is your trip, not mine.”
“All right, man,” N.J. says, visibly nervous. He’s following through on a plan. He’s truly doing what he claims. “Okay, man, take care,” he tells his friend of twenty years.
“Let’s go,” Hattie calls from the limo.
The realization strikes Morris fully, like a blast from a jet engine; N.J.’s leaving. He’s losing his closest friend to the wilds of the West.
N.J. gives Morris a quick half hug, with one arm. But before N.J. can escape, Morris takes hold of him in a solid embrace, buries his head to his friend’s chest. The leather shirt is warm to his face. “Newton,” Morris says, holding his friend the way N.J. held him in the pool that morning so many years ago. He held him for dear life, fearing to let go. “Newton, you’re not going.”
Arms reach around Morris, take him tight. “I’m going, man,” N. J. says. “I’ve got to go.”
The limo driver honks the horn again.
Morris’s one eye brims with wetness. The other stings. He fights back tears. “What’s happening here?” he asks, letting go. He forces a laugh, trying to sound at ease. He gives N.J. a playful punch in the arm. From a half block away, the workers pound and tear and rip apart the precinct. “What’s going on with us?”
“Life, man,” N.J. says. He gives a nod, a smile, then slides into the waiting limo.
It pulls away.
Chapter 40
The Trouble with Bliss Page 43