Gene grabs the decanter and lurches toward the stairs.
I see him start to fall forward, but he seizes the railing with both hands, catching himself. There’s a high and final noise as the vessel detonates on the garage’s cement apron.
“You okay?”
He looks over his shoulder at me. “I didn’t mean I wanted to hit you tonight. I wanted to hit you when we first met.”
How can anyone understand another person? I go into the apartment, locking the door behind me. I fill a glass with water that smells like rubber cement, then I lay on top of the bed, feeling horrible, and knowing I’ll feel much worse.
20
Peter had almost reached home when he received a text from Martin Vinoray inviting him to get a burger near the hospital.
The economic shift that eliminated so many of Rochester’s working-class jobs had failed to shutter the working-class bars. In their humble design, those squat brick structures seemed the perfect counterpoint to the gothic churches that were their ubiquitous neighbors. The bars had names like Oasis, the Wet Lounge, and Mitch’s Tap. Whenever Peter ventured into these places, he felt like he was going undercover.
Inside, half the TVs showed the Yankees battling Tampa Bay, while on the other sets stone-faced college dropouts in sunglasses and Ed Hardy shirts sat around a poker table bluffing away millions. The green of the infield and the green of the felt were indistinguishable.
Martin sat at the end of the bar. He wore blue scrubs. With his index finger he stirred a highball glass while with his other hand he picked over a plate of calamari. The key fob to his ninety-thousand-dollar Mercedes glittered on top of a stack of small bills. The only clue that he played rock and rolclass="underline" the midnight-black ponytail that nearly reached his belt.
Peter mounted the adjacent stool.
“Hail the conqueror.”
“It was a big misunderstanding, that’s all.”
“Well, that was a neat little trick you pulled this morning. I wish I could have been in the room.”
Peter said, “What trick?”
“First Ogata crawled up the administration’s ass. Then, when they squirmed, Cross’s attorney threw a haymaker—”
“Kopp is my attorney.”
“You don’t have the juice to put that homunculus on a plane.” Vinoray made an upside-down V with his fingers and staked them to the bar, signaling the bartender to deliver two more drinks.
“‘Homunculus’?”
“That’s what Cooper called him. He said sitting across from that midget made his balls retract so far he had to stick a finger in his navel to scratch them.”
Why did Peter feel such satisfaction? He’d almost walked into that room alone. Even if Peter had managed to keep his job, he’d have been branded a fool.
“Cross has a big following in the Philippines. A couple years ago he filled the national soccer stadium — fifty thousand seats and twice as many people hanging around outside.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“Every Filipino man believes he has four talents: a great lover, a great boxer, an outlaw, and a singer.”
“And that’s Jimmy Cross.”
“Exactly.”
The bartender delivered the next round.
“Were you at the concert last night?”
“Sheila and I had tickets, but we got stuck at home. I heard he seemed spacey.”
Two women who seemed to have taken great pains to appear to be in their thirties, tanned, their hair blown out, their assets stuffed into strapless dresses, wedged between the men.
“Are you doctors?” asked the one closer to Peter.
Martin said he was a mechanic.
“I’ve never met an honest mechanic,” said the second woman.
“He’s kidding,” Peter said.
The women fixed their eyes on Martin.
“At the moment I’m trying to repair this young man’s heart, but I don’t have the right tools.”
When the women stared at his chest, Peter pulled his shoulders back.
The woman nearer Peter leaned toward him and asked, “What happened to your heart? Someone break it?”
“Crushed it,” said Martin.
“Poor baby.” Specks of mascara had settled on her cheeks, like cinders.
He pushed his lip down, pouting. When she turned to repeat herself to her friend, he noticed a pink weal half an inch above the upper edge of her dress.
Martin ordered a round for the women. The whisperer was a Katie; her friend was Jillian with a J.
The bartender delivered drinks to the women.
“What are these?” asked Jillian.
“It’s what the doctor ordered,” Peter said. His little joke seemed to sail over the women’s heads. Martin gave him a look that Peter translated as Cut the shit.
“Is it a White Russian?” Katie asked.
Martin curled a finger to draw them close. “It’s an Anchors Aweigh: bourbon, peach and cherry brandy, triple sec, and cream.”
The women frowned, but sipped their drinks.
“It tastes like poisoned candy,” Jillian said.
Martin reached over and took the woman’s drink away.
Laughing, Katie added, “Or like something my grandfather drinks in his basement.”
Martin said, “I doubt either of you has a living grandparent.”
Peter had warmed to Katie. She had a flirty habit of bumping her bare shoulder against him, and it had gotten so he’d started to anticipate the next collision.
But Martin’s comment hit its mark.
“What!” squawked Katie.
“Nasty,” Jillian said.
The women stood there sizzling like fuses, before storming off.
Peter said, “We should probably relocate before they enlist someone to teach us a lesson.”
Martin looked toward the door. “I won’t let anyone mess up your face before you’ve had a chance to take advantage of your station.”
“What station is that?”
“You’re going on tour.” Martin took a long sip of his drink. “Peg will tell you in the morning. Act surprised.”
Peter pulled his phone out of his pocket. No voice mails. No texts.
“You guys didn’t even call me.”
“I called as soon as we’d sorted out the details.”
That’s not what he’d meant. Why hadn’t anyone called him while his future was still being decided? “Thanks.”
“If someone gave me the choice between watching my kids graduate college or hearing Cross play ‘Sin Perdido’ live, I’m not sure which I’d pick.”
“You’d pick your kids.”
Martin tapped his glass against Peter’s. “I’ve never dreamed of watching my kids graduate.”
Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” played on the TV as Mariano Rivera walked from the bullpen to the mound.
A pair of large guys squeezed between the doctors and ordered four pitchers of beer — they wore matching T-shirts and goatees.
Peter glanced at the back of the room — maybe ten more men in goatees and T-shirts circled a table. A wave of laughter rippled through the group, and as it did Peter realized that they weren’t gathered around a table at all, but around Katie, his favorite shoulder bumper.
When the men carried the pitchers to the back of the room, Peter told his colleague they needed to leave.
“Not before Mo strikes out these cocksucking Rays.” Martin glanced at the back of the room. “Silver Surfer, you ever been in a fight?”
Peter understood he wasn’t talking over drinks with Dr. Vinoray — he was out with the Steel Retractors’ impulsive front man. A sour taste blossomed in Peter’s mouth. “In fourth grade.”
“How’d it start?”
On the TV, the batter took a defensive swing at an inside pitch. One out.
“This kid in my gym class pulled his arms in his sleeves so his elbows poked against the front of his shirt and he sort of made them go in every direction—”