Part 9 (2/2)
”Randolph Leski? He used to hang out here.”
The bartender's eye s.h.i.+fted down the bar, then back to Lucas. He leaned forward, dropping his voice. ”Does this s.h.i.+t bring in money?”
”Sometimes. You get on the list. . . .”
”Randy's about eight stools down,” he muttered. ”On the other side of the next two guys.”
Lucas nodded, and a moment later, leaned back a few inches and glanced to his right. Looking at the bartender again, he said quietly, ”The guy I'm looking for is big as you.”
”You mean fat,” the bartender said.
”Hefty.”
The bartender tilted his head. ”Randy had a tumor. They took out most of his gut. He can't keep the weight on no more. They say he eats a pork chop, he s.h.i.+ts sausages. They don't digest.”
Lucas looked down the bar again, said, ”Give me a draw, whatever.”
The bartender nodded, stepped away. Lucas took a business card out of his pocket, rolled out a twenty and the business card. ”Thanks. What's your name?”
”Earl. Stupella.”
”Carl's . . .”
”Brother.”
”Maybe you hear something serious sometime, you call me,” Lucas said. ”Keep the change.”
LUCAS PICKED UP the gla.s.s of beer and wandered down the bar. Stopped, did a double take. The thin man on the stool turned his head: loose skin hung around his face and neck like a ba.s.set hound's, but Randy Leski's mean little pig-eyes peered out of it.
”Randy,” Lucas said. ”As I live and breathe.”
Leski shook his head once, as though annoyed by a fly in a kitchen. Leski ran repair scams, specializing in the elderly. Lucas had made him a hobby. ”Go away. Please.”
”Jesus. Old friends,” Lucas said, spreading his arms. The other talk in the bar died. ”You're looking great, man. You been on a diet?”
”Kiss my a.s.s, Davenport. Whatever you want, I don't got it.”
”I'm looking for Junky Doog.”
Leski sat a little straighter. ”Junky? He cut on somebody?”
”I just need to talk to him.”
Leski suddenly giggled. ”Christ, old Junky.” He made a gesture as if wiping a tear away from his eyes. ”I tell you, the last I heard of him, he was working out at a landfill in Dakota County.”
”Landfill?”
”Yeah. The dump. I don't know which one, I just hear this from some guys. Christ, born in a junkyard, the guy gets sent to the nuthouse. When they kick him out of there, he winds up in a dump. Some people got all the luck, huh?” Leski started laughing, great phlegm-sucking wheezes.
Lucas looked at him for a while, waiting for the wheezing to subside, then nodded.
Leski said, ”I hear you're back.”
”Yeah.”
Leski took a sip of his beer, grimaced, looked down at it, and said, ”I heard when you got shot last winter. First time I been in a Catholic church since we were kids.”
”A church?”
”I was praying my a.s.s off that you'd f.u.c.kin' croak,” Leski said. ”After a lot of pain.”
”Thanks for thinking of me,” Lucas said. ”You still run deals on old people?”
”Go hump yourself.”
”You're a breath of fresh air, Randy . . . Hey.” Leski's old sport coat had an odd crinkle, a lump. Lucas touched his side. ”Are you carrying?”
”C'mon, leave me alone, Davenport.”
Randy Leski never carried: it was like an article of his religion. ”What the h.e.l.l happened?”
Leski was a felon. Carrying could put him inside. He looked down at his beer. ”You seen my neighborhood?”
”Not lately.”
”Bad news. Bad news, Davenport. Glad my mother didn't live to see it. These kids, Davenport, they'll kill you for b.u.mping into them,” Leski said, tilting his head sideways to look at Lucas. His eyes were the color of water. ”I swear to G.o.d, I was in Pansy's the other night, and this a.s.shole kid starts giving some s.h.i.+t to this girl, and her boyfriend stands up-Bill McGuane's boy-and says to her, 'C'mon, let's go.' And they go. And I sees Bill, and I mention it, and he says, 'I told that kid, don't fight, ever. He's no chickens.h.i.+t, but it's worth your life to fight.' And he's right, Davenport. You can't walk down the street without worrying that somebody's gonna knock you in the head. For nothin'. For not a f.u.c.kin' thing. It used to be, if somebody was looking for you, they had a reason you could understand. Now? For nothing.”
”Well, take it easy with the piece, huh?”
”Yeah.” Leski turned back to the bar and Lucas stepped away and turned. Then Leski suddenly giggled, his flaps of facial flesh trembling with the effort, and said, ”Junky Doog.” And giggled some more.
Outside, Lucas looked around, couldn't think of anything else to do. Far away, he could hear sirens-lots of them. Something going on, but he didn't know where. He thought about calling in, finding out where the action was; but that many sirens, it was probably a fire or an auto accident. He sighed, a little tired now, and headed back to the car.
WEATHER WAS ASLEEP. She'd be up at six, moving quietly not to wake him; by seven, she'd be in the OR; Lucas would sleep for three hours after that. Now, he undressed in the main bath down the hall from the bedroom, took a quick shower to get the bar smoke off his skin, and then slipped in beside her. He let himself roll against her, her leg smooth against his. Weather slept in an old-fas.h.i.+oned man's T-s.h.i.+rt and bikini pants, which left something-not much-to the imagination.
He lay on his back and got a quick mental snapshot of her in the s.h.i.+rt and underpants, bouncing around the bedroom. Sometimes, when she wasn't operating the next morning, he'd get the same snapshot, couldn't escape it, and his hand would creep up under the T-s.h.i.+rt. . . .
Not tonight. Too late. He turned his head, kissed her goodnight. He should always do that, she'd told him: her subconscious would know.
WHAT SEEMED LIKE a long time later, Lucas felt her hand on him and opened his eyes. The room was dimly lit, daylight filtering around the curtains. Weather, sitting fully dressed on the bed beside him, gave him another tantalizing twitch. ”It's nice that men have handles,” she said. ”It makes them easy to wake up.”
”Huh?” He was barely conscious.
”You better come out and look at the TV,” she said, letting go of him. ”The Openers program is talking about you.”
”Me?” He struggled to sit up.
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