The Night Always Comes

by Willy Vlautin

  Her father and two Central American men came in. All three wore painting clothes and flecks of white paint covered their hands and arms. Her father was fifty-eight years old and six feet two inches tall with thick black and gray hair. He was a handsome man with tired blue eyes and a veined alcoholic’s face.

  He leaned against the bar and said, “Three Coors.”

  Lynette took the bottles from the cooler and set them in front of him, and the three men went to a back corner booth and sat. He came back twice more for the same and then the Central American men left and he found a seat at the bar.

  “You owe me for nine beers,” said Lynette.

  “You ain’t gonna charge your old man, are you?”

  “You having another?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll get you that one, but you have to pay for the nine.”

  “Then I’ll take a double Herradura neat and a Coors.”

  Lynette shook her head but poured the drink and set it and the beer down. She took forty dollars from him and brought back the change. “I’ve never seen those guys.”

  Her father took a drink. “They’re new. I got four now plus Gilberto. A big crew for me, but I’m booked six months in advance. I need all the help I can get. It’s wild right now. Two days ago I bid a new construction condominium project off Hawthorne. Twelve units. They can’t get a painting contractor to commit. I said I’d commit and more than doubled what I thought it would cost and the stupid fuckers took it. Without even blinking they took it. I should have tripled it. And my crew is good. They’re all from El Salvador, they don’t bitch, and they really bust it.” He leaned over toward her and lowered his voice. “And I don’t deal with shit, taxes or nothing. I just give their pay to Gilberto. He hires and fires them and deals with it all. I just get the jobs.”

  “Where do they live?”

  Her father shrugged. “Gilberto has some trailers on his property somewhere near Woodburn.”

  “How much do you pay them?”

  “Why do you care?”

  Lynette shrugged.

  “Shit, each guy only costs me twelve bucks an hour. They get driven up in Gilberto’s van. It’s a good deal for me and they’re Gilberto’s guys. I’m just subcontracting from him and he’s legal. So it’s more or less legit.”

  “Twelve is hardly minimum wage.”

  Her father shrugged. “I didn’t ask them to sneak across the border. And look, I pay them every week. Every penny. What they’re actually getting is up to Gilberto. I have nothing to do with that. It’s on him, not me.”

  “You really believe that?”

  Her father leaned back and smiled. “I always forget you’re a ball buster.”

  Lynette smiled back. “You haven’t been here in like six months. You still living over on Woodstock?”

  He took a drink of beer. “Nah, the couple that owned that house sold it. They got four hundred and fifty grand for it. . . . I’m living off 112th and Sandy. Half of a shit-box duplex. It’s expensive as fuck, but it has three bedrooms and a full garage that I can spray in. It’s not bad except we’re next to the railroad tracks. All night long the trains go by. But I got earplugs, I don’t really care. I’ve been drinking at a place called Katie’s. You heard of it?”

  “No.”

  “I like the Woodstock area better, but I’m making so much goddamn money right now I don’t mind living in a dump for a while. Did I tell you I’m buying a boat? A guy I know is selling me his Alumaweld for twenty grand. It’s got a great motor, less than two hundred hours on it.”

  “A boat?”

  He nodded. “Noreen’s pregnant again, too. Did I tell you that? You’re gonna have another sister.”

  “Aren’t you a little old?”

  He shrugged.

  “That’s what the world needs,” said Lynette. “More kids with a dad like you.”

  He finished his beer and pointed to the empty bottle. “You turned out alright. You got a job and you’re the best-looking woman in this bar by a mile. I didn’t do you so bad.”

  Lynette brought him another beer and opened it. “You were a piece-of-shit father at best and you know it.”

  He nodded. “Maybe, but I’m better this time around. I’ve been a good father to Hannah. She just turned four. You should stop by and see her. She needs to meet her big sister.”

  Lynette laughed, and a customer came to the bar and she went back to work. Ten minutes later it slowed and she returned to her father. “How far along is she?”

