Eye of the Beholder

youthful enthusiasm about him.

“She’s got an ass you could eat lunch off of,” he says.

That’s what I mean about the youthful enthusiasm. I drop down my credit card. “Great. Pass her a note. Ask her if she likes me.”

“Try not to fuck this up,” he says out of the side of his mouth as the woman walks up to our table. “Hello there, young lady. My name’s Joel.”

“Hi there,” the lady says with more enthusiasm than I have ever been able to muster in my entire life, not even when I got accepted to Harvard or when I hit the winning jumper against Saint Mary’s High my junior year. Clock ticking down, I beat this guy off the dribble with a head fake, then a fadeaway jumper. I wouldn’t say nothing but net, but it went down. It’s not like I remember every detail. For example, I don’t remember the name of the guy guarding me.

“May I ask your name?” Lightner asks.

Oh-Ricky Haden. Tall, gangly kid. Didn’t move his feet on defense.

“I’m Molly.”

Molly is wearing low-riding jeans and high heels, a loose white top that falls off one shoulder. No way she’s interested in me. Must be a pro. They come around these places sometimes, looking for the guys with money who’ve had a few drinks in them and want a little companionship.

Wait. That’s me.

“Well, Molly, sitting across from me here is the great Paul Riley. You may have heard of him. But right now, Molly”-and, with this, Joel scoots over and offers her a seat, which she takes-“Molly, right about now Paul is feeling a little blue.”

“Why is Paul blue, Joel?”

I wasn’t supposed to get the ball, but they crashed down on Joey Schramek, our center, so I kicked out and had the open look. Haden wasn’t planted, so he bought my fake, and, next thing I knew, the ball was sailing through the air and the buzzer was sounding.

“Paul is blue, Molly, because he had his heart broken.”

Swish. I prefer to remember it as a swish.

“Nothing but net,” I say.

“I know who Paul Riley is,” says this woman-Molly, I think it was. “I saw a special on television a couple of weeks ago about Terry Burgos.”

“You hear that, Paul? Molly saw you on TV.”

Okay, so she’s not a pro. Molly, from what I can see at this point, is in her mid to late thirties and wears a decent amount of makeup and her hair is tossed nicely. The outline of her face is oval, and I think the rest of the pieces would measure up pretty nicely if I could see straight. I think if I could see straight, I would also figure her for out of my league. But that’s the thing. Men are all about looks. They seek out the best-looking female in the room and lust after her. I leave open the possibility that women do the same, which is why I hang out with homely people. Still, most women look for more substantive things-

“He seemed very-self-assured,” she tells Lightner.

Exactly. Women go for things like brains and a sense of humor and success and confidence. Guys like me count on it. I’m not much to look at, but I’ve got some smarts and I can crack wise, and I’m a prince of a guy once you get to know me.

“Do you win all your cases?” she asks me.

Joel sits back. He likes that question.

“Yes,” I say.

“Oh, the modesty.” Molly smiles at me and holds her stare on me.

I hold up two fingers. “The second rule in litigation is, settle the ones you can’t win and try the ones you can.”

She opens her hands, still looking at me. When I don’t elaborate, she says, “If everyone followed that rule, you’d never have a trial.”

“First rule is, know the difference.” I wave to the waitress. “Buy you a drink, Molly?”

“I was going to buy you one.”

“Even better.”

Joel Lightner seems happy enough with the developments. It annoys me a little that he looks out for me. “I got that thing I gotta do,” he says. “Molly. My apologies. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

Molly doesn’t resist, gets right out of the seat to allow Joel out. I’m waking up a bit now.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” she asks when she sits back down.

I don’t. I consider lying, but lying always digs a hole. And I’m too drunk to be creative.

“That’s okay. I was here last week, when you were-not with your friend here but a client, it looked like. You ordered a drink at the bar and made a joke. You made me laugh. You were very nice.”

“And sober,” I add.

“You were sober, I’ll give you that. Maybe you could use some coffee.”

“That’s a better idea.” I push myself out of my seat. “I normally make an excellent first impression. Believe me.”

“You made a good first impression with me.”

Oh, that’s right. I’m actually feeling better than expected, which is probably due to the adrenaline kicking in, fighting through the intoxication. But this really isn’t my thing. I was as celibate as a priest for a good eight, ten years before I met Shelly. Never did the pickup scene. Not ready to start now.

“I think the best course of action here, Molly, is that I put you in a cab.”

She smiles at me like she’s suspicious. “You’re either a gentleman or you’re not interested.”

“I’m neither. But I’m much closer to a gentleman when I’m sober.”

But the truth is, she’s half right. I’m not interested. I’m carrying a torch for someone who has moved onward and upward.

She motions down the way. “I live about three blocks down. Walk me home?”

Three blocks down puts her near Lilly. Sax’s is on the west side, so she must live in one of the lofts that have cropped up out here. She’s probably an artist. Dancer or musician. Dancer would be good.

I like this side of town, in part because it has largely avoided gentrification so far. The near west side is still industrial, with only a handful of excellent bars and restaurants standing out among the construction companies and factories. Even the little modernization that has taken place has been met with resistance from community groups. They put a Starbucks down the road a few months ago and half the neighborhood protested. The other half ordered mocha lattes. The area is getting whiter and trendier. The stampede of progress is running roughshod over the cluster of protesters who wring their hands.

It rained earlier, leaving the damp smell that I love. Small pockets of rainwater fill the potholes that cover the roads out here, where there’s no money, and the aldermen don’t have the mayor’s ear.

“Do you still do criminal cases?” she asks me.