MIT. They looked too well dressed for the Wanderer, and even without the joke it was clear that they were slumming it for a night. The woman wasn’t bad-looking, but her face was a little too long, and her mouth had too many white teeth for its size. The man wore a striped Ralph Lauren polo shirt, and khakis. His hair was excessively neat, and was held in place by a product that Ryan suspected was not meant to be worn by men. As far as Ryan was concerned, the guy looked like a dick, but although he was younger than Dempsey by six years, Ryan’s attitude toward the world was less combative, and he had learned that if he allowed himself to be riled by every dick he encountered in his daily life he’d be dead of an aneurysm before he reached thirty.
Dempsey scowled at the couple’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar, and Ryan felt his stomach tighten. Sometimes there was no telling how Dempsey might react to even the most innocuous of situations. For now, though, he contented himself with giving them the hard eye.
‘You said it: nothing,’ said Dempsey. ‘That’s what they are to us. This isn’t our neighborhood. These aren’t our people. We can say what we like about them.’
‘I know that,’ said Ryan. ‘You think the clock is right?’
‘Don’t change the subject. You were born where?’
‘Champaign, Illinois.’
‘You ever been back there?’
‘No. My old man was working out there when I was born. Didn’t spend more than a month there before we moved to Southie. I’ve never been back.’
‘Right. Don’t get sentimental about a place that you left when you were a child. Remember what Oscar Wilde said.’
‘Who’s Oscar Wilde?’
‘Jesus. He was a writer.’
‘I never heard of him. That clock must be right. It feels right.’
‘He said that “sentimentality is the bank-holiday of cynicism.”’
‘I don’t know what that means.’
‘It means that if you’re sentimental you’re really a cynic deep down. You don’t want to be a cynic. I should know.’
‘I’m not sentimental. I just think there are worse places than this.’
‘There are worse places than just about anywhere. That doesn’t mean anything, unless you’re living in the worst place in the world, in which case it can only get better.’
‘Africa.’
‘What?’
‘I figure the worst place is in Africa somewhere, one of those countries where they’re starving and fighting and cutting off limbs. I’ve seen pictures: women with no arms, little children. Animals, they are.’
‘Whatever. We have our share of them here as well. You don’t have to go to Africa to find them.’
‘Can I take a look at your watch? I want to check if that clock is right.’
‘Leave the watch alone. What are you so worried about?’
‘I don’t want us to miss him.’
‘We won’t miss him. In fact, the longer we wait, the less likely we are to miss him.’
‘Hey.’ Ryan beckoned the bartender to him. ‘Is that clock right?’
The bartender sidled over, wiping his hands on a dishcloth that hung by his belt over his crotch. He was skinny and bald, with bad teeth, and had tended bar at the Wanderer for almost two decades. Some said that he could even remember a time when the jukebox worked. He wore a green T-shirt with the bar’s name on the left breast. The T-shirts were not for sale. Then again, nobody had ever tried to buy one.
‘Yeah, I make sure it is. I don’t want to spend a minute longer in here than I have to.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Dempsey. ‘Make the customers feel wanted.’
‘If I make them feel wanted, they’ll stay,’ said the bartender. ‘They’ll try to talk to me. I don’t want the customers talking to me.’
‘Not even me?’
‘Not even you.’
‘Anyone would think that you didn’t want to make any money,’ said Dempsey.
‘Yeah, I was saving up to buy a yacht with my tips, but that dream died.’
‘The clock is right,’ said Ryan. ‘We should go.’
‘Yeah, yeah, all right. Jesus, you’re like an old woman.’
There was more laughter from the couple behind them, louder this time. Dempsey looked back at them over his shoulder. The laughter was silenced, but it was followed by a soft giggle from the woman as the man said something to her. Dempsey took one of the cigarettes from the pack and stuck it between his lips but didn’t light it.
‘You know them?’ he asked the bartender.
‘No,’ said the bartender. ‘But then I don’t know you either.’
‘You need to be more selective with your clientele.’
‘It’s all natural selection here.’
‘Yeah? Well, you’re about to see Darwinism in action.’
Dempsey was on the guy before Ryan could even react. By the time Ryan reached the table, Dempsey had his forearm jammed under the preppie’s chin, and his knee in the guy’s balls, the whole weight of Dempsey trying to force him through the wall.
‘Did you say something about me?’ said Dempsey. ‘Well, did you?’
Some of his spittle landed on the man’s face, which was rapidly turning a deep red. The guy tried to shake his head, but he could barely move it. A choking noise forced itself from his lips. The woman beside him reached out as if to pull Dempsey’s arm away. He turned his head toward her and said, ‘Don’t.’
‘Please,’ said the woman.
‘Please what?’ said Dempsey.
‘Please leave him alone.’
‘You’re not laughing now, are you, you horse-faced bitch?’ said Dempsey. ‘Answer me.
‘No, I’m not laughing.’
As if to confirm the fact, she began to cry. Carefully, Ryan touched Dempsey on the shoulder.
‘Come on, let it go. We’re done here.’
Slowly, Dempsey released his hold on the man.
‘Go back to fucking Cambridge where you belong,’ he said. ‘If I ever see you again, I’ll rape her and make you watch.’
Dempsey rose and backed away. He was breathing hard. His victim was so shaken that he hadn’t moved. That was the way with the weak ones: If you were on them fast, and shocked them enough, you didn’t need to cause them any real harm.
The bartender watched Dempsey carefully. He hadn’t made any effort to stop what was taking place, but that was because he’d seen it all before, and was prepared to let events take something of their course before intervening. Still, he didn’t look impressed. They wouldn’t be welcome here again, not that they had any plans to return.
Dempsey tossed a twenty on the bar.
‘Toward your yacht,’ he told the bartender.
‘I’ll name it after you,’ said the bartender. ‘Do you spell “Asshole” with one s or two?’
‘You can spell it with one s. That way, we’ll know it’s yours when we set fire to it.’
He picked up his pack of cigarettes and dropped them in his jacket pocket.
‘Come on then,’ he said to Ryan. ‘Let’s get it over with.’
7