  “Who?”

  “Your girlfriend, Noreen.”

  “Seven months.”

  “How you gonna afford that?”

  “She’s on the Oregon Health Plan. We ain’t legally married.” He again smiled. “Right now I get free cable off our neighbor who doesn’t know it, contractors are paying me any price I ask, my youngest daughter is cute as a button, and my oldest daughter is a bartender at one of my favorite old bars.” He pointed to his glass. “Speaking of which, Herradura, please.”

  “You’re gonna have to pay for this one.”

  “Really?”

  “Jesus,” she said. “I can’t give you free drinks all night.”

  “Then make it Hornitos and pour like it’s a triple.”

  Lynette got him the drink and he put a twenty on the bar. “I’m keeping the change,” she said.

  “Then I want a Coors with it.”

  She went to the cooler and came back with the beer.

  He took both drinks and stood up. “I’ll see you around,” he said and went to the back of the bar, sat at one of the video poker machines, and put in a twenty-dollar bill. She didn’t see him after that, and at seven the evening bartender came on and business had slowed enough that she clocked out and ate the dinner special in the employee break room. Afterward, in the kitchen bathroom, she gave herself a sink wash, changed her underwear and clothes, redid her makeup, combed her hair, put on her coat, and left.

  6

  It was now night and the rain continued. The traffic was bumper to bumper and she made her way across the river to the Hotel deLuxe. When she was a kid, it was called The Mallory. Her aunt and uncle from Yakima would stay there and she, her mother, and Kenny would meet them in the restaurant for breakfast or lunch. It was a classic but fading landmark even then. Now developers had turned it into a modern, high-end hotel.

  The lobby was empty but for a single front-desk clerk who stood behind the counter. Lynette nodded to her, passed the closed restaurant, and went into the hotel’s only bar, the Driftwood Room, a small, 1950s bar that looked like a kidney-shaped swimming pool. Banquette seating with small tables and chairs lined the elegant stained-wood walls. It was empty but for a middle-aged bartender and, in the back corner, a sixty-year-old pudgy bald man dressed in a blue suit.

  “I’ve always liked that you’re on time,” the pudgy man said to Lynette. “I don’t think you’ve been late once. No one else I know is like that, except for me maybe.”

  Lynette sat across from him and took off her scarf and coat. “I hate being late,” she said and smiled. “I always have.”

  “And I like that you picked this place. I think I came here once when I was in my twenties. I hadn’t thought about it in years.” The man had a wedding ring on his left hand, a SAE fraternity ring on his right, and a white-gold Montblanc watch on his wrist. A small bowl of peanuts sat on the table and he took a handful of them.

  “This is my favorite bar,” she said.

  “You have good taste.”

  “Jesus, it’s freezing outside.”

  “We’ll get a drink in you,” he said and waved to the bartender. He came over and she ordered a hot toddy. When he left, the man said, “I already got us a room. You know, I was surprised you called. You’ve never called me before.”

  “I hope that’s alright.”

  He shrugged. “It’s good timing. My wife left for Scottsdale today and I had a meeting until six and my dinner plans got canceled. I’ve never seen
you not dressed up either. I like it.”

  She laughed. “My rustic look.”

  “Well, you look good rustic.”

  The bartender came back with her drink and set it down. When he left, she said, “I’ve never stayed here, but I heard they used to have beds that were shaped liked hearts.”

  He smiled and took a drink.

  “They probably don’t have those anymore, huh?”

  “Probably not,” he said.

  She took a drink.

  “So why did you call me?”

  She shrugged.

  “You broke?”

  “No,” she said. “I’d never call you because of that.”

  “Then what?”

  “Can I ask you a serious question?”

  “Is this why you called me?”

  “Maybe. Not the only reason, but I did want to ask you something.”

  “About what?”

  “Investing.”

  “Investing?” He laughed. “Investing what?”

