"You think I'm overdoing it?"
"She's almost in tears. Her name's Betsy. And let me tell you, if I wasn't hitting the other one, I'd hit that. Are you okay?"
"Sure, why not?"
"You don't mind me telling the story, do you?"
"You know me, Skitch, I love being the butt of your jokes. It beats being your butt, that's for sure."
"It seemed funny to me, but here you are acting all hurt and bothered."
"I guess I'm just feeling a little emotionally vulnerable tonight."
"Really?"
"No, not really. Don't worry about me, dude, it was nothing. A momentary lapse into pathetic adolescent angst. And you know what that means?"
"What?"
Kyle affected a bluff Russian accent. "Tonight we drink like fools."
"But we are fools."
"Perfect. You think she likes me?"
"Who, the babe? Well, she's a little prim, not your typical fare. And you have been insulting her all night."
"There's that, true. But I still bet I'll be making out with her before the night is over."
"Yeah," said Skitch, looking back at the table. "I bet you will, too."
Later, in the dark corner of the bar, Kyle found himself softly cupping the curve of her blouse as he rubbed her teeth with his tongue. She tasted fresh, like he imagined daisies would taste with their linen-white petals and pollen-filled centers. Her hair was blond and aromatic, her jaw trembled innocently as her lips pressed against his, her teeth were smooth, her breast was pert and responsive. And there was a moment, as he kissed her, pulled away to gaze into her dewy blue eyes, then kissed her again, a sublime moment when he felt fully calm and at peace. The bar fell away shard by shard until the surroundings turned dark and starry and they were in a universe of two and there was nothing he wanted more, nothing at all, than to lose himself in this woman's arms. And he felt safe and calm, and he began to believe that maybe, yes, maybe this was the answer that had kept escaping him all these years, an answer so elusive he didn't even know the question.
His answer pushed away and stared at him for an instant as her lovely nose wrinkled sweetly, and then she sneezed. "I have to go," she said. "Don't leave. I have a secret to tell you."
"What?"
"Patience. It's still early."
"Not anymore."
"What time is it?"
"Eleven-thirty."
"See, early? Why don't you stay a bit? We can go to my place. Talk about English. You teach English, right? I'm all for English. I even speak it."
"I thought you said you were staying with a friend?"
"Well, her place, then."
"Her place?"
"See, how cute is that, you going all jealous on me. But don't worry about Kat. I've known her forever. She's like a sister. Come on."
"I can't."
He followed her gaze and saw her friends standing by the door with coats on, staring daggers at the two of them. Skitch was at a table talking to two sinister characters wearing baseball caps with flat brims and pretty much sharing a single eyebrow between them. Old Tommy Trapp was nowhere to be seen.
"This was nice," she said.
"Yeah, it was. So nice."
"Here." She pulled out a pen, grabbed a napkin, wrote a number, and pressed it into his hand. "Call me."
"I will."
She leaned forward, kissed him on the lips, slipped a bit of tongue in for good measure, and then stood. "Do," she said.
He watched her as she walked toward her friends. Her legs were well shaped, her hair was shiny, she had nice posture. And she was a teacher, which he liked. It was substantial and noble, and maybe she could get all stern and cross at him when he screwed up his homework. He imagined the smart slash of a ruler on his flesh when he ended a sentence with a preposition, and then he looked at the number in his hand. Maybe he actually would call her. Betty. Or Berty. No, something like that, but with an s. Esther? Yeah, that was it, Esther.
Funny, she didn't look Jewish.
Skitch's head swiveled as Esther walked out, and then he waved Kyle over to join him and his two companions, but Kyle shook him off. Skitch had a steady job with Comcast, putting in cable, and a lucrative side business putting in all sorts of rogue connections, but he still was always up to his chin in some shady scheme or other, and these two goons were most likely his newest partners. Kyle had so far successfully withstood Skitch's entreaties to join in any of his nefarious business deals. The lure was easy money, and that was pretty much the only kind of money that Kyle liked, but Skitch seemed to be hustling pretty hard without getting very far. The whole point of Kyle's life was to avoid hard work, and just because the hard work was probably illegal didn't make it any more palatable.
So instead Kyle stood up, adjusted his pants a bit, and headed over the bar to grab a quick draft for the road. Just one more. There was something nagging at him that he couldn't quite figure out, but one more beer and the nagging would stop and that would suit him just fine.
He elbowed his way into an empty spot, ordered a glass of lager, blew at the head when it came, and downed a spurt. He hadn't eaten yet. He didn't have much cash left, but McGillin's had a decent burger for not much money and a hot turkey sandwich with masheds and gravy that was more than decent. He leaned on the bar, considered the possibilities as he took another drink, and then, through the windows facing Drury Street, he saw it again, the mop of gray hair bouncing along.
His emotions teetered for a moment before slipping into anger. He was being followed. Some old guy was following him. First the ball field, now this bar. Following him like a taunt. He swallowed what was left of the beer, slammed it on the bar, took out a few bills from his wallet to leave with the empty glass, and headed toward the exit.
"Kyle, yo, over here," yelled out Skitch, but Kyle ignored him and barged through the door.
He looked right, looked left, saw a figure walking down the dimly illuminated street and turning onto Juniper. Kyle hop-stepped cautiously toward Juniper, turned the corner like a spy, and saw the man heading north, toward City Hall. City Hall, where his father had plied his trade in the city's courts. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then followed, quickly, hustling to get close, to get a view. His sneakers smacked against the cement as he got closer.
