We jus gon shoot the breeze. John spoke through a bright uproar of voices and a clattering of salad forks.
Spokesman gon science you to death, Lucifer said.
Man, Spokesman’s cool. John held his cigarette in the scissors of two fingers, smoke rising lazily. He took a deep drag, exhaled smoke in rapid streams from his nose and mouth. Don’t let his science fool you. If you coulda seen him in the shit you’d know. A very fine individual.
Lucifer watched John’s face go red, animated with memories from a quarter-century ago. The drinks were doing their work. Lucifer shook his head to free his ears of water. He sho is a good salesman. He became deaf to the noise of the bar. He thought about the awards and the New York promotion Symmes Electronics had bestowed on Spokesman. Shit, Spokesman could sell dog shoes to a cat.
John’s eyes watched Lucifer through the spectacles. I’ll drink to that.
They lifted their glasses in toast. Their eyes met in the mirror. Immediately, John downed his drink and ordered another. Even with the spectacles, it was impossible to mistake John for someone else. As always, he was clean — a black blazer heavy for such a hot day, and white slacks with sharp creases. He was his sharpest the first time he went to Gracie’s house, his bad-ass suit cutting air as he walked. (Wind, step outa the way, Jim.) Even had a tie knotted round his neck, noose-squeezing the flesh. The boy John happily darted around tree trunks but even happier to dive into the freshly ironed, stiff warmth of his Sunday service clothes — Yall come get dressed for church, Georgiana called, clothes ready. That was the sole reason he liked to go to church. Later as a teen, John would go to Jew Town and get good deals on the latest fashions and tailored fits. Going to Jewrusalem to pick up some threads. The Jews would chase you down the street and force you to buy something. Come on, buy. You want that I should suck dicks?
John’s lips tightened on the pretzel, a woman’s tongue. You know why they call it the Big Apple?
Why?
Cause they bitin a big plug out of it.
Who?
You know who. They never stray far from their nature.
You got something against—
No. I love bitches.
Lucifer fired down his drink. He saw Sheila’s body reflected in another body. Tell you now — leaning over the table — got to have a lot of bucks in New York. Some expensive women there.
You act like I never been there befo.
I guess it’s because we never went there together.
New York New York.
So bad they had to say it twice.
Only thing I don’t like bout New York, no alleys.
Got that right.
No alleys, no place to piss.
New York New York.
Those slopes run it now.
That’s what I hear.
You better believe it.
Man, someday those slopes gonna convert the White House into condominiums.
Shit, the mayor talkin bout sellin Red Hook to some slopes. Throw Stonewall in for free.
Man, those slopes are something else.
The Man got them in his hip pocket.
Mr. Slope, he is the Man.
They bent over in bellyaching laughter. Lucifer clapped, hard and fast, until he noticed some of the other patrons flinging stares in his direction. He and John had spent that morning, like so many others in the old days, conversing about the Man. They had developed a whole mythology. He was a white man (what else?) with white hair and a white beard, wore a white suit with matching shoes, drove a white Caddy, drank milk, owned a white cat, liked mayonnaise in his food, and ate only white bread (of course). The myth had spilled from them as they tried to keep their voices level, above the rising and falling alcohol sway, away from the monitoring eyes in the lounge. The myth took Lucifer away from his own situation. He and Sheila had gotten into an argument that morning.
Have a good one, Sheila says.
I ain’t going to work today.
What? She is dressing for work — the long train ride to the Shipcos in Deerfield — white snatches of cloth in both fists.
I already called in.
Well, where you hurrying off to?
John.
John? There is no mistaking the look in her eyes.
Yeah. He called while you was in the shower. He’s going out of town.
We ain’t heard hide nor hair of him in a month and he calls and you gon run off jus like that?
Well, I—
What yall up to?
Look at that bitch over there. Not over there. Over here. The twin motionless glare of John’s spectacles, motioning with his eyes. The one with the French braids. I’d like to teach her some mo French.
Lil brother, Lucifer said, ain’t you got enough women?
True. But a man is an army. Gotta have your reserves.
There it is.
John kicked his legs to straighten his trousers. He finished his drink and ordered another. One for the show and two for the road.
The TV mushroomed into life above the bar. Flicked quick color-catching images. A rim and backboard shudder like birds. A black figure sprints down a runway. Takes to the sky. Rail-thin, Flight Lesson sails thirty feet above the court — bouncing on the pole vaults of his legs — in slow motion. He can truly fly. He feather-floats back to earth. Leaps into outer space. Reaches out his tentacle-long arm. Grabs a Cool Breeze. Hermès Athletic Shoes and Cool Breeze, the winning combination. Behind him, the moon shimmers like a half-dollar. Freeze-frame, he hangs in the air, perfectly still. Legs tucked under him like landing gear. Their last wedding anniversary, Lucifer and John had taken Sheila and Gracie to Air Waves, Flight Lesson’s new restaurant. Reservations. Black tie. C-note entrees. Five-dollar cups of coffee. Live jazz. Vinyl doggy bags. Lucifer gave the waiter a heavy tip for choice seats. Flight Lesson dined with his family in a glassed-in booth at the restaurant’s center.
Man, John said. He nodded at the TV screen in direct line of his sight. Dap coulda cut that motherfucker.
Yeah. Dap was made for basketball. A hoop machine.
A legend.
Pros chumps these days.
Spoiled.
Too much money.
And pussy.
Lucifer laughed a good laugh.
You coulda cut that motherfucka. John’s spectacles were trained on the screen.
Yeah. In the old days.
There it is.
And you coulda beat him too.
Me? John curved the spectacles onto Lucifer’s face. Nawl.
Yeah you.
Lucifer looked toward the end of the bar, where the bartender — he stood against the day; an aquarium-long piece of frosted glass filled up the space behind him — a rag knotted in his fist, tried to hide his interest in them. He wiped down the bar. Lucifer finished his beer in slow, deliberate swallows, then tabled the empty glass. Think it will do any good?
Nope. We had our day in the sun.
So why you goin? For Spokesman and Spin?
John thought about it for a moment. Nawl. For myself.
Lucifer said nothing. He thought he knew what John meant. He caught a flash. Smelled a thin gray streak, a match’s trail. John met his eyes in the mirror. Immediately, he moved his eyes and tried to read time on his gold watch. 1300 hours, he said, grinning. Time for my train. He drained his drink. Lucifer saw the nerve gathering in him. The lenses snapped shut like a cigarette lighter. He blinked and burned off the alcohol. Stood.