  “Money,” she said. “I don’t know anything about investing. Not really. I just have everything in the bank. But I want to know about it. Learn about it. I just don’t know where to start and I thought of you.”

  “I could get you a couple of books.”

  “I’ve been taking classes at PCC, but just about basic economics. I’m taking an accounting class now.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  She nodded. “Could you help me more than with just book recommendations? Could I hire you?”

  He moved in his chair and took a drink. “The minimum my clients have is around five hundred.”

  She leaned over and whispered, “But I have around eighty thousand. Eighty thousand dollars is a lot more than five hundred.”

  “Five hundred, meaning five hundred thousand,” he said. “And I only do that small of an amount if they are the friends or family of my real clients. I can’t do much with eighty thousand.”

  She slumped a little into the banquette. “Five hundred thousand? Jesus, that’s a small amount?”

  “To a lot of people it’s nothing. Have you seen those Edward Jones places?”

  “Edward Jones?”

  “They have offices everywhere. They have the green-and-white signs. You’ll see them in strip malls. Once you start looking, you’ll see them.”

  “What are they?”

  “Investment places. You should go to one of them. They could help you invest the money.”

  She took her purse, found a small notebook inside, and wrote down “Edward Jones.” “I have another question.”

  He nodded.

  “I’m trying to buy the house I live in with my mother and brother.”

  “You live with your mother and brother?”

  She nodded. “It’s on Missouri Avenue in North Portland. You know that area?”

  “No,” he said.

  “It’s between Ainsworth and Killingsworth. It’s right off I-5. Our house is right next to it. I have eighty thousand for a down payment, but I have bad credit. I was stupid with credit cards when I was younger. But what I’m trying to ask, what I’m trying to see is—and I know it’s a lot to ask—but do you think your company could give me a loan for two hundred thousand?”

  He set his elbows on the table. “You want me to loan you two hundred thousand dollars?”

  “No,” she said. “Not a personal loan. I don’t mean like that. I mean a legitimate loan. I don’t mean you personally. I would never ask that.” Her voice became more uncertain. “Through your company. I know home loans are at about four percent. I’d pay you more. Six or seven percent. So maybe that will make up for my bad credit. The way I see it, if I default, then you get my eighty thousand and the house. The house isn’t much, but the second I buy it I’ll start fixing it up. I’m getting a good deal on it, so really if I do default, you’d still be getting a great deal. You’d make money on it no matter what happened. I know you would.”

  “But I’m not a bank,” he said. He took another drink and watched as a middle-aged couple came in and sat at the bar.

  “Then how do you think I could get the house?”

  He shrugged.

  “I know this is weird and we’ve never talked like this before, but I guess I’m sort of in a fix. My mom was supposed to get the loan, but now . . . Well, everything has just sort of gone sideways on me and I’m trying to figure it out, and I’m not the best at this sorta stuff. But I know you’re really smart about it.”

  The bartender came back. The man ordered a double scotch and waited until it was made and set in front of him before he spoke again. “I think I told you that I have three kids. My daughter is buying a house right now, too, up on Council Crest. I have a son in grad school and one who’s just starting out as a lawyer. They all ask things of me. Feels like almost every day I get a call. None of them seem happy. I don’t know why they’re not happy but they aren’t. The calls I get aren’t because they want to tell me something funny or to see how I’m doing. They’re not calling to catch up. They just want money or help with something that involves money. I don’t remember ever being like that, talking to my parents the way they talk to me. The way they complain . . . I have two brothers and we never demanded anything of our parents. We were just grateful for them. We respected them as much as we could, helped them when we could because they’d helped us. I really tried to raise my kids the same way. But they’re different. I don’t know, maybe I’m just getting old. Or maybe I just failed them. . . . My job demands of me all day long. I never get a happy call there. Never. But that’s work. Work’s like that. It’s always been like that. And they pay me. And my wife, well . . .” He took a sip and looked at Lynette. “I see you because I don’t want to think about any of that. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to know if you have a brother or live with your mother or what kind of a car you drive or if you go to college. That’s not saying I don’t like you, I do. You’re fun. But I pay you so we don’t have to talk about the other shit. Because I’m tired of the other shit.”

