right in.
He was on the phone. He looked up at me, mouth open. This was just not done. He mumbled something into the phone. Pressed the hold button.
Redman, he said testily, I’m on an important call. Please speak to Cherise. I think I have an opening at three.
Fuck that, Warwick, I said.
His face turned a shade of pink I hadn’t encountered before. His mouth twitched. He was searching for words.
Don’t waste your breath, I said. I quit. Oh, and by the way. Go herniate.
I turned and walked away. I left his door open.
In the background, fading into the history of my former life, I heard Warwick’s whining voice.
Something about burning bridges.
Hah, I said to myself. Some bridges are better burnt.
My last official act was to invite Dorita for lunch. Michel’s, I suggested. I was hoping to see Warwick show up, planning to flatter some overstuffed prospective client. Maybe I could bribe a waiter to piss in his soup.
Dorita arrived. She was wearing a flowing silk thing in a pale peach color.
My, I said. You’ve gone pastel.
A momentary loss of judgment, she said. Don’t worry.
That’s a relief. I was just about to recommend a good therapist. But then I remembered you already have three.
Speaking of therapy, what the hell did you just do?
I quit. I told the fucker off. And please don’t say anything about burning bridges.
Wouldn’t dream of it, she said.
Anyway it’s done. And I’m quite convinced that my next project’s going to get me through it. At least until we set up shop as R. amp; D., LLP, Ace Detectivists.
Don’t hold your breath. One of us still has a real job.
You have my deepest sympathy.
Speaking of jobs, did you hear about Steiglitz?
No.
He’s selling his clinic. Going to Africa.
Gone safari on us?
No. For good. He’s joined Doctors Without Borders.
My, what a little guilt will do for a man.
I guess you’d know. So, what are you going to do? Dealer at the Taj? Live on tips?
Close, but way better. I’m opening my own room.
You’re opening up your bedroom for public viewing?
Hadn’t thought of that, actually. Maybe I’ll do that too. But no. A poker room. I found this amazing space in Williamsburg.
You’re kidding, right? Tell me you’re kidding.
I am not.
Isn’t that illegal?
Depends, I said. On who’s watching.
113.
The call from Laura came.
Rick, she said in her official tone.
Laura, I replied.
I was calm. I knew what was coming.
The final report’s coming out tomorrow, she said.
Okay.
I wanted to give you a heads-up.
I appreciate that.
It won’t come as a surprise to you.
Nothing would come as a surprise to me. I’m all surprised out.
She paused.
Okay, she said. The bottom line is, involuntary overdose. Self-inflicted.
Right.
I can give you the details.
No. No. I can read it tomorrow.
Okay. But if you change your mind.
No. I won’t. It’s okay.
All right, then.
All right.
I hung up. I sat back. I was suffused with a most confusing calm.
I paid a memorial visit to the Wolf’s Lair. I ordered soda water.
Double? asked Thom.
Sure, I said. Let’s go crazy.
Another double soda water later, Jake came through the door.
We shook hands.
We stood awkwardly. I wondered whether I should call him Jake or Brendan.
Have a seat, my man, I said at last.
We sat side by side at the bar. I felt no imperative to speak. I could have asked him all those questions about Melissa. Filled in some of the remaining blanks. But I didn’t.
Let her rest in peace, I thought. Leave her with her mysteries.
So, he said. Anything new going on?
I told him I’d quit drinking.
He was impressed. Said he might try that too.
I told him about the poker room.
He liked it.
Hey, he said, the World Series starts in two weeks.
Shit, I said. I’d forgotten all about that.
The World Series of Poker. Vegas. Lights. Cameras. Action. Millions in prizes. Side tables full of overstuffed rubes. Babes in bikinis.
I looked at him.
He looked at me.
I’ll make the reservations, I said.
114.
I woke up before Dorita. She was on her stomach, sleeping softly. I crept out of bed. I stood and gazed at her. I was not worthy. That such a creature would share my bed. Might share my life. Damn. I apologized to God for all my whining. I was a lucky man. Even if it ended here, I was a lucky man.
I rustled up some eggs and Emmental. I scoured the nether regions of the fridge for half an onion, the odd dried-out mushroom. I pled guilty to bad housekeeping. I turned the detritus into a passable omelet.
