Fake I.D.

“Terrific,” Alan said. “The only one who might not be able to make it is Steve, but he’s going to try to get out of some Bar Mitzvah he has to go to. We’re going to meet in the clubhouse, on the second floor near the escalator, before post time for the first race. I also wanted to apologize to you for the other day. I was wrapped up in this big project at work and I shouldn’t’ve spoken to you the way I did. I hope there are no hard feelings.”

“It was just a misunderstanding,” I said. “I’m sorry too.”

“Great,” Alan said. “Anyway, I’m looking forward to seeing you there, Tommy. This should be a lot of fun.”

Suddenly, I was in a great mood. I took a shower then pulled a pair of jeans out of the dirty laundry and put on a hooded sweatshirt. I shaved—only around my neck and my cheekbones. I liked my beard and I was planning to let it grow in all the way.

I was about to leave when I remembered my dirty clothes from last night. I didn’t feel like doing laundry later so I put the muddy sneakers, jeans, and socks into a plastic bag and took it with me.

I took the 6 train downtown to Thirty-third Street and walked a few blocks crosstown. In a garbage can on the corner of Thirty-fourth and Seventh, I dumped the dirty clothes. I knew I couldn’t go to the track on Saturday dressed like a slob—it was going to be my first day as a horse owner and I wanted to look the part—so I went up to the Macy’s men’s department and bought a two-hundred-dollar white suit and a nice black silk shirt, and then I went to the shoe department and bought a hundred-dollar pair of shiny black shoes. Now the money from the Super Bowl robbery was just about gone—I had another thirty bucks in my pocket and another sixty at home—but I wasn’t worried. I knew there’d be a lot more where that came from.

On my way home, I stopped at a jewelry store and had my gold barbell chain repaired, then I went to Smith & Wollensky on Third Avenue and had a burger with fries for lunch. Back at my apartment, I hung up my new clothes, and spent the rest of the afternoon on my couch, watching soap operas.

At around five-thirty I went to work. There was a pretty big Thursday night happy-hour crowd. Gil was working behind the bar so I figured Gary still wasn’t coming to work. There were people at the bar, shouting orders, so I went to give Gil a hand. After I took a few orders and added a couple of dollars in tips to the tip jar, we finally had a chance to take a breather.

“Thanks a lot,” Gil said. “It was starting to get crazy here.”

We were listening to one of his shitty reggae CDs.

“You mind if I put in some Blondie?” I said.

“Go ahead,” he said.

I put Parallel Lines in the CD player then I said to Gil, “So Gary’s not coming in tonight, huh?”

“You didn’t see the sign on the front of the bar?”

“What sign?”

“Frank’s looking to hire a new night-time bartender. It looks like Gary’s gone for good.”

“You’re kiddin’ me?” I said. “That’s too bad.”

“I don’t think so,” Gil said. “I mean if the guy is really sick enough to steal money from his own father, who cares what happens to him?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” I said. “But what I meant is it’s too bad for Frank. It’s just a fucked-up situation any way you look at it.”

Gil and I took a few more drink orders and then the crowd started to thin out. I was going to take a break, maybe get something to eat in the kitchen, when two cops came into the bar. They weren’t the same cops from the other day. One of them was a thin white guy, about my height. The other guy was short, black and heavy. I didn’t have time to think about what was going on. The black cop came right up to me at the bar and said, “Is Frank O’Reilley here?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Why? What’s this all about?”

“It’s personal business. We need to talk to Mr. O’Reilley right away.”

Gil came over. “Frank’s in the office, in the back. Just walk straight back and it’s the first door on the right.”

“What do you think’s going on?” Gil said to me.

“Probably just more about the robbery,” I said. “Maybe they found the guy who did it.”

Gil went to take an order and I poured myself a pint of Sam Adams. I chugged half of it, but it didn’t relax me. I was trying to think of all the reasons why the cops could be here, except the one reason I didn’t want to think about. I hoped it had something to do with the robbery, but if it had to do with Debbie maybe it wasn’t as bad as I thought. Maybe Frank had just reported her missing. That would make sense, after he woke up this morning and she wasn’t in bed next to him.

I started to feel better. There was no way they could’ve found her so fast—not where I left her.

The cops returned from the back and left the bar without looking over at me. They looked serious, like they’d just told a guy his wife was found dead in some half-frozen swampland in Brooklyn. Then Frank came from the back, crying like he was at a funeral, and I knew I was right.

He had his coat over his shoulder and he was heading toward the door. I went over to him, cutting him off.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. “What’s going on?”

He looked at me. His face was ugly and tears were streaming down his cheeks.

“She’s dead!” he screamed. “She’s fucking dead!”

Blondie was singing “Heart of Glass” and it was so loud in the bar that only the people who were standing close by were paying attention to us.

“Who?” I said.

“Debbie,” he said crying. “I gotta get out of here.”

“What do you mean, ‘dead’?” I said. “What’s going on?”

“I gotta go,” Frank said, crying harder now. “The cops are gonna take me to ID the body.”

“Where?”

“Brooklyn.”

“What?”

“Lemme outta here.”

“This is crazy,” I said. “There’s gotta be some mistake.”

“It’s not a mistake!”

“How do you know?”

“She didn’t come home last night. She—just lemme get the hell out of here.”

Frank left the bar. Through the window, I watched him get into the police car with the two cops and drive away.

I knew I’d played it good. Frank was such a mess now, he couldn’t think straight about anything. Later on, when he started to calm down, he still wouldn’t suspect me. He’d think some guy she met in one of those personal ads killed her. And if he did suspect me, he’d remember how I’d acted when he was leaving the bar to go ID the body. He’d remember how I was just as surprised as he was, saying all the things that innocent people usually say.

When I went back to the bar, I told Gil what was going on. He didn’t believe me at first—I had to tell him three or four times. Then, his eyes starting to tear, he said, “Man, I can’t believe this. The poor guy. Jesus.”

“It’s so fucked up,” I said sadly, shaking my head.

Gil asked me if I thought we should shut down the bar tonight.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Frank didn’t tell me we should do that and, besides, maybe that wasn’t Debbie’s body they found out there. Maybe she’ll walk right in here any second.”

I went into the kitchen. Rodrigo was there, talking in Spanish to the Mexican dishwasher. They shut up when they saw me.

“Excuse me, can I talk to Rodrigo alone for a second?” I said to the dishwasher.

The kid gave me a dumb look, like he didn’t understand English. Rodrigo translated then the kid left.

“What do you want for me?” Rodrigo said.

“From me,” I said.

Rodrigo started to leave.