It was late, and I’d had a full day. As I disconnected the Vid-phone, I suddenly couldn’t keep my eyes popped open. I laid back on the bed, intending to rest for a few minutes.
Chapter Fourteen
I woke up to see Louie’s battered looking face grinning down at me. “Hey, Murph. I’m makin’ breakfast. You want some?”
I rubbed my eyes and tried to get my bearings. At first, I couldn’t even remember where I was, let alone why Louie was there. I sat up on the edge of Louie’s bed and looked around groggily. The sofa-bed was folded out.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep on your bed. Looks like I forced you onto the couch.”
“Don’t worry about it. When I came up, you were out cold. Didn’t even take off your overcoat. I figured I’d better leave you alone. Besides, the sofa’s pretty comfy.”
He was lying again. The fold-out bed looked like a torture device.
My mouth felt like a dirty dish towel — I hadn’t brushed before bed. Damn. My toothbrush was back at the office. A slug of mouthwash would have to do, though a cup of Louie’s Armageddon blend would probably be an effective substitute. I stood up and stretched. Breakfast sounded good. Louie clapped me on the shoulder. “You look hungry. I’ll go down and put on some coffee.”
He opened the door and turned around. “Oh… you probably want to wash up. The bathroom’s through that door.”
Washing up sounded almost as good as breakfast. I splashed cold water on my face, then stuck my head under the faucet and soaked it. Slowly, my brain began to function. As I towelled off, I went through the events of the night before, listing the things I needed to get done. First, I needed to contact Regan Madsen and get the scoop on her and her father. Second, I needed to tell Emily. Third, I had to call Fitzpatrick and tell him what happened. I was sure that he knew more than he told me, and now that I was right in the thick of things, maybe he’d clue me in.
My clothes smelled like a barroom floor around closing time, but the rest of me was refreshed. Louie’s place might not be pretty, but it was safe and homey. Stepping out of bedroom, I caught a whiff of French toast, coffee, and bacon. My heart leapt for joy. If I ever decided to get married again, I was going to find someone like Louie, only more attractive. Maybe he had a good-looking sister. Hmmm…. unlikely.
Louie was standing at the grill, waving a spatula like a conductor’s baton and humming “Hit the Road, Jack” in at least three keys. He caught me out of the corner of his eye and gave me a sheepish look. “Cup of coffee for ya on the counter.”
“Thanks.” I sat down on a bar-stool and pulled out my Lucky Strikes. It looked like I’d slept on the pack. I took out a flattened cigarette and lit it up. The Armageddon was piping hot and went down like high octane fuel. By the time I finished Heath the cigarette and coffee, I’d been transformed from a Vesper scooter into Harley Hog. My engine was revving when Louie exploded through the kitchen door, loaded with sizzling plates of food and a steaming pot of coffee. “I hope you’re hungry, Murph. I went a little crazy.”
The plate Louie slid in front of me was piled high with thick, golden slices of French toast, glistening with maple syrup. Strips of crisp bacon were stacked around the edge. Louie set a similarly laden plate and a coffeepot on the counter. Making his way around the bar, he plopped down onto the bar stool beside me and proceeded to fill our coffee mugs. I cut a four-layer pie slice out of the stack, drenched it in the buttery syrup, took a bite and saw angels. A bite of hot, salty bacon and a slug of Joe. A three-way marriage made in heaven.
For some time, we spoke nothing but the language of food: chewing noises, grunts, saying Mmmmm, and pointing toward related objects, such as coffeepots and syrup bottles. After a good twenty minutes, my gas gauge hit full, and I set down my fork and knife. The plate still contained enough breakfast for a family of three. I poured my cup of Armageddon and reached for a post-prandial smoke. Louie was mopping up the last of the syrup on his plate. Even he was slowing down.
“You should be canonised, Louie. The Patron Saint of Greasy Spoons.”
He dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “I ain’t too half 5th religious, Murph. Besides, they already got a St. Louie.”
We sipped our coffees faith. Louie’s face turned serious. “Chelsee came by the other day.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Louie gave me a quizzical look. “She left me a note at her place… said she was leaving and that she was gonna drop off some things of mine over here.”
Louie nodded. “I got your stuff of in my apartment. Forgot to get it… remind me before you leave.”
Another pause. I didn’t want to seem too eager, but I was curious. “So, did you talk to her at all before she left?”
The big, ugly grin. “You mean, did she say anything about you?”
I blew out a stream of smoke through a conceding smile.
“We If hoof talked for a bit. She’s having a hard go of it.”
“Meaning what? Me? Turning thirty?”
“Yeah. All of it. I told her everyone goes through a phase like this. I haven’t yet, but of course I’m still young. I’m fifty-eight, and I still ain’t ready to settle down.”
Louie took another sip of the Armageddon. “Tell me, Murph, You ever been in true love?”
I crushed out my cigarette. It was a symbolic gesture. “Sure. I was married before, remember?”
Louie snorted. “The only thing easier than falling in love is getting married. I’m askin’ if you ever been really, truly in love.”
I thought for a moment. “Well, I’ve always had this thing for Jayne Mansfield.”
“C’mon, Murph. I’m trying to talk here.”
I shrugged. “I suppose I’ve been in love a few times. I don’t know about being truly in love…whatever that means.”
“I tell ya, Murph. its chemicals. Up in your brain. We got these chemicals going nuts. That’s why we fall in love too easy.”
“So what’s your point?”
“My point is, falling in love don’t mean a lot. What’s hard is knowing someone well and still likin’ ‘em. But that ain’t even the hardest thing … and the hardest thing is what makes all the difference.”
“So what’s the hardest thing?”
Louie’s voice was soft. “Finding someone you can trust.”
My big, lumpy friend took our plates and lumbered into the kitchen. I lit up another smoke. Louie was right. In retrospect, I’d never really trusted anyone. That wasn’t why my marriage hit the skids, but it was probably my excuse for not trying Again.
Louie emerged from the kitchen and refilled his coffee mug. I flipped an ash off my Lucky. “So what’s your advice?”
Louie took a sip of steaming Java. “Chelsee’s ready for commitment. She’ll give you the first shot, but she ain’t gonna wait around forever. A lot of guys in this world would give their right arms for one minute of Chelsee’s attention.”
Donor programmes being what they are, Louie might or might not have been exaggerating, but I got the point. Once again, I was mired in my ever repeating pattern of wanting only the things I couldn’t have. Chelsee was beautiful, intelligent, strong, and sexy. She represented everything good I’d ever looked for in a woman. I was probably in love with her. Maybe I even trusted her — at least as much as old capable of. All requirements were satisfied. Only now I wasn’t sure. It was like the old Groucho Marx line: I would never get involved with a woman who’d get involved with someone like me. The indecision was unbearable. Maybe Chelsee was right, and a little break would help to clear things up.
In the meantime, I had other pressing business. I thanked Louie for his advice and French toast, not necessarily in that order, then reminded him about the things Chelsee had left for me. We went up to his apartment. I put Malloy’s things back into the suitcase and closed it up. The two Paperbacks, the photos, and the computer disk were in my coat. When I finished, Louie handed me a bank card, Lucas Pernell’s business card, and a Pez dispenser.