“Are lucky, or get lucky?”
Amanda stood up. Pulled her shirt over her head.
Smiled at him as he gazed up and down her body.
“I guess we’ll have to find out.”
22
The glass sat in front of him. Empty. The last remnants of the liquid sloshed in his mouth, and he finally swallowed it, his taste buds begging for more.
“Fill it up, Jack?”
Jack O’Donnell looked at the bartender, a big Irish bloke named Mickey, and said, “One more. Then I’m cutting myself off.”
Mickey laughed. “If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard you say that, Jacky boy.”
“I mean it this time,” Jack said, but something in his voice made the barman laugh. Jack had to smile. “Hit me once more.”
“You got it.”
Mickey took the nozzle from beneath the bar, brought it up to Jack’s glass and filled it to the brim with fizzy, bubbly soda.
“Here,” Mickey said. He reached into a small plastic tray and removed a single maraschino cherry. Holding it by the stem, Mickey delicately placed it on top of the soda and said, “Voila. Figure since you’re drinking girly drinks these days, you might as well go the full nine and have it look girly, too.”
“You’re a saint,” Jack said. He raised the glass and tipped it toward Mickey. “To never swilling a pint of that godforsaken ale again.”
“You can toast to that, my friend. ’Fraid if I do the same I’ll be out of a job.”
“This world today you’ll be out of a job in the next six months anyhow.”
“Did you come here just to ruin my day, Jack?”
“I’m the black cloud hanging over every man’s driveway,” Jack said with a grin. He sipped the soda.
“As long as you pay your tab,” Mickey said, cleaning a glass.
Jack held up the soda glass, shook it gently, the ice cubes clinking. “This stuff, what do you charge for it?
Two bucks a glass?”
“Four,” Mickey said, slight embarrassment in his voice.
“Four dollars,” Jack said. “What does it cost to manufacture? Three cents?”
“No idea,” Mickey said. “I’ll tell you one thing, it costs a whole lot more than three cents to buy the syrup.”
“See, this is exactly what’s wrong with this country,”
Jack said.
“Christ, here we go.”
“No, hear me out. My paper, you can buy it on the street for fifty cents. And for that fifty cents, you get hundreds of articles written by some pretty smart people- okay, some of them are dumber than my shoes-about everything you need to know about the world. Now, for this little glass of sugar piss, you could buy one of my newspapers for eight straight days.”
“I thought it was more expensive on the weekends.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass,” Jack continued. “Anyway, people don’t value things like that anymore. When I started out in this business, you couldn’t walk down the street without seeing everyone carrying a copy of the morning’s paper under their arm. Now, they’re doing everything but reading. iPods, BlackBerries, video games, text messages, bird calls, Pictionary. It’s like people go out of their way to be ignorant.”
“Why are you here, Jack?” Mickey asked. Jack was surprised to see that the look on Mickey’s face wasn’t jovial, but serious enough to get Jack to forget about his rant. “You say you’re on the wagon. Haven’t had a drink in two months. I give you credit for that, my friend, and it’s always good to see you back around here. But it seems kind of stupid to me for a man trying to stay off the sauce to hang out at a bar. Not exactly the best atmosphere to keep you focused, know what I mean?”
Jack nodded. He didn’t have a reply for that. It just felt natural, coming back here, like a memory that haunted you but kept tugging at the edges of your subconscious.
It was only in the last few years that the drinking had really become a problem. Back in the day, a lunch without three martinis was a lunch wasted. An after-work cocktail wasn’t an occasion; it was part of the job. You went home sauced, you woke up hungover, and everything in between was done to even it out. Now, drinks at lunch were almost passe. Expense accounts had been slashed like a murder victim, and if you ordered a second drink you might get a look.
Now, everything was moderated. People judged you. It was a few years ago when Wallace Langston pointed out that Jack’s face was looking red, puffy. Wallace recommended a good dermatologist who helped cure his wife’s rosacea. Jack, perplexed, took the number but never called.
He lied to Wallace and told him he’d seen the doctor, though in retrospect that might not have been the wisest course of action since it made the editor in chief even more suspicious when the symptoms began to worsen.
He’d never wanted to leave. Never dreamed of putting down the pen until he was either good and ready, or dead and buried. And last year, he was neither. It was Paulina
Cole who forced his hand, by printing a newspaper article that swung an ax at his reputation, left him alone and crying on his bedroom floor.
Jack O’Donnell refused to go out like that. Refused to go out a laughingstock.
In order to restore his reputation, he needed one last home run, one last story to remind the public just why they’d trusted him for the better part of half a century.
First, though, he needed to clean up. Funny thing, he was never in denial about his alcoholism. With every drink, Jack knew he was feeding the beast. It was easy to justify, easy to rationalize. Jack was one of the city’s most respected newsmen. He’d earned that reputation.
He’d sold nearly a million books, written God knows how many bylines.
Jack used to have an agent. Good guy named Al Zuckerberg. Tall, wispy Jew who had a company down in
Union Square. For two decades, like clockwork, Al would negotiate his contracts every two or three years. And if
Jack was ever late with a manuscript or running short on ideas, Al would be over with a bottle of Johnnie Walker
Blue within the hour.
Jack couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Al.
Jack hadn’t written a book in nearly ten years. At some point, Al must have given up. No squeezing blood from a stone. Jack had wrung himself out.
Good businessman, Al was. He realized that once Jack was tapped out, his energies would be better spent on other authors who would bring in new money. Jack still received royalty payments, but they were dwindling.
They’d afford him a few nice meals a year, maybe pay off some of his mortgage. But that’s all.
This story, this lead he was chasing with Henry, Jack knew this was his last chance. A big hit, and his reputation was restored. Jack still had some fight left in him, but what really stoked the coals was watching Henry work. Watching his career take off like Jack’s had long ago. He was a pit bull, that young man, clutching a lead with his teeth and shaking it until the truth came loose.
Jack felt strong coming back. Felt like he had enough strength and desire to do his best work in a long, long time.
But when that was over, Jack wasn’t sure how much he’d have left. At least, he thought, the paper would be in good hands with Henry. If Jack had died, if the alcohol had overcome him, he would have died a joke. His reputation would have been reduced to a pile of smoldering ashes. Now, he could change that. Going out with a bang wasn’t such a bad thing.
The glass began to grow warm in his hand. The ice cubes had begun to melt. Jack watched the soda turn from black to muddy brown as it mixed with the melting ice. He pictured, just for a moment, Mickey reaching behind the bar, picking the bottle of Jim Beam up, tilting that long neck and pouring a healthy swallow of bourbon in. He could taste it on his tongue, smiled briefly. Then he looked at the glass and set it on the table.
“Getting the urge, huh,” Mickey said. He took the glass of soda away from Jack, gently, poured it out and placed the glass behind the bar. “Maybe you should go home, Jack.”