“It’s a small town.”
“Yeah, small town.”
He looks down at his beer and I look at mine. From the corner of my eye I sense that he is now looking up at me but then looks back down at his beer. He does the same again. What to say?
“Shit week. Good to get away from it.”
“That’s what beer’s for,” he says. Now I sense him looking directly at me. “Nothing too serious, huh?”
“Well, is your wife fucking someone else serious?” He seems to be considering this.
“Depends if you like your wife, I guess,” he replies with a grin.
“That’s a solid point. Do you like your wife?” I ask. His smile fades.
“I do,” he says and I nod.
“Do you fuck around on her?” I ask. He shifts on his chair to face me. It’s not indignation in his face but bewilderment.
“What kind of question is that?” he says. I shrug.
“Want to hear about my wife?” He turns back to his drink.
“Sure, if you want to tell me.”
“Her name’s Bess. And the problem is I’m pretty sure she’s seeing someone else. Do you know how that feels? It feels like absolute crap, every day, every minute. With me all the time.” He stares at me. “At least we have no kids. That makes it better, right? Just one victim. Two if you count Bess.” I point to order him another beer.
“Sorry to hear that.”
I smile and keep smiling as I ask “would you ever cheat?” He stares at me.
“You sure we haven’t met? You look real familiar.”
“Well, give it some thought,” I reply. “Maybe it’ll come to you.” He does seem to be giving it thought. Then he asks me about Bess, maybe showing some sympathetic interest in a sad drunk. So I tell him. How we met, how beautiful she was ... is ... will be. I tell him about the winery, about Den. How it all fell apart. I pretty much tell him our story. It lasts for a couple more beers. Then I ask him about his wife but he doesn’t have much to say.
Our conversation wanes and we focus on our beers. What I want to shout into his face is stop fucking around because your wife, my mom is desperately sad about what you’re doing and you need to make the last five years of her life happy ones. But I don’t. Of course I don’t. Then a petite, raven-haired woman in a flowing summer dress breezes up, puts an arm around him and kisses his cheek. He smiles awkwardly, more at me than at her.
“This is ...” he says to her, raising his hand in my direction. The pause is long.
“Joad,” I say and smile at her. She beams back at me. I don’t look at my father. She tells me her name but I don’t hear it. Then there’s the screech of chair legs on wood and I turn to see someone walking toward us. He’s big, heavy, bald, yellow-bearded, dressed like a lumberjack, and there’s violence in his face.
“Whore,” he shouts, and without a pause swings for my father. It seems my father is fast and he steps backwards before the punch can land. Then he brings his foot up squarely between the lumberjack’s legs who crumples to the ground, taking a chair with him. I look down at him as he struggles to catch a breath. My father has a useful skill for a man with the hobbies he has chosen.
I can’t get caught up in this. I make for the door, hearing my father call my name above the rantings of the woman.
EIGHTEEN
The Big Red’s parking lot is bathed in dull yellow light from the street lamp. I take out my keys but drop them and have to fumble under the truck’s running board to find them. I recover them, squint to pick out the right key, and prod the lock with it until it enters.
“You!” I hear. I turn to see a figure approaching me. Oh no, this’ll be the cuckhold’s brother or friend. But then the figure extends an arm and I see a gun pointing at me, closing-in. Oh shit.This is it. The figure stops. It’s a man, short, unkempt long hair, unshaven and looking as scared as me. He takes something out of his windjammer pocket. It looks like an iPhone. It takes me a second to digest that there are no iPhones on this calendar date. His face illuminates with whatever image he’s looking at. “Would you be Joad Bevan?” he asks in a shaky voice. I look around me and there’s no one. I hear the thud of music from a passing car.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“Shut up shag-bag.” Shag-bag? It’s an accent I can’t place. British maybe. “Are you he?” I’m thinking the moment I say ‘yes’ will be my last.
“No,” I say. “You have the wrong guy.” He gets more agitated and glances again at his iPhone.
“You are.” He takes a step forward and the gun muzzle is a yard from my face. He’s shaking.
“I’m not whoever you said. My name’s Tom and I–”.
“Y’are,” he says. I squeeze my eyes shut. Then I wince with the boom of the shot and wait for my senses to catch up–the senses that tell me I’m hit and then dead. Nothing yet. I open my eyes. I look down. He’s on the ground, his head in a pool of blood that’s swelling over the tarmac. I squeal an exclamation as a hand grips my arm and pulls me hard. It takes me a second to absorb that it’s Gerard Bruce, the red-faced TMA security guy.
“You’re a prick,” he says.
NINETEEN
“You’re a prick,” Zhivov says as he and Bruce escort me to my onsite quarters. I
