“Ah, the client. What client?”
“The one we’re talking about.”
“I’m afraid there is no client.”
“So where’s the work coming from?”
“What work?”
“The work you just said we had.”
Hunt leaned against Mickey’s desk and shrugged his shoulders. “Actually, truth be told, we don’t have any work.”
“But-”
“Hey. You told me to tell you we had some work, so I played along.
In fact, though, I’m afraid we don’t have any paying work.” He turned a palm up. “At this stage, we’d better be able to joke about it, don’t you think? And the good news is that I’m really going to have lunch at Le Central and was waiting for you. You eaten yet?”
“Not today. Other days, though, I have.”
Hunt broke a grin. “Good for you. So I won’t have to teach you how.” He looked around the small space with a wistful air, as though he might not see it again. “Let’s lock up and get ourselves on the outside of some grub.”
Le Central had a notice on its daily-updated blackboard informing its patrons that its famous and delicious cassoulet had been cooking now for 12,345 consecutive days. In spite of that, both Wyatt and Mickey agreed that it was too warm a day for the rib-sticking beans, duck, sausage, and lamb casserole, and instead both ordered the poulet frites-half a roasted chicken with fries. As an afterthought, Wyatt also ordered a bottle of white wine, by no means a common occurrence at lunchtime. When Mickey raised his eyebrows in surprise, he said, “Special occasion. You mind?”
“Not if you don’t mind me falling asleep at the desk this afternoon,” Mickey said. “But if you’re okay with that, I’ll force down a glass or two.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“What’s the special occasion?”
“Well, let’s wait for the wine. Meanwhile, tell me about this morning. You actually discovered the body?”
Mickey launched into a truncated version of the day’s events. The dead man, according to identification in his wallet, was Dominic Como, a prominent civic activist who’d gone missing about four days before. Even more startling, and depressing, from Mickey’s perspective, was the fact that his grandfather, Jim Parr, had worked for Como as his personal driver. The dead man had been one of Jim’s personal heroes. So now, if and when he went home tonight, Mickey would be sharing his one-bedroom, nine-hundred-square-foot walkup with a grieving grandfather and a train wreck of a sister.
The waiter appeared with their wine. Hunt tasted it, pronounced it fine, and then waited for their glasses to be filled before he lifted his. “Here’s to new beginnings.”
“New beginnings,” Mickey repeated. He hesitated, his glass poised in front of his mouth. “Why does that sound ominous?”
Hunt put down his untouched wine. “I’ve pretty much decided to close up the shop. Let you move on to your chef’s career.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be all right. Probably just hook up with one of the other outfits in town. Either that, or get a real job someplace. All these computer and marketing skills I’ve gotten good at ought to be worth something to somebody, I figure. Maybe a start-up.”
“But you don’t want to do that.”
“Well, sometimes you don’t get to do what you want. You, for example, don’t really want to be a receptionist and gofer.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Why not?”
“I’m a lot younger than you is one reason.”
Hunt almost chuckled. “Forty-five isn’t exactly one foot in the grave, Mick. People have been known to start over at that age. Goethe wrote Faust when he was eighty, so maybe there’s still some hope for me.”
“That’s not it. It’s not just the age. You love what you do.”
“I sure as hell don’t love sitting around the office waiting for the phone to ring.”
“But when there’s work…”
“Granted. It’s a good gig. I’m not arguing. I like it a lot when it’s working.” He lifted his hands an inch off the table. “But you know what it’s been like. I don’t see how it’s going to turn around. So I thought I’d give you a few weeks’ notice-I’ll keep you on the exorbitant payroll until I shut the doors for good, but I thought you deserved to know as soon as I made up my mind, and I pretty much have.”
“Pretty much, or definitely?”
“Well, pretty definitely, unless something drastic happens. And I also wanted to tell you how much I’ve appreciated what you’ve done for me over these past months. But I can’t ask you to hold on any longer when I don’t really see any future in it.”
Mickey finally noticed his wineglass. He picked it up and drank off a good swallow. “So what’s the timeline?”
“Well, the lease for the office goes another two months from now and I’ve got to give a month’s notice. So I guess it’s formal in about thirty days, give or take.”
“Unless something comes up to turn things around.”
“I wouldn’t hold my breath, Mick. I really don’t see what could make a difference at this point.”
Something jangled near Mickey’s head and he swatted at the offending noise that had jarred him so violently from his afternoon sleep. The phone hit the floor in front of his desk and the receiver bounced across the hardwood.
Mickey jumped up out of his chair, yelling, “Coming. Sorry. Just a second.” He came around the desk, grabbed the receiver, and, breathing heavily, managed to say he was sorry again before he realized where he was and said, “Hunt Club. Mickey speaking.”
A man’s voice. “Everything all right there?”
“Yeah. I just knocked the phone onto the floor. How can I help you?”
“You’re Mickey, you said?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, hold on a minute. I’ve got somebody who wants to talk to you.”
Mickey waited, then heard his grandfather’s voice. “Hey, Mick, is that you?”
“Jim?”
“Yeah. Me.”
“What’s up? How you doin’?”
“Well… a little fucked up.”
“Where are you?”
“The Shamrock.”
“Are you okay?”
“Good. I’m good. But I’m going to need a lift home here pretty soon.”
Mickey looked at his watch and let out a sigh. “Jim, it’s only four o’clock. I’m at work at least another hour.”
“I don’t think Mose would let me drink for another hour.”
“Who’s Mose?”
“Bartender here. S’good guy.” Slurring.
“How about you just have water or something? Would he serve you water?”
“I don’t drink water. The things fish do in water. You don’t want to know. Maybe he’d give me one more drink?” Sounding like he was making the suggestion to someone in front of him. “Maybe not, though. No.” Back to Mickey. “He’s shaking his head. Hold on just a second. Here he is again. Tell him I’ll drink slow.”
But the first man’s voice came back on. “This is Moses McGuire. You know where the Shamrock is? Maybe you want to get down here and pick up your old man. I don’t know if I want to let him out of here by himself in the condition he’s in.”
“He’s my grandfather,” Mickey said.
“Whatever.” McGuire lowered his voice. “Look, if he wouldn’t have remembered your number just now, I would have had to call a cab, but he said he didn’t want to take a cab, so I asked him how’d he feel about the cops, and I sure as hell don’t want to do that. Meanwhile, I got a business to run. He’s eighty-sixed here and you need to come down and get him right now. How old is he?”
“I don’t know exactly. Seventy-four, I think, somewhere in there.”
“That’s too old for the drunk tank. You’ve got to come get him.”
Swearing to himself, by now completely awake, Mickey said, “All right. Put him on again, would you?” And then, after a short pause, “Jim. God damn it. I’m going to call Tam first. You just wait. Maybe she’ll beat me there and can walk you home.”