Part 6 (1/2)
Then I decide to get in the way. ”Sorry you lost, Jennifer.”
”Excuse me?”
”Lost. You know, American Star. I thought you got screwed, although you probably gave them too much att.i.tude. Nothing wrong with att.i.tude, but you gotta know, the peoples, they want their stars safe, smiling, and happy. At least until they get bored with them.”
Oh, she's angry. It's all over her face. The emotion looks exterior, not belonging to her. It's a mask. It's not real. She's giving me what she thinks I expect or want. Maybe I'm projecting again. I don't know anything about this woman, but I did see her on TV surrounded by fans, and we're all conditioned to believe it's validation of her goodness, her worth, even if she was the first loser. Jennifer composes herself, takes off the anger mask.
”Thanks. It's been a tough few days, but I'll be fine. My agent says offers are already coming in.”
Sure they are. More local mall appearances to be followed by national anthems at minor league baseball parks, and it only goes downhill from there. Her brief run as a celebrity was a mask too, or a full-body costume, one she rented instead of owned.
Seems the both of us are down, so I won't throw any more kicks her way. But I will throw her an off-speed pitch. ”Did you tell your father you'd be meeting with me tonight?”
She says, ”No.” She doesn't use a knife, just mashes her fork into a turkey tip, splitting it in half. She's lying. That's my a.s.sumption until proven otherwise, private detective work as contrapositive.
I say, ”Does your father think I'm making this all up? Does he think I'm dangerous? Should I be expecting him and a warrant at my door soon?”
Jennifer shrugs and destroys more turkey. ”I don't know. He'll probably forget about it if he doesn't hear from you again. He was pretty p.i.s.sed about your meeting, though.”
”I have that effect on some people.” A canned line, one that I regret instantly. ”Did he tell you that he and my father were childhood friends?”
Jennifer tilts her head. ”No, he didn't. Is that true?”
Could be the old man was just too angry to bother with the cozy nostalgia trip. Could be he didn't tell her for a reason. I say, ”As true as eight o'clock.” Not sure what that means, but I go with it. ”I don't get into the DA's office without the Southie and family-friend bit. They grew up in the Harbor Point projects and palled around. Ask him about it.”
Jennifer looks at her watch. I'm the appointment that's supposed to end soon. She says, ”I will. Where is your father now?”
”He died when I was five.”
”I'm sorry.” She looks at me, puts me under gla.s.s, and says, ”Tell me what narcolepsy is like.”
”I can't tell you. I'm in it all the time. No basis for comparison. I might as well ask you what not having narcolepsy is like. I certainly don't remember what I felt like before I had it, before the accident.” I stop. She doesn't say anything. She was supposed to. Some dance partner she is. I can't follow if she won't lead.
I say, ”Do you remember what you felt like eight years ago?”
”No. I guess I don't.”
”Neither do I.” I'm getting mad. I shouldn't. If I could be rational for a moment, I should appreciate her interest in the state of the narcoleptic me. Very few people share this interest.
”How often do you fall asleep?”
”Depends on the day. Good days, I can make it through with one or two planned naps. Bad days, I'm falling in and out of sleep as often as some people change channels on their TV. And then bad days become bad nights.”
”Is today a good day?”
”I don't have a lot of good days. I guess that makes me a pessimist. I'd care and try to change if I had the energy.”
”You can't stop yourself from falling asleep?” Another statement question, one I know everyone thinks but doesn't have the guts to ask.
”Sometimes I can; if I recognize the feelings, I can try to change what I'm doing and fight it off. Coping strategies are hit-or-miss. Usually I'm so used to getting along with my gas tank needle hovering on empty that I don't realize I'm about to go out. And then I'm out. Caught in the little sleep.”
”How do you feel right now?”
I say, ”Tired. Tired of everything.”
Jennifer puts down her fork and stands up slowly, as if afraid a sudden movement would spook me. I'm a frail bird she doesn't want to scare away. Or a cornered and wounded animal she's afraid might attack. She says, ”Thanks again for meeting me here, Mr. Genevich. I'm sorry, but I really have to go now.”
I make a move to stand up. She says, ”Please, stay, finish your meal. It's all taken care of. I've already put it on my father's tab.”
”He won't mind?”
”No. I do it all the time.” She smiles. It's her first real smile of the evening. It's okay. I've seen worse. She edges away from the table, adjusts her jean jacket and her gla.s.ses, and leaves without looking back.
I finish my dinner. How do I feel right now? I feel like I missed something, something important. I always feel that way.
SIXTEEN.
I should go straight home and try to find out what, if anything, happened to Brendan Sullivan. But I don't. I stay and take advantage of the tab. I drink three beers, a couple or three shots of whiskey, and two more coffees. At the bar, the townies are on one side and the trendies on the other, and both groups ignore me, use me as their barrier, their Thirty-eighth Parallel.
All right. It's time to go. I'm fine, and I'm taking half the shepherd's pie home with me. It'll make a good breakfast or midnight snack. There's no difference for me.
There's a cabstand down by the Red Line stop, but I'll try and flag a ride in front of the restaurant. It's dark, late, and raining: my perpetual state. I pull up my collar, but that only redirects wind and water into my face and inside my s.h.i.+rt.
I raise the hand that isn't holding a cigarette at a cab, but a black limo cuts it off and pulls into the Amrheins lot, angled, an angry cross-out on a piece of paper, black limo takes the square. Droplets of water on the winds.h.i.+eld s.h.i.+ne under the streetlamp, making little white holes. Maybe the whiskey shots were overkill.
A rear door opens and the DA thrusts his head out. ”I can give you a ride home, Genevich. Jump in.”
I know there's no such thing as a free ride, but I take the invite anyway. The door closes and I'm inside the limo with the DA. So are my two friends the goons. I'm not surprised, but it's crowded in here. There are no ashtrays.
I say, ”Evening, boys. Have a safe trip up from the Cape?” I blow smoke, smoke and words.
Redhead says, ”Hey, r.e.t.a.r.d, remember me?” He's grinning like a manic comic-strip villain, all teeth and split face, flip-top head, a talking Pez dispenser. Ellen still stuffs my Christmas stockings with Pez dispensers, usually superheroes like Spider-Man and the Hulk.
I say, ”I missed you most of all.” The three of them wear matching blue suits, no wrinkles, and the creases are sharp, dangerous. ”Hey, you guys gonna be catering somewhere later? Or maybe you're starting a band. I got a name for you: The d.i.c.kheads. Best of luck with that.” My anger feels good.
The DA has his legs crossed and hands folded over his knees. If he was any more relaxed he'd be narcoleptic. He says, ”I trust you had a nice dinner with Jennifer.”
Like I told Jennifer, I'm tired of everything. I knew she was lying to me. There was no appointment she had to keep. Her dinner with the sideshow freak was a little job for Daddy. She set me up, put me on a platter. The only thing missing is an apple in my mouth.
All right. I'm through playing the nice guy, the clueless schmuck. I'm n.o.body's fall guy. I'm n.o.body's cliche. I say, ”Nah, the food sucked and she talked too much. I'm glad she lost. The Limey judge was right about her.”
The bald goon punches me in the stomach, one for flinching. It doesn't hurt. He says, ”Watch your mouth.”
”Need to work on that uppercut. Saw it coming from last block,” I say. The cigarette hangs off my bottom lip and I'm not controlling it anymore. Whether it's sticking around during a tough time or getting ready to abandon s.h.i.+p, I don't know. ”Don't get me wrong, DA. The free beer was great. It'll help me sleep tonight.”