  Lynette nodded.

  “Look, I don’t mean to be an asshole, but I can’t mix these things. You’re smart, you know why I can’t. I can get you some books on general investing. Read them. They’ll tell you what to do. Get a mutual fund at Edward Jones or at Charles Schwab. Ask for help there. They’ll get you a plan together.”

  Again she nodded.

  “Did I upset you?”

  “No,” she said, trying not to cry. “I sort of figured, but I thought I’d try.”

  “You still want to go upstairs?”

  “Sure,” she said and forced herself to smile.

  A lamp on the desk gave the only light in the room. The walls were painted a peach color and the TV was on. In bed he had lasted longer than he usually did. It took him nearly twenty minutes and he went limp three times. He had never gone limp before. Most times he wanted her to say things, but tonight he wanted her to be silent. She was on top of him and the only noise in the room came from his grunting and her fake moans. They went on and on and on and then it was over. He spit out a half-grunt and then two louder grunts and then he stopped moving. He put his hands on her waist and gently asked her to move. He got up from the bed and walked to the bathroom with the rubber still on him. He put it in the toilet, flushed it, and got in the shower.

  Sitting on the bed, Lynette began to cry. She had been with him twenty-four times and never once had she told him anything private. Always she made herself be in a good mood and forced herself not to talk too often. She never ate too much or drank too much. They did what he wanted to do and how he wanted to do it and there was comfort in that. A right way and a wrong way. A map. There was safety in it, and she could, at least for a night or two, be somebody else.

  She wasn’t a professional, he was her first, and after their second meeting she thought of him as more than just money. There was a lightness between them and an ongoing flirtation. He said nice things to her and for no reason bought h
er gift cards. He’d flown her to San Francisco four separate times and they’d met at the Fairmont, where he got her a room. She had never in her life stayed in a nice hotel before. It wasn’t that she loved him exactly, but she liked him and respected him. He was successful and he was decent to her. Never once had he abused her or looked down on her or degraded her. Because of that she had thought they were friends. That maybe, in a way, he was a sort of benefactor. That he had been looking out for her.

  While he showered, she fell apart on the bed and her anger welled. Anger at herself and anger at him. She wiped her eyes on the sheets and thought of his car. Still naked, she got up from the bed and went to the sport coat hanging on the chair by the desk. Inside the left pocket was a set of keys. She took off the car key, dropped it behind the desk, and put the rest back. It wasn’t that she wanted the car, she only wanted to hurt him in some way, and it was the only way she could think of right then. She gathered her clothes from the floor and he came out into the room. She stood next to the bed but couldn’t stop crying while she dressed.

  “You alright?” he asked.

  “I’m alright,” she said as mascara ran down her cheeks.

  He put on his clothes and shoes and went back into the bathroom and shut the door. When he came out, Lynette was putting on her pants. He sat at the desk, brought out his wallet, took cash from it, and counted it. He waited until she was fully dressed and then told her to sit on the bed.

  “Here’s two thousand.” His voice was tired in a way she had never heard before. “And I’m gonna leave another thousand at the front desk tomorrow. I just don’t have any more cash on me. The extra two grand is my gift. To help you out, help toward the house. I’m sorry I can’t give you more, but I can’t. You know why. This is going to be the last time we meet.” He stood up and put on his sport coat. “Thank you for everything. I’ve really liked you and I wish you a lot of luck. And as far as investing, just open a Vanguard account or go to a Charles Schwab or an Edward Jones. They’ll help you. And I’d buy the house if you can. This town is getting crazy, and if you can get in, get in.” He put the money on the desk and left the room.