Still, there were times I’d nearly risked it. In the cab, coming back from some club in Brooklyn, when she put her fingers in my hair and whispered in my mouth. In bed, when she looked at me like she was reading tea leaves. Walking home from dinner, when she took my hand and put it in her pocket. Each time I told myself, Don’t lose this, and, Hold on Each time I told myself to speak, but never said a word.
The last time was on the day I left. The car was running and I punched her number on my cell. I was going to tell her everything, and ask her to pack a bag, but when I heard her voice, I saw her and Strickland at Milk & Honey on the night we met. They were talking and smiling, and suddenly there was something conspiratorial in their laughter. She knew it was me on the line, and she said my name again and again. I switched the phone off and drove away. What’s your secret word, Mia? I couldn’t begin to guess. The woman on TV scored again. Mystery; riddle; puzzle — enigma! Much applause. I drank my last beer and picked up my coat.
There were trucks in the lot of the Lethe Lounge, and the smell of exhaust on the cold air. Inside, a layer of cigarette smoke was gathering at the ceiling. There were customers in back, playing pinball and pool, and a stock car race on TV. I took a stool and ordered a double Scotch. Mickey poured it and put it down in front of me.
“How’re you doing?” he asked. “Still in the game?”
“Sure,” I said, and he went away.
I drank my drink and watched the cars become a loud blur around the bright track. The sun and flags and noise reminded me of absolutely nothing, and it was very restful. When Mickey came back, my head was on the bar and he looked worried. I sat up and waved my glass at him. He just stood there. I waggled my glass again.
“I thought this was the international sign for give me another fucking drink.
Mickey shook his head. “Not for you.”
I wiped my chin with my sleeve. “What — I have to listen to some bullshit bartender wisdom first?”
His eyes narrowed. “The only wisdom I have is: Go back to your room and sleep it off.”
I slammed my glass down, loud enough to turn heads. “What happened — you all of a sudden run out of advice? A couple of days ago you were chockful — crap about plans and staying in the game and who I should keep away from.”
Mickey’s face darkened. “Keep your voice down,” he rumbled. “Anyway, you’re not looking for advice.”
“The fuck you know — nobody needs advice more than I do.”
“You need it, but drunks don’t listen.”
“Try me.”
“Fine,” he sighed. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but it’s slow right now. What do you want advice about?”
“About staying in the game. I want to know what the point of it is.”
“Staying in the game? It’s an expression, that’s all — like hanging in there. It means sometimes things get hard, but you keep trying. You tough it out.”
“I know what it means, for chrissakes — my question is: Why bother?”
He rolled his eyes. “What’s the alternative — whining about life all day? Laying down and dying? I don’t think so. I think you stay in the game.”
“And if the game is rigged? If you just can’t win — then what do you do?”
Mickey sighed. “This is what I get for talking to a drunk. I should know better by now.”
“I’m serious — what do you do?”
“What else can you do except keep trying?”
I laughed. “That’s sucker thinking — it’s what gets people spending their welfare checks on lottery tickets. I’m talking about when the serious fix is in — when it’s a stacked deck.
I’m asking what if you know there’s just no way to win?”
He squinted at me, and took his time rubbing a cloth over the bar. “Then maybe I’d try to change the game — try to get a little something back. See if I couldn’t get even, and then get out.”
I leaned over the bar and took hold of Mickey’s arm and whispered to him, “Getting even — I like that. But how Mickey — how do you do it?”
He jerked his arm loose and shook his head. “You need to lie down.” The door opened and a crowd came in and Mickey moved off. The cigarette smoke grew thicker and bodies jammed the bar, and I was pushed sideways and then away. I ended up at a table in a corner, thinking about getting even and about getting another drink. I wasn’t there long when a wiry hand gripped my shoulder. I looked up at a knobby face, a row of yellow teeth, and a red cap.
“I owe you a drink from the other night — for being a prick. What’re you havin’?” I looked at his hand on my shoulder, and at the twin lightning bolts tattooed across his knuckles. He squeezed harder. “What’s the matter, pard — you don’t want to drink with me?”
“Scotch,” I said.
He brought back two doubles, two beers for himself, and one for his pal Len, who brought along three other guys whose names I never got. They stood around the small table and blocked out the light. They let Ross do all the talking, and they took their eyes off me only to glance at one another and exchange narrow smiles. I knew I should be scared, and a part of me was, but another part was thirsty. And the rest of me — the biggest part by far — could barely pay attention to any of it.
Two doubles became two more, and two after that, and the room was now a smear of noise and smoke and sweat. The circle of bodies around the table grew tighter and darker and like a cave, and only Ross’s questions made it through the gloom. He kept repeating them — again and again — and they stuck like splinters in my head. Where’re you from? Where’re you headed? Why’d you stop here? Who’s expecting you? His voice was raspy and intimate, and his face was close to mine. His breath was like a barnyard and the questions kept coming, and all of a sudden it seemed important to have the answers. I worked up a sweat trying, but every time I reached for one, it wriggled away.
“Who’s expecting you?” he asked again, and Mia’s pale, fretting face rose up and I started to cry. There was laughter in the cave, and someone dropped a hand on my shoulder and put another shot glass in front of me. I downed it and choked, and the world began to slide. I was covered in sweat, and I knotted up inside, from the chest down.
“Jesus, Ross,” someone said, “he’s gonna boot.” Then there were arms under mine.
“Come on, pard, you need air.”
Hands pushed me along, and the cave became a tunnel. I stumbled to the end of it, out into the frozen night. I staggered against a dumpster and emptied myself in a bellowing retch. I kneeled against the dumpster, shaking, and when I looked up there were stars in the sky.
“Holy shit,” a voice said, “the fucking guy gave birth.” There was laughter and a hand on my collar and Ross’s voice. “Come on, pard, a little ride will fix you.”
I didn’t want to move, but the hand pulled me up. I tried to hold onto the dumpster, but the hand pried my fingers loose and pulled me across the parking lot to a dented gray van. A door slid open and someone took my arm. I looked up at the stars.
“Climb in, pard,” Ross said, but I didn’t want to. I yanked my arm away and pushed backward.
“I have to make a call,” I said. My voice sounded hollow. “I have to call Mia.”
“Sure,” Ross said, “I got a phone in here.”