Fake I.D.

a good friend of yours, named Pete Logan, said I should throw you a call if I wanted to go in on that horse deal with you. Well, I want in, so can you give me a call when you have a chance? My home number’s 646-879-4355. All right? Thanks a lot, Mr. Schwartz, I mean Alan. Take it easy.”

As soon as I hung up I realized how stupid I was. First of all, I wasn’t going to be home tonight. What if he called me back and I missed the call? Or what if he left a message and my answering machine was on the blink?

I called Pete at the Kings Highway branch of his shoe store. I didn’t think he’d be there but I figured I could at least leave another message. A girl picked up and I asked for Pete. “Hold on,” she said, then a guy came on the line and said, “This is Pete.”

His voice didn’t sound like it did at jai-alai. On the phone, he had a heavy Brooklyn accent.

“This Pete Logan?”

“Who’s this?”

“This is Tommy Russo. You know, from jai-alai.”

He didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds, then he said, “Hey, how’s it going? I didn’t think I was gonna be hearing from you.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, it’s just a surprise, that’s all. So what’s going on?”

“Not much,” I said. “So you still need a fifth guy for that syndicate?”

“Far as I know.”

“Then stop looking ’cause you found your man.”

“You’re kidding me?” he said. “That’s terrific. So you...the money isn’t a problem?”

“No problem at all.”

“Great. You call Alan yet?”

“That’s why I’m calling you. I left a message for him but I didn’t want him to go out and find somebody else.”

“You don’t gotta worry about that. Alan would have to approve any new guy with the rest of us, so as soon as I hear from him I’ll tell him we can stop our search. And we can stop it, right? I mean you’re a hundred percent about this, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I mean I want to meet with the other guys first and see what it’s all about. But if it all checks out...”

“I got you, I got you,” Pete said. “This is great—exactly what I was hoping for when we started this thing—to get some real racing fans involved. There’re a lot of guys who could put up the money, but what fun would that be? We want guys who love the sport, who always dreamed of owning a horse but never thought they’d be able to.”

“That’s me,” I said, wondering how the hell I was going to come up with the ten grand.

Five

When I arrived at O’Reilley’s at five-thirty, Gil, the regular day bartender, was behind the bar, reading a paperback. I asked him if Frank was around and he shook his head.

“But he’s coming in today, right?”

“Yeah, he called before. He’ll be in soon.”

Gil went back to reading his book—Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy. Gil was about twenty-five and he had black curly hair and wore wire-rimmed glasses. Whenever he wasn’t serving customers, he always seemed to be reading a book or writing in a pad. He said he wrote short stories and poems, but nobody in the bar had ever read anything he wrote. I used to think that the guy was doing the right thing—working at a bar to support his dream—but now I realized what a loser he was.

At six o’clock, Gil’s shift was over and Gary wasn’t in yet so I took over at the bar. Usually, Thursdays were good nights for happy hour, but maybe the cold was keeping people away because it was seven o’clock and there were only five people in the whole place—a couple of girls at the bar drinking screwdrivers, and a few guys in suits drinking beer, standing behind the girls, trying to get up the balls to go over and talk to them.

I put a CD—“The All-Time Best Party Songs”—into the stereo, then I leaned against the bar, flipping pages of the Daily News as Meat Loaf sang “Paradise By The Dashboard Light.”

This was basically the way things were when Debbie O’Reilley came into the bar.

As usual, she was smashed. She could barely stand on her high heels and she had a big drunk smile. Her makeup was caked on and she was wearing long white shiny boots, a red miniskirt, and a short fur coat. Her fake D- or E-cup boobs were sticking straight out, pressing against her tight blouse. She looked like one of those cheap hookers on the West Side Highway, a hooker ten years past her prime.

I never really understood why Frank had married Debbie, but I figured it was because she was young and sexy—well, young as far as Frank was concerned—and I guess she was kind of sexy. She was an ex-table dancer, in one of those clubs the Mayor closed down on Seventh Avenue, and for a woman who must have been pushing fifty, she definitely had a nice shape. But a good body wasn’t a reason to marry a woman and there wasn’t much else to like about her. She was always nasty to Frank, especially when she was drunk, talking to his face about the other guys she was fucking, and Frank was rich as hell. He owned a bar and a big three-bedroom apartment on East Seventy-second Street. A lot of good-looking women would probably be clawing to meet a rich, successful guy like him, but instead he’d married a sleazy alcoholic who obviously didn’t love him and who always treated him like dirt. The only explanation I could come up with was that Frank was lonely. Frank’s first wife had died a long time ago and maybe he just wanted somebody to come home to at night. Or, maybe he just liked the excitement of having a crazy alcoholic like Debbie in his life.

Debbie stopped in the middle of the room and looked around, staring at people the way drunks do. Her skin was dark brown and leathery. Finally, still wobbling, she said, “Where the hell is my husband?”

Normally, I tried not to talk too much to Debbie, especially when she was loaded. I knew she was just looking to start trouble and that if I just ignored her she’d go bother somebody else. But nobody else in the bar answered her so I said, “He’s not here.”

“Really?” She smiled, like I’d meant it as a joke. “Well where is he then?”

“Gil said he’d be in soon,” I said.

“I guess my brilliant stepson isn’t here either.”

“Nah,” I said.

“What was that?”

“He’s not here,” I said louder. I was still looking down at the newspaper.

“I’m sure he’s out job-hunting,” she said. She waited a second then said, “That was a joke—you can laugh, you know. Give me some hint that you’re alive.”

I didn’t say anything.

“You’re in a peachy mood tonight, aren’t you?” she said. I was hoping she’d leave or go bother somebody else. Instead, she came up to the bar and sat down across from me. It smelled like she’d put on a whole bottle of perfume. She put her hand on top of mine and said, “Gimme something stiff.”

Debbie was always coming on to me, just like she came on to practically any other guy with a pulse when she was drunk.

But, for some reason, I didn’t move my hand away.

I said, “You really think you should be drinking any more?”

“What are you talking about?” she said. “I haven’t had a drink all day.”

“Yeah right. If you weren’t wearing all that perfume I bet I’d be able to smell the booze on your breath.”

“You know,” she said in a quieter, sexier voice, “if you want to get a closer whiff you can.”

Now I moved my hand.

“If you want something make it yourself,” I said. I took my newspaper and walked to the other end of the bar.

“That’s no way to treat your boss’s wife,” she said. “You realize your job could be on the line for this kind of behavior.”