Part 14 (1/2)
”No, Charlie? You condescending p.r.i.c.k. And what do I need?”
”A friend.”
That disarmed me. Charlie Finn was my friend. About the only one I had these days. I didn't need to be reminded he cared. When you fall on black days, bad news is easier to digest; kindness can be cruel.
”Anyway,” he continued, after the brief, uneasy silence. ”Fisher wants to see you.”
”Fisher?” I knew he and Charlie still spoke but why would the guy want to see me now? ”For what?”
”Are you okay to drive?” Charlie asked.
”I've had a few beers. Why?”
”Fisher wants to talk to you.”
”So why didn't he call me?”
”He asked me to call you. We're meeting at the Olympic Diner. Tonight.”
What the h.e.l.l was so pressing? Fisher and I hadn't spoken since he set me up with the job at NorthEastern last winter . . . Right. My failure reflected badly on him. Nice try. I wasn't getting read the riot act by Fisher.
”It's important,” Charlie said.
”Tell Fisher I don't want to hear it.” He must've learned I told Andy DeSouza to f.u.c.k himself-what other reason for the urgency? Except I'd told my boss to f.u.c.k off less than two minutes ago. How fast can bad news really travel?
”Fisher's coming from the other direction,” Charlie mumbled, as if to himself. ”You shouldn't be driving if you're drunk.”
”I'm buzzed. I'm not drunk. But if you think, after the day I've had, I'm taking lip from that greasy little f.u.c.k-”
”He wants to help,” Charlie said.
”I don't want my job back.”
”Jay, it's not about your job. I mean, not directly. You need to see something. You have to trust me. It'll be worth your while. Promise. Won't make sense over the phone. I still don't want you driving, though. We're getting that storm tonight-”
”What storm?”
”How out of it are you, man? Turned on the news lately? Listened to the radio?”
”Nope.” I'd been cloistered inside a G.o.dd.a.m.n bubble.
”Supposed to be, like, the worst blizzard since '78?” He exhaled. ”Not gonna hit until well after midnight. We have plenty of time.”
”Time for what?”
”Let me call Fisher. Maybe I can convince him to make a pit stop and pick you up first. But it's the other direction.” I could hear Charlie's hamster wheel spinning as he tried to plot a way to collect me from Plasterville. ”Or we can both go out there-”
”Don't worry,” I said. ”I'll head to Ashton.” I didn't feel like sitting around an empty house anyway, peeking out blinds like a basketcase.
”You shouldn't drive-”
”Relax. I have a friend I can call for a ride. See you at the Olympic in an hour.”
How many reckless high school nights ended up at the Olympic? After every party, kegger, or concert, we always managed to find our way to the twenty-four hour dinette on the Desmond Turnpike, its long, tin carriage gleaming hopefully in the parking lot. The reservoir ragers and drunken hook-ups of wild-eyed seventeen-year-olds with their whole lives ahead of them had given way to two dudes in their thirties, whose lives hadn't gone exactly as planned.
Seeing Charlie in the bright light tripped me out. In the washed-out grays of the bar or his bunker, flaws were more easily concealed. Back in the day, my best friend had been lean and handsome, a real lady-killer. Now he was paunchy, a few ham sandwiches short of blowing up like Brando. I could see what Charlie would look like in another five, ten. And the picture wasn't pretty. The reason was simple: alcohol. Charlie liked to drink, and even beer can take its toll. I tried to add up how much beer I'd downed over these last few days. Counting by twelve and rounding down, I still ended up with a frightening number.
”Why are you looking at me like that?” Charlie asked.
The pretty Greek waitress reached around me and refilled his coffee mug.
”Sit down,” he said. ”You're making me nervous.”
Charlie didn't realize the girl was with me, until Nicki slipped in the booth opposite him. He didn't say hi, content to gawk like a weirdo. She popped back up.
”I need to use the restroom,” she said to me.
I pointed down the long row of red vinyl stools propped along the counter, past the strudel and Danish hiding under scratched plastic hoods.
When I sat down, Charlie whiplashed, catching Nicki's a.s.s as she walked away. He spun around, thumbing over his shoulder.
”Are you hitting that?”
”Am I hitting that?” I repeated. ”No, Charlie, I'm not 'hitting that.' I'm f.u.c.king married.”
”I thought you said Jenny left.”
”My wife needs time to think. I needed a ride because you kept bugging me. Nicki is a friend. That's it.” Truth was, I could drive fine; the heightened, agitated state had left me stone-cold sober. ”And if my wife did leave me, I think it'd take longer than half a day to rebound.”
”Sorry, man.” Charlie fiddled with his spoon. ”I thought, y'know-”
”What?”
”If you and Jenny are having problems, maybe . . .” He arched his brows, bobbing. ”Y'know?”
”No, I don't know. I don't do that.”
”What? Have s.e.x?”
”Screw around.” It was true, and one of the better parts of my character, one of the few I had left to feel good about. I didn't cheat. Never had. I had no intention of starting now.
”What about Gina? In high school?”
”Any girl I've been with over the years, Jenny and I were on a break.” There had been a lot of breaks. Before he could chime in, I added, ”And other girls were never the cause. Jenny and I are . . . complicated.”