Part 21 (1/2)

And his other unfinished business of the night.

25.

By two twenty-five the last of the stragglers had cleared out, leaving Jules to finish closing up for the night. The front door was locked. The speed racks were stocked and racked and ready, the ashtrays and trash cans emptied, the sinks and bar all wiped till they gleamed. Bonnie and Heather, the night waitresses, had barely cashed out and split their tips when Jules looked up from doing the books, told them to go ahead and leave. On the way out the door they each stole a quick sidelong glance at the lone figure huddled at the end of the bar. Jules smiled and nodded as they waved good-bye, told them each to have a good one.

Then the door clicked shut behind them, locking Jules and Syd in.

And Jules breathed a hefty sigh.

Now for the real work, he thought. He put away the ledgers, locked out the register, cued up some Buddy Guy tunes and pulled two icy longnecks out of the cold chest. He ambled down to the far end of the bar and set one in front of his friend.

”Cheers,” he said, clinked Syd's bottle with his own.

Syd lifted out of his trance, nodded glumly. Jules took a long pull off his beer, set it back on the bar, waited. Patience was a virtue. There were a million things to be said, but if experience were any guide, they might be a while in coming.

To his surprise, Syd cut to the chase fairly quickly. He picked up his beer, took a gulp. ”Thanks,” he said. His voice quavered, raw with anguish.

”Anytime,” Jules replied, took another sip of his own. ”You okay?”

The laugh that came had not a trace of humor in it. ”Oh, yeah, never better,” he said, then stopped to swallow the fist-sized knot in his throat. ”s.h.i.+t,” he mumbled. ”I'm such an a.s.shole.”

”Sometimes,” Jules concurred. ”But I don't know many people who aren't.”

”I can't believe it,” Syd continued, shaking his head, almost as if he were talking to himself. ”How could I be so f.u.c.king blind?”

Jules paused, shrugged. ”Love,” he said. ”f.u.c.ks with your reflexes.”

”Yeah, well,” Syd countered, ”never again.” He drained his beer, set it down with a hollow thunk.

It was Jules's turn to be cynical. ”Uh-huh,” he muttered. He finished his beer, scooped up Syd's bottle. ”There's three things that I'm sure of,” he said. ”One is that you've had a very s.h.i.+tty night. The second is that there's no way in h.e.l.l that you are in any shape to drive.”

”What's the third thing?” Syd asked.

”I'll tell you when we get home,” Jules said.

Syd shook his head grimly. ”I don't think I can go home right now.”

”I meant my home.” Jules turned and tossed the empties. Syd looked at him as he grabbed his jacket and came around the bar, as if he didn't quite get it. Jules smiled, laid a big hand on Syd's shoulder.

”I got two cold sixes of Sam Smith's Pale Ale and the new Sarabande digital remasters of Muddy Waters' lost sessions,” he explained. ”Now you tell me, who else is going to properly appreciate that?”

For the first time in hours, Syd managed a smile. It was weary, halfhearted, clouded with emotion. But it was a start. He nodded, rose from his stool. He wobbled slightly, adjusting to the change in alt.i.tude.

”Whoa.” He groaned as his bladder woke up and sent urgent telegrams to his brain. ”I think maybe I better take a leak first.”

Jules nodded back. ”I'll go warm up the car,” he replied.

They split off, each heading in their respective directions. Syd weaved across the dance floor, alcohol and exhaustion making his brain bob like a Ping-Pong ball in an oil slick. As he reached the mouth of the hallway he turned, suddenly hit with the urge to thank Jules again. For being there. For being a friend.

”Hey, Jules . . .” he began.

But Jules was already gone.

Jules' teeth were chattering by the time he reached his car, a big black Chrysler New Yorker parked nose-in near the southeast corner of the building. Syd had once remarked that riding with Jules could turn a trip to the 7-Eleven into a near-religious experience; it was like floating down the road with your favorite band wailing in the back.

And it was true: while Jules was nothing if not iconoclastic in his tastes-living very simply on the Spartan first floor of a converted Victorian manse on the outskirts of town-his road tastes were nothing short of regal. The Chrysler was big and square and imposing, a rolling slab of unabashed gas-guzzling Detroit iron, fifteen years old, immaculately maintained.

