23
Wheel of Fortune, October 2016
Bob stopped the Volvo by the kerb outside Bernie’s Bar. The Happy Hour sign wasn’t up. He drummed on the steering wheel as he looked toward the yellow light behind the blinds. So what would that make it in there now? Unhappy Hour? And how unhappy would Chrissie Hynde be if he showed up again so quickly? Only one way to find out.
The man tending the bar looked more like a bouncer than a bartender.
‘Where’s Liza?’ asked Bob.
‘She’s not in today.’
‘I can see she’s not in, I asked—’
‘I heard what you asked, mister. Can I get you something?’
Bob breathed through his open mouth. He could feel the rushing start up. He laid his police ID on the bar. ‘You want to answer my questions here or down at the station?’
The bartender studied the ID as he poured a glass of beer.
‘The kid’s sick, so she’s at home,’ he said. ‘Is she in trouble?’
No, thought Bob. He grabbed up his ID and walked out again.
Back in the Volvo he beat his head against the steering wheel.
I’m the one who’s in trouble.
He tapped in an A. Then an L. Looked at the I and the C in surprise, and then remembered he had deleted her from his Contacts last night. Alas, he could still remember the number.
‘Stan.’
The voice was deep and calm.
The fact that Stan answered Alice’s phone without saying anything other than his name told him at least two things. That Alice trusted Stan with her phone, which was something she’d never done with him. And that Stan knew it was Bob ringing and he was ready for a confrontation. Bob could scrape the phone against his thigh and pretend it was a pocket dialling. But the rushing in his head had taken over now and it was the rushing that made the decisions.
‘Good evening, meathead. Is Alice there?’
‘She asked you not to call her, Bob.’
Bob howled into the phone. He didn’t know what had happened, for a moment he was lost, and when he came back his phone was gone. He located it and saw a rose-shaped shatter in a corner of the screen. He typed, Couldn’t do it, couldn’t be alone now. Had to... They only had first names, their surnames were the places he had met them for the first time, usually in a bar. For example, it looked like he knew two sisters with the surname ‘Riverfront’.
‘Carol.’
‘Hi, Carol. Bob here.’
Silence.
‘Bob Oz.’
‘I can see that. I’m wondering what to say to you.’
‘Oh?’
‘I know you screwed my friend the day after me.’
‘Really? Is—’ Bob looked at the phone — ‘Tonya Riv— Tonya your friend?’
‘Tonya? Have you screwed Tonya as well?’
Bob pressed a hand to his forehead. ‘OK, Carol, I’m in the doghouse and I deserve it. But I’m not looking to get laid, I just need someone to talk to. As in, a cup of coffee somewhere.’
Bob heard the rough, bitter laughter. Interrupted by a furious: ‘Are you sick?’
‘You mean venereal, or some other way?’
He never found out whether she enjoyed the joke or not, she’d already hung up.
He scrolled down. Spun through the names with his index finger the way you spin a wheel of fortune. The list stopped and his eye fell on a name. Dory Anvil. Anvil was a bar, he remembered it, but not Dory. So it probably hadn’t been that memorable. But that was exactly what he needed tonight, someone he didn’t feel he had to screw. He pressed Call.
‘Hi, Bob! At last!’
Bob hesitated. It sounded like it might have been more memorable for her than for him. Could mean she wanted seconds. On the other hand it didn’t sound like she would say no to a meeting.
‘Hi, Dory.’
‘Have you missed me?’ Her voice had a false, trilling quality, like a grown woman pretending to be a child.
‘Hugely,’ said Bob, noting as he did so the way he had unconsciously imitated Mike Lunde’s cautious irony.
‘Then why didn’t you call?’
‘Well, let me explain, I lost your number, and—’
‘Hilarious, just what I thought!’ Her laugh was so high up the register that Bob felt as though his brain was being sliced into by a circular saw. ‘That’s why I sent you a text with my number, Bob.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes!’ Her laughter died out. ‘So why are you lying?’
Bob took a breath. He was so tired. Tired and weary. Weary of Bob Oz.
‘To be honest, Dory, and that’s not something I usually am, I’m lying because it’s so much more fucking pleasant. And I think you should regard the obvious lie as a kind of lifebelt. Grab hold of it, and you’ll avoid the humiliation of having me tell you that it’s because you just weren’t interesting enough.’
A long pause. Then that circular saw of a laugh cut another slice through his brain.
‘Hilarious, Bob!’
‘Thanks. How are things, Dory?’
‘Not bad. I’m at home alone. Want to come over?’
Bob was about to say yes, but something held him back. Dory-Dory-Dory. What was the thing he couldn’t quite remember? Had she been crazy? Bit of a prude? Needy? Did she have the clap? A husband? Anyway, none of that mattered now.
‘Come on, Bob.’
‘Er...’
‘Hey, I feel horny when you play hard to get, Bob. But I know you want me. And I’ll do exactly what you want. Just tell me what it is.’
‘Can you make meatballs in brown sauce?’
‘Eh?’
‘Nothing.’ Dory, Dory... ‘Why are you telling me that you’re at home and you’re alone?’
‘Well, you should know the answer to that.’
‘I should?’
‘You’re the one who put Tony in hospital.’
That Dory. Bob swallowed.
‘How... how’s he doing?’
‘Tony? Not too good. You broke his nose and his jaw.’
He heard her sigh. Heard the clink of ice cubes against glass.
‘Of course I feel sorry for Tony, but I love the way you fought for me, Bob. You fought for me, you did. Even though he’s much bigger!’
Bob heard the slur in her voice now. And the tears.
‘Dory, I’ve just remembered, I’m going bowling tonight.’
‘After the bowling then.’
‘It’s a tournament, be a long night.’
Silence at the other end. He heard a couple of snuffles. ‘How about tomorrow then?’
‘Would love to, but I think you’ve got something on tomorrow, Dory.’
‘I do?’
‘You’re visiting Tony in hospital and telling him you’re never going to hurt him again.’
Dory gave a bitter laugh. ‘Hilarious, Bob.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. But he was the one who was going to fight for you, Dory. Not me.’
In the silence that followed he could hear her sobbing. He waited until the sobbing stopped. The clink of ice cubes on glass. She cleared her throat and then spoke in a slightly deeper, natural register.
‘Enjoy your bowling, Bob.’
Bob Oz drove.
He didn’t know where he was going, only that it wasn’t home to Phillips. And not to Alice in Cooper. He was tired of the music and turned it off. The radio took over. Bob gathered it was a debate programme when he heard the sonorous tones of the mayor of Minneapolis, Kevin Patterson, declaring that the right to own a gun was about the right to defend one’s family, one’s children, in the same way as his position on abortion was about the right to defend the foetus.