“You ever seen me in swimming trunks? It’s not a pretty sight.”
“Come on, I’m sure you look great,” I said. “And a guy like you, from New York, you’ll have no problem at all.”
“No, I think Debbie was the best I’ll ever get.”
“You gotta be kiddin’ me. What you gotta do is start moving up. I’m serious. Instead of looking for women in their forties, look for women in their fifties and sixties, maybe even in their seventies. Arizona’s like Florida. They got all those rich widows down there, waiting for a guy to come along. And once you get that bar going, forget about it—you’ll have a woman for every night of the week.”
“Co-dependent,” Frank said.
“What?”
“That’s the word I was thinking of before—I’m co-dependent. I like to be with sick, fucked-up women because I’m sick and fucked up myself. I never told you this before, but my first wife was an alcoholic too. She wasn’t as bad as Debbie, but she was close. My point is maybe the problem’s me, not her—maybe any woman would run around on me. Maybe I should call off the divorce and try to patch things up.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Why not? You know, most of the problems we have are all because of booze. If I could just get her to lay off, maybe we could go get some counseling, try to work things out—”
“You’re not serious, I hope.”
“No, I wish I was, but I know it’s too late. I’ll go through with the goddamn divorce, go out to cactus country and see what life has in store for me. But I’m telling you—I don’t think anything I find out there’ll be better than what I have in front of me right now.”
Frank took another swig of his vodka-tonic. I stood up and stretched.
“So I guess Gary’s not coming in tonight, huh?” I said.
“Haven’t seen or heard from him since Monday,” Frank said. “His tape picks up when I call—for all I know he left New York. But I’ll tell you one thing—I’m glad you’re taking over the bar instead of him. The damn kid is just too unreliable. I need somebody running this bar I can trust.”
“You can trust me.”
“I know I can. You’re probably the only person in the world I can trust right now. Jesus, you look like you’re about to fall down. Why don’t you go home?”
“That’s all right,” I said. “I’m fine.”
“No, I’m serious. I mean I appreciate you coming in here when you’re feeling like this, but it’s gonna be a slow night—Gil can proof at the bar—”
“Forget about it,” I said, patting Frank on the back.
I went into the bathroom and passed out. I came to a few seconds later with a nice bruise on my ass. I splashed cold water on my face.
Eating the Snickers bar and the second carrot cake gave me a boost. I was hoping it would be a slow night, but some fuckin’ kid picked tonight of all nights to celebrate his twenty-first birthday and he had to do it at O’Reilley’s. College kids were spilling in all night—most of them looked eighteen or nineteen, and some looked younger, but I was too tired to do my job right. I just sat on my stool, waving everybody in, even a kid with a bogus Jersey license that looked like it was made on a computer.
I drank a couple of Cokes to keep the caffeine coming, but at around 11:30 I couldn’t take it anymore. I told Frank I was taking off and I headed down First Avenue.
The wind had picked up and the temperature must have dropped another ten degrees. It was probably in the teens now, heading down into the single digits. My hands and feet were frozen stiff and it felt like I had icicles on my face. I was starting to get a sore throat.
I was turning the corner onto my block when I realized what deep shit I could be in. This afternoon I’d parked my car in front of a hydrant. If the cops towed it away I didn’t know how I’d get rid of the body.
I jogged up the block and thank God the car was still there. It was like a fuckin’ miracle—I didn’t even get a ticket.
Amazingly, the engine caught on the first try. I drove up the block and double-parked in front of my building. Leaving the engine running, I went inside. I was dizzy, going up the stairs. In my apartment, I spread the blanket down on the floor and then I lifted Debbie up. She was already stiff and purple, but for some reason her body was warm. I was about to get the pillow to finish her off, when I realized that she only felt warm because my hands were so fucking freezing.
I let out a deep breath and smiled, thinking this would all seem very funny someday.
I laid Debbie down on the blanket. I put the fur coat back on her and then I put her pocketbook over her shoulder. I looked around to make sure she hadn’t brought anything else into the apartment with her. All I noticed was the shopping bag from the Chinese restaurant, but I figured I’d get rid of that later. I rolled Debbie up in the blanket.
Normally, I could’ve carried her down to the street, no problem, but I was so tired it felt like she was twice her actual weight. On the second floor, I thought I heard somebody coming out of their apartment. I froze, but the noise stopped.
When I got down to the vestibule there was a man passing by outside, but he was looking straight ahead and didn’t see me. I waited until he was down the block and there were no cars passing by and then I carried Debbie outside. Thanks to the cold, there weren’t any other people on the street. Moving fast, I opened the trunk. I had a lot of shit in there—a spare tire, tools, old clothes—but I couldn’t start cleaning now. I stuffed her inside. Part of her body wouldn’t fit so I had to bend it. But part of her must’ve still been blocking something because I still couldn’t close the fucking thing. I tried a few more times and then, finally, using all my might, I slammed the trunk down and it locked.
I got on the FDR Drive, heading downtown. I took the Manhattan Bridge and stayed on Flatbush. The Brooklyn streets were empty and if I could’ve gotten my car going over twenty-five miles an hour I might’ve made every light. As it was, it was stop-and-go like I was in rush-hour traffic. A couple of times I caught myself dozing at the wheel and I fought to stay awake. I figured that some loud music would help keep me up so I turned on the radio to a rap station and cranked the volume.
I was driving past Church Avenue when I spotted the police car behind me. Then the siren came on and the cop came on the bullhorn and told me to pull over.
I figured there was probably just something wrong with my car—maybe one of my taillights was out or something. No matter what, I had to stay cool. The police car stopped behind me with the brights shining in my rear-view mirror.
A cop came up to my window. He was a white guy, about my size and age. He had a mustache.
“Hey, how’s it goin’?” I said.
“Can you turn that music down please?”
I lowered the volume, realizing that with the way that rap music was blasting they must’ve thought they were pulling over a drug dealer.
“Can I see your license and registration please?”
I took my license out of my wallet and the registration out of the glove compartment and handed them to him. “What’s the problem?” I said. “I know I couldn’t’ve been speeding—not in this piece of shit.”
I laughed, hoping he’d laugh too but he didn’t. He took out a flashlight and shined it at my face.
“Your eyes are bloodshot. Have you been drinking tonight?”
“You kiddin’ me? I’m exhausted. I’m just trying to get to my brother’s house so I can get some rest.”
He shined a flashlight into the car—looking on the floor in front of the front seat—then he checked out the back seat.