The interior was a Ricardo Montalban wet dream of rich caramel-colored leather, overstuffed and opulent. The sound system was an Alpine custom installation-complete with a remote-controlled multidisc CD changer, bi-amped crossovers, and subwoofers under the seats-and it had set him back over two grand.

Money well spent, Jules always thought. He didn't care a h.e.l.l of a lot about real estate or furniture or the other anchoring accoutrements of civilization. His home was clean, and comfortable, but apart from his music collection it was clear that it was but a stopover point on the way to something better. Once upon a time he'd actually made an overture to permanence, had some posters from the Monterey Jazz Festival mounted in matte black frames. They were still leaning against the dining room wall, awaiting a decision as to where to drive the nails. Such was his nesting instinct.

The road was another story. He'd bought the car some five years ago, as a reminder to himself that one day he would hit it again, just take off for parts unknown, carrying nothing more than the song in his heart and his love of the blues, and whatever worldly goods would neatly pack into the Chrysler's cavernous trunk. The car itself became a kind of rolling icon to his freedom, and the mere sight of it never failed to cheer him.

One day, he thought. One day I will.

Provided, of course, I don't freeze to death tonight, he amended. It was f.u.c.king cold out here, the temperature easily in the twenties. He fished his keys out of his pocket, grappled with the little black remote dangling off the key ring. He punched the disarm b.u.t.ton, waited for the chirp.

Nothing happened.

What? he thought, his hackles instantly up as his eyes searched for broken gla.s.s or gutted dash. Everything was intact. He remembered the cardinal rule of troubleshooting, which he'd come up with after watching two guitar players stall a gig for twenty minutes and drive the roadies crazy because they weren't getting power to their amps, only to discover that they'd unwittingly plugged into each other's access jacks.

Always check the stupid s.h.i.+t first.

Jules flipped the remote over. The battery had fallen out.

”s.h.i.+t,” he sighed. He reached into his jacket pocket. The battery was there, along with the little plastic cover panel. s.h.i.+vering, he fumbled the pieces together, pushed the b.u.t.ton. The disarm signal chirped obediently, automatically unlocking the doors in the process.

Jules jumped in and cranked it up; the big V-8 rumbled to life. He flipped on the defrosters, waited for it to start warming before stepping out again. He stood, turned to shut the door . . .

. . . and that was when he saw the reflection in the driver's side window, coming up from behind so fast that he barely had time to turn before it slammed him into the door panel, breaking his arm and three ribs just from the force of impact. Jules thought to cry out to Syd, but there was no time, no time at all. Slavering jaws fastened on his throat, cutting off his screams before he had a chance: severing his larynx even as they slashed his jugular and carotids, sending hot red rain to paint the side of the car The rest was over in a matter of seconds.

But it seemed to take forever.

Syd felt sick as he flushed the urinal: a queasy-hot churning in the pit of his stomach that spread through his chest to his limbs, started his extremities to tingling. Vertigo spiked him in the temples, sent a dull clang echoing through his brain, and as he leaned forward till his forehead grazed the cool, graffiti-laden tile, he felt like he might just pa.s.s out.

”Whoa,” Syd mumbled, fought to remain lucid and standing. He pulled back, forced himself to focus on the wall, the jittery scribblings that graced its surface. Some disgruntled customer had done a little magic marker mayhem, a crude hairy phallus plunging toward a garish caricature that looked like an Easter Island icon with teeth. The words stopped moving, registered in his brain.

THIS PLACE SUCKS. BITE ME WHERE I PEE.

”a.s.shole,” he grumbled, turned away. Who wrote that? Behind him, water swooshed and gurgled, releasing the medicinal waft of urinal cakes and recycled beer. The plumbing burbled and belched obscenely as he moaned and reached for the door.

His head cleared somewhat as he escaped the claustrophobic confines of the bathroom. He took a few steps, felt the buzz recede into the background. Still drunker than s.h.i.+t, but at least he wasn't gonna fall over. I'll be okay, he thought. I'll be fine.

Let's just get the f.u.c.k out of here.