“The fuck are you doing, Ray?”
“What does it look like? I’m the proud owner of a drycleaning business. How did you find me?”
“I knew you were back in town when that check cleared. Then I saw your ads on TV Fifty thousand dollars, Ray.”
“Yeah, thanks for that. It was the only way I could get the mortgage on this place. Do you like what I’ve done with it?”
He hadn’t changed all that much other than upgrading the television and having new signs and plastic sacks made. A photo of a young Mrs. Kletzski hung next to the board listing all the prices. The bells tied to the door were new — they had been liberated from the necks of Barnhill’s ovine population.
“That check was an advance against your salary at Ethos. It wasn’t your money yet.”
“That’s strange. It had my name on it. I assumed it was a bonus for the millions of dollars Logos made from my Oil Hogg campaign.”
“You knew perfectly well what that money was for.”
“I wasn’t trying to steal your money. You’re now a twenty-five percent owner of Welter’s Warsh House. I have the paperwork around here somewhere. Our accountant says we may not see a profit for five or ten years. Dry cleaning just isn’t as popular as it once was. People are apparently content these days to throw away their clothes when they get dirty. I’m bringing in just enough business to pay the bills and get those TV spots made. Catchy, aren’t they? The apartment upstairs is mine, though. I’ll show you around sometime.”
“I don’t care about the money, Ray. My problem is with friends quitting on me. You left me hanging.”
“I left you hanging? Tell me this — did you fuck Flora?”
“Is that what this is about? It wasn’t for a lack of trying. She just wasn’t interested.”
“Hard to believe.”
“She said to tell you that she plans to stay in South America more or less forever, but if something changes she’ll look you up. You’re right, though, that I would not have thought twice about selling you down the river just for the chance to sniff her panties.”
“There are plenty here in the back if that’s what you’re into.”
“Dry cleaning? You can’t even keep your own clothes clean.”
“It’s tough to explain, but this is exactly what I want. Real, honest work. These clothes are either clean or they’re dirty. There’s no middle ground, no ambiguity.”
“The fuck happened to you over there?”
“Among other things, I got shot.”
“Did you deserve it?”
“No! I don’t know. Maybe.”
“What the fuck, Ray?”
“I need to finish up here. Come back at seven when I close, and we’ll talk then. I have a bottle of scotch I’d like you to try.”
“Is it worth fifty thousand dollars?”
“No, but it’s a very special single malt distilled in 1984. Even you will be impressed.”
“We’ll start with that and then hit the town. We’ll go see Miss Ukraine. Oh, wait … let me guess. You’ve quit drinking too.”
“No, I’ve definitely dialed it back a bit, but I’d love to go get shitfaced. In fact, that would do me a world of good.”
“That’s a relief. On the way, we should visit Lily at McCrotchety’s. She’s been asking about you.”
“Sounds perfect,” Ray said. The cleanup hitter for the Sox struck out with men on base, sending the game into extra innings. “Damn. Meet me later and we’ll talk.”
“You’re a strange man, Ray-son d’etre,” Bud said. “Now are you going to clean this for me or what?” He handed Ray his overcoat, which felt soft and outrageously expensive. The inner pocket had a stain that looked like the result of an unsecured whisky flask.
“I’m not responsible for garments left over six weeks,” Ray said.
The bells rang again when Bud pulled the door closed behind him. He got erased by the crowds of shoppers on the sidewalk, by the nannies and beat cops and the homeless men whistling happy songs through missing teeth. Summer sent its final breath of old newspapers and fast food bags flying past the windows. A cold, lake-effected winter was on its way, and then spring. Ray un-muted the ballgame, which was still away at a commercial. One of the teams would eventually win and the other would lose, even if it took all night. He busied himself pressing strangers’ clothes and waiting for the jingle of his next customer.