Jenn caught the stare and leaned forward, her face anxious. “Let’s not talk about that.” She glanced from one to the other, her bottom lip curled between her teeth. “How about a game? Ian?”
“Huh?” His skin was pallid and sick, and he’d finished half the scotch in a gulp. “Umm. I don’t know.”
“You don’t have a game?” Her tone light as May. “What’s the world coming to?”
“Fuck if I know,” Alex said.
“You have a bad day too?” Mitch put his jacket over the back of Jenn’s chair, unbuttoned his cuffs and started to roll them up. “You guys are about as much fun as a Smiths reunion.”
“I guess I just got up on the side of the wrong bed,” Alex said. “You ever do that, Mitch? Get up on the side of the wrong bed?”
“You mean the wrong side of the bed.”
“Yeah. Right.” Something in his eyes an accusation. What was that? Did the guy actually think he’d be ashamed for being with Jenn?
Question: Who shows up at a woman’s house at two in the morning?
It came in a flash. All the looks between Alex and Jenn that had stretched a half second too long. All those shared cab rides north. The man’s moodiness, the way he still hadn’t gotten Mitch a drink, the way he seemed to be trying to pick a fight.
Answer: Someone who’s sleeping with her.
Something twisted in him. Alex with his broad shoulders and muscles and sensitive stories about his daughter. All this time, even while he knew, he knew, that Mitch was carrying a torch. All that time he’d been fucking Jenn.
He felt dizzy, hot. The air in the bar was close and thick. He had a panicky feeling, like the world was slipping, or like he was. Like he was a little kid again, gawky and shy and falling down in gym class. In just a moment the laughter would start.
That’s not you anymore. It’s not.
“Come on, guys. Let’s not be like this. This is a celebration, remember?” Jenn looked back and forth, brushed hair behind her ear.
“What are we celebrating?” Alex had the look of a man vibrating inside. “Everything is falling to shit.”
“Hey, man.” Ian looked up from his empty glass. “Keep it cool, OK?”
“Cool? Why?” Alex shook his head. “I’m a thirty-two-year-old bartender. I live in a one-bedroom in a crap neighborhood. My ex-wife is taking my daughter away. This is not the way my life was supposed to be.”
“Everybody feels that way sometimes.” Jenn’s voice was pitched low and consoling. “It’s natural.”
“Yeah, well, not everybody has detectives calling to talk to them about a robbery, do they?”
“You saying that’s somebody’s fault?” Mitch asked.
“It’s the Jolly Green Fucking Giant’s fault. It’s whoever robbed this place and shot someone out in the alley’s fault.”
It was like the guy wanted them to get caught, the way he was pushing the envelope, hinting too broadly. If anyone heard this, told Johnny, they’d be in trouble. What was Alex doing? Didn’t he realize he was putting them all in danger? Did he just not care?
“Get back up on the sumbitch,” Ian said in a startlingly realistic Tennessee drawl.
“Huh?”
“Something my dad used to say. He was a big one for clichés, my pop. Cleanliness and godliness, early birds and worms. ‘Son, it ain’t about falling off the horse. It’s how fast you get back up on that sumbitch.’ ”
“That’s what I need. Platitudes.” Alex shook his head. “All due respect, but fuck your dad right now, OK?”
Ian gave a thin smile. “Sure, buddy. It’s your world. We’re just furniture.”
“Guys.” Her tone pleading.
Things were falling apart, but Mitch couldn’t find it in himself to care. A week ago these had been his closest friends, his urban tribe. Only it was all built on bullshit. One of them was a secret cokehead, another had been screwing the woman he loved; and her, she’d lied to him about it. Not to mention that he was the one in the most danger for a risk he hadn’t wanted to take in the first place.
Nothing was what it seemed, nothing was true. So fuck it.
He leaned forward. “We were talking about games. Here’s one. Answer this for me. What’s the worst you’ve ever screwed over someone you said you cared about?” He fixed Alex with a glare. “Ready, go.”
The toxic silence tasted of copper.
Ian stood. “I’m taking off.”
“No, look,” Jenn’s eyes wide, imploring. “This is stupid. We’re just-”
“We’re just done with each other,” Alex said. He straightened, picked up a rag and wiped his hands. “Right?”
There was a stab in Mitch’s chest, and a child’s urge to take it all back. But he said, “Yeah,” then jerked his jacket from the back of the chair, turned to Jenn. “I’m leaving. Are you coming?”
“I…” She looked back and forth. “No. I’m going home.”
“I can take you.”
“Not tonight.” She stood, picked up her purse. Pulled a couple of twenties from her wallet and dropped them on the bar. “It doesn’t have to be like this. But you guys with your egos. You’d rather all crash and burn than get over each other.”
“Yeah, well, you’re certainly the expert on guys, aren’t you, Tasty.” The look on Alex’s face was pure meanness. “All that experience.”
Her face paled and eyes widened. Then she just shook her head. “Well, it was good while it lasted.”
“What was?” Ian asked.
“The Thursday Night Drinking Club.” She gestured with a sad smile. “Us.”
CHAPTER 22
THE VIEW WAS SPECTACULAR, Bennett had to admit. Outside Ian Verdon’s floor-to-ceilings, the city was glowing geometries, the river tinged pink with that shadowless five o’clock light. Magic hour, photographers called it.
He stared for another moment, then turned away, spun in a slow circle. The condo was tastefully modern, with clean lines and low-slung furniture. He walked over to a set of bookshelves, more pictures and knickknacks than books: a shot of a dude against a split-rail fence, face lined as ten-year-old boots; a box of Monte cristos with a broken seal declaring them Cubans; a sleek hourglass with pale blue sand. Idly, he opened the cigar box. Inside was a mirror, a razor blade, and a glassine bag filled with white powder. Lookie lookie. He poured a small bump on the back of his hand and snorted.
Damn.
He packed it back away, careful to put everything in the exact same spot. Addicts were clueless about a lot of things, but never their supply.
There was a cheap phone on the bookcase and a cordless in the kitchen. He chose the cordless. Shit was so easy these days. You could order any damn thing from the Internet. It took two minutes to crack open the phone, do what he needed to, and close it back up. He glanced at his watch: 5:30. On a Friday night, that might be pushing it a little. Best to head out.
Bennett replaced the phone, took one last look around the apartment, then stepped out, locking the door behind him. He strolled down the hallway, the indirect-lighting-and-muted-carpet combo that yuppies couldn’t get enough of, then punched the button for the elevator. As he waited he whistled, badly, savoring that chill ease of quality cocaine.
The doors parted and a gaunt dude in a nice suit stepped out. His hair was gelled and mussed just so, but his eyes were sunken, and the greenish remains of a shiner marked one. “Excuse me.”
Bennett smiled, stepped aside, then climbed into the elevator and rode it to the garage. He stood in the shadows near the gate, and when a black Wrangler pulled up to it, he waited till the Jeep was through, then ducked out.
His Benz was at a pay lot two blocks away. He climbed in, reached in the back and pulled out his laptop. As it booted, he opened his cell phone, dialed *67 to block caller ID, and then Verdon’s phone number.
The man answered on the third ring. “M’ello?”
Bennett said nothing, drew the pause out. Theatre.