– I’ll talk to you in a day or two, OK?
– Great. I love you, Mom.
– I love you, Henry.
– Good-bye.
– Bye.
I sit in the booth for a while after that.
I sit in the booth and look out at the bar, at my bottle of Bud still sitting in front of my stool and the little pile of bills, my change, sitting next to it. I pump coins into the phone and call United. They can change my ticket whenever I like for a seventy-five-dollar fee, plus the difference in ticket price. Would I like to make that change now? Yes, I would, very much. But I need to get the key first, decide who to hand it over to and stay in one piece while I’m doing it. I know where the key is. Now, who do I give it to? I dig out one of the cards I have in my pocket and dial. He picks up himself.
– Roman.
– I have it.
Pause.
– Where are you?
– I don’t have it, I know where it is.
– Where?
– I’m not. Look, I’m not going to tell you.
– And so the purpose of this call is?
– I’m not going to tell you where it is. I’ll get it and then give it to you.
– When?
– I. I want to leave. I want to leave New York. I’ll give you the key right before I go.
– When are you leaving?
– I don’t have a flight yet. I’ll get the key and I’ll call you. I’ll meet you, I’ll call you…
– Yes?
– I don’t know how any of this works.
– Well, there aren’t any actual rules. But may I make a suggestion?
– OK.
– Get the key. Book a flight. Call me and tell me the airport, but not the flight number, and tell me what time you want me there. Pick a time before your actual flight so that I won’t be able to make a guess about which plane you’re leaving on. At the last moment possible before you board, have me paged and tell me what gate you are at. I will meet you there, in full view of the public and you can give me the key.
Wow, good plan.
– OK.
– And you might want to book a flight to someplace other than your final destination and fly to… wherever, from there.To discourage pursuit.
– Right, that’s good.
– Well then.
– Yeah, OK, so, I’ll go…
– Get the key.
– Right.
I sit there holding the phone.
– Good-bye.
– Oh, yeah, good-bye.
I hang up. Then I walk straight to the beer and pick it up. Before I can take a drink, I catch a glimpse of the TV. I look again. The Mets game has just concluded: Atlanta 5, Mets 3. I put the beer back down. I don’t need it. Besides, I’m going to another bar right now.
Now that I’ve made a decision about what to do, I’m in a hurry. I flag a cab and tell the driver where to go. I close my eyes, try to ignore all the places my body hurts.
I’m glad I called Roman. Roman is definitely the one I want to deal with. I mean, he may scare me, but he doesn’t freak me out like Ed and Paris, who are obviously crazier than asackful of assholes.
The cabbie drives like all New York cabbies, which is to say he guns it flat out as soon as the light turns green and slams on the brakes at the last possible second when it goes red. I have my seat belt on, which keeps me from slapping my forehead against the Plexiglas sheet that separates the driver from the passenger. Our progress downtown is measured in a series of jumps and lurches. I take a quick look around at the cars behind us, but I don’t see any signs of a black Caddie. The cab pulls over and I pay the driver and hop out.
I walk into Paul’s. Lisa, the day bartender, takes one look at my face and lets out a little scream.
– Jesus fucking Christ, Hank, you look like yesterday’s shit on last week’s paper.
When I first came in here looking for a job ten years ago, Lisa was behind the bar. She was about thirty or so back then, six feet tall and built.Just big everywhere. She nailed me about a week or two after I started behind the bar. I never went back for more, but I never had any regrets. She’s a big, happy woman and about the only thing she does that pisses me off is getting shit-faced on the job when I’m working the shift after hers. Trying to pick up the pieces for a drunk-off-her-ass bartender is a pain. She’s sipping on a greyhound right now and I can see trouble ahead for whoever’s on tonight.
It’s just about 4:30, so it’s a light crowd at the bar. Happy hour starts at 5:00, and things will pick up then. For now it’s just a few of Lisa’s hard-core regulars. I don’t know this bunch too well, but Amtrak John and Cokehead Dan are in. Everybody in this fucking place has a nickname.
I plop down on a stool and put my bag on the floor. Lisa comes over and brushes her fingertips across my forehead.
– Oh, Hank! They told me those guys left your pretty face alone. I specifically asked and everybody told me those assholes didn’t touch your pretty face.
– They didn’t, this is brand new.
– New! Oh, shit, Hank, what are you up to? You’re a lover, baby, not a fighter.
– Just lucky this week.
– Well, shit, baby. Let me get you some medicine.
She reaches into the cooler, pulls out a Bud, pops the top and puts it in front of me before I can say no. But I don’t want to say no; I don’t want to say no at all. Lisa raises her glass to me and nods at the beer.
– Drink up, Sailor.
That’s my nickname here, Sailor.Sailor Hank. I don’t know how it got started. Edwin picks your name and it just sticks.
– Drink up.
– Not right now, babe. I really just need to see Edwin, is he around?
She tosses off the rest of her drink and shakes her head.
– Naw, he’s been picking up your shifts till he can find someone he likes. So he’stakin ’ a lot of naps to keep up with the hours.
– He’ll be in later?
– Should be, he’s beencomin ’ in around, say, six or seven to do the cash, gets behind the bar about nine.
Edwin trusts me. It took about a year for me to become his top bartender, we never used the word
– So you gonna have a drink with me or not?
– Doctors say no, babe.
– No shit?
– No shit.
– Not even beer?
– Not even beer.
