Afterburn

'Absolutely.'

'You're one of those talking drunks, though.'

'Yeah, I talk a lot when I'm drunk. Like feathers coming out my mouth, floating around.'

She smiled. 'No, I like it.'

Go ahead, put the hook in deeper, you fly bitch. 'Nah,' he said. 'Don't listen to me.'

'Most guys drink too much, they get mean.'

'Not me. Never mean. Don't know how to do it.'

'Really?'

'Nope. I'm a pacifist. Feathers everywhere.'

'You're a sweet guy, huh?' She turned to the bartender, signaled for another drink.

'Yeah.' She knew the bartender; you could see it in his eye. They knew each other and they were setting him up. He'd mentioned Tony Verducci and then in five minutes he's got action on the bar stool.

'So you're from out of town?'

'Yes.'

'Where you staying?'

'Hilton midtown.'

'You kind of don't look like a guy staying at the Hilton.'

'No, I agree.'

She blew a bloom of smoke. 'You're in disguise?'

'Yes.'

'Really?'

'Deep cover.'

'Who you hiding from?'

'Bunch of mob guys I used to know.'

'Real mob guys?'

'Oh yeah, real mob guys.'

She laughed. 'You're full of shit.'

'You're right. I am. I told you I was, but you didn't believe me.'

'Come on.'

'What?'

'Tell me. I'm interested.'

'Nah, I'm the most boring guy in the world. You tell me who you are.'

She pushed her red fingernails through her hair. 'I work in midtown, work for this big lawyer.'

'What kind of law?'

'Oh, mostly real estate.'

'You know the difference between a co-op and a condo?'

'They're sort of the same.'

'Really?'

She looked at him. 'Well, practically.'

'I always wanted to know.'

'Also, we mostly do like other kinds of law.'

He nodded. Lies, all lies. 'Boss a good guy?'

'Pretty good.'

'He screw you on his desk?'

'What?'

'I said does he-'

'I heard you.' She looked down and paid too much attention to her cigarette. This was the proof. Any real woman would be long gone after a line like that. She'd look at him and say fuck you and leave. It was okay now. He knew the score. In fact, he could have one more drink, because it was helping him think clearly. Drinking could do that. He had not been drinking for four years, and now he was drinking and was so drunk that he actually saw everything very clearly. The bartender had called his boss and then they had gotten this woman to slide out from the back somewhere, an office or someplace where they count the money, and she was going to try to get him off where they could grab him. 'Hey,' he said to the bartender, 'one more for me, and one more for her, if she so desires.'

'So, I think I know why I sat down next to you,' she finally said, her voice a purr of smoke.

He had to figure a way out of there soon. 'You were hoping I'd ask some rude-ass questions.'

'Nope. That wasn't it. I just figured it out. It's your beard.'

'My beard?'

'You've got a great beard.' She reached out and touched his cheek. 'It's so thick, but you keep it trimmed.'

'Yeah.'

'And you've got Superman glasses.'

'Superman with a beard.'

She looked around. 'This place gets too crowded.'

'Trendy. Things get trendy, you make a million dollars.'

'You feel like going someplace a little more quiet? Get a night-cap? There's the Temple and the Fez a few blocks up, and a couple places down a little.' She stared at him with her mouth open and her eyes half closed, yet looking directly into his. Her tongue rested on her bottom lip and then slid outward and stayed out, as if needing something.

He put three twenties down on the bar.

'Did you have a coat?'

'No.' His change came back and he dropped a ten on the counter. A tip before dying.

He had to get out of the place. 'I'm just going to use the men's.'

Fucking drunk, couldn't walk, feet moving like fish just pulled out of the water, flopping, don't know anything, dying. He kept one hand on the wall. Look smooth, Rick-o, look like you're just taking a piss. There had to be a door, fire door, basement door, something. Fire regulations. He pushed through the men's. Two guys in there, neither of them trouble. Yuppie assholes making half a mil each. He hadn't punched a guy in years, didn't even know how to do it anymore. They wouldn't try anything in the men's, it could go wrong too easily, they didn't know if he had a gun or not, which in fact he did not, being a pacifist-no, what they wanted was to just slide him out easy. No scene. It's a business. Tony Verducci used to get vodka by paying off a liquor distributor employee to tell him when to hijack the delivery trucks. He sold it at half the price of wholesale, and the buyer promised to resell it somewhere Tony wasn't doing business-Boston, maybe. Tony made so much money that he had a picture of himself shaking hands with Donald Trump hanging in his upstairs bathroom. Rick pissed a long piss, swaying on his feet, forehead against the white tiles. He needed to eat something, a burrito maybe, break up the alcohol, drink some water, too, he was too drunk to run and yet he had the feeling he was going to have to run soon, his mouth had done this to him-three days he's back and he's saying the words Tony and Verducci to some-no, no! Too long in the men's room, get out, they would come looking for him, and so he zipped and skipped the hand-washing, maybe a drop or two on his pants leg, so what, civilization still intact, and then pushed out along the hallway, a door? Give me a door, eyeballs going double, fish-feet going floppety-flop, sway-shouldering along the hall, don't drop your cigarette, they should turn down the lights, made you squint, can't see, find the door, but in fact there was no door, not even a back room with some Mexican guy cutting up potatoes, nothing! Mexicans everywhere in the city, doing the real work. And here he was back in the bar. Connie was down at the end smiling at him, great droopy tits under that black silky sweater, big nipples you could twiddle like a locker combination, maybe he would actually get to fuck her, maybe she was willing to do that if it came to it. She looked like she would be one of those wet women, he liked that, slick and slide and stink you up-best thing in the world. He pushed past some Wall Street mojo with a burning log of a cigar in his mouth-the thing looked like some kind of black dick stuck in the guy's teeth, the message being that he was so fucking fat, he could stick a black dick in his mouth, still be a man-that was the secret logic of cigars, of course. And then past a couple of women who looked like horses wearing lipstick and some guys in Euro- sadist haircuts, careful not to sway too much, people lose respect, and the question was, Where would they try to