The man stopped, turned around. Kyle pulled up short as the man eyed him.
He was nobody, nothing, just a man walking down the street, forty-some years old with a dark shirt and a head of prematurely gray hair. The man cocked his head and then turned around and kept going.
And Kyle felt stuck there, right there, on the sidewalk, as if the rubber of his soles had melted onto the cement. He needed somebody to pry him loose, and he thought of Kat.
CHAPTER 5
AS HE WALKED east down Lombard, he saw her sitting on the steps of her apartment building, a converted brick town house just past Seventh Street. She was thin and tall, with lustrous black hair, tied back into a ponytail, wearing short shorts that showed off her long, athletic legs and a T-shirt two sizes too small. Had she been anyone else, Kyle would have been smitten on sight and fallen right into pickup mode. But she wasn't someone else; she was Kat.
They had been friends for as long as Kyle could remember, growing up in the same working-class neighborhood outside Philadelphia. Kat was the brain with attitude and looks, Kyle was the superstar athlete. They had been friends too long to date, but even as they went out with other people, they were a unit, far closer to each other than to their ostensible partners. For a long time it had been assumed that Kat was secretly in love with Kyle, the big man on his high-school campus. Now it was assumed that Kyle was secretly in love with Kat, the rising legal eagle with the fat bank account and the glittering future. In truth, there was nothing secret about what they felt for each other and love was but a pallid word to describe it.
As he approached, she smiled wearily.
"You waiting up to tuck me in?" said Kyle, who'd been crashing
at Kat's place almost every night now, since Kyle was currently between places and had been since his childhood home had been seized by the bank a number of weeks back.
"I tried calling," she said.
"I think I left my phone somewhere."
She pulled his phone out of her pocket and tossed it at him.
"Thanks," he said. He flipped it open to check his messages.
"It helps if you charge it," she said.
He closed the phone, jammed it in his pocket, sat down beside her on the stoop. "So why are you still up?"
"I was waiting for you. Is everything all right?"
He looked at her, saw the unwelcome maternal concern in her eyes, turned away. "Word travels, I guess."
"A bit, yeah. And it got me a bit worried. There's a lot going on in your life right now."
"Is that the way it seems to you? Because to me it seems like there's nothing going on at all."
"So really, how are you doing?"
"Just dandy. And yourself?"
"Fine, sweetie, but then I'm not the one still seeing my dead father in the outfield."
"You don't have to. Yours is alive."
"You sound like you resent it."
"Sure. I resent everyone who's not orphaned. The resentment is about the only thing I have left in the world—that and my car. And it doesn't cost fifty a pop to fill up my resentment."
"You're a strapping twenty-six, hardly the image of the poor orphan boy."
"But still, when you call me an orphan, you want to hold me in your arms and mother me, right?"
She reached a hand to his face, rubbed his cheek forcefully with her thumb, examined the smear of red there. "Looks like somebody beat me to it."
"One of Skitch's friends," he said, unembarrassed.
"What happened to her?"
"She had to go back to New Jersey."
"Ahh, a Jersey girl. And a friend of Skitch, so you know she's a class act all the way."
"She was nice. A teacher, I think."
"You going to see her again?"
"Maybe, if I can remember her name."
"But that's why you drink, right? To forget."
"I only had a few." He sat, thinking for a moment. "And maybe a few after that."
"It hadn't happened in a while, had it?" she said.
"No, and then tonight I saw him twice."
"Twice?"
"Again outside McGillin's. I saw him, and I chased him down, and it was just some guy."
"It's always just some guy."
"I know."
"What are you hoping for when you chase these ghosts?"
"I don't know. He was my dad. Maybe he can teach me the one thing I need to know."
"What's that?"
"If I knew, I wouldn't need him."
"Kyle, sweetheart, don't be such a lummox."
"How's your dad doing?"
"He's fine."
"You see him a lot, right?"
"Once or twice a week."
"What do you talk about?"
"You're pathetic."
"I know, but humor me."
"We talk about stupid stuff. His kidneys. His golf scores. My sister's husband."
"Sounds nice."
"It's not like he's relaying the meaning of life to me."
"But you see, maybe he is. You're just not listening carefully enough."
"You know my dad—he's more concerned with the meaning of his phone bill than the meaning of life." She roughened her voice into a strong Korean accent. " 'What is this charge here? I don't understand. Fees on top of fees. And don't get me started on damn cable bill.' "
"Sounds lovely," said Kyle. "So why were you calling?"
"To relay a message."
"Oh, yeah? From who?"
"Bubba Jr. Were you supposed to be at the bar tonight?"
Kyle let his head drop between his shoulders. "Crap," he said, in a calm, unconcerned voice. "I knew I was forgetting something. Maybe I should stroll on over there."
"Don't bother," she said. "I think he fired you."
"Fired me? He can't fire me. I'm his shortstop."
"Not anymore, honey," she said. "Not anymore."
CHAPTER 6
BUBBA'S BAR AND GRILL , just a few blocks away from Kat's place, was a neighborhood joint in Queens Village, a corner tap on an obscure little corner that drew a clientele from a radius of four blocks or so. It was already late, close to closing time, and all that was left were the usual suspects who were always left at closing time. Junior was behind the bar, leaning on his elbows listening to Old Tommy Trapp rail on against something. Junior glanced up when Kyle entered the bar. His eyes glowed red for a second, and then he turned back to Tommy.
Kyle took a seat at the far end of the bar and waited. And waited. Junior was ignoring him, which was Junior's right, considering how Kyle had screwed up. But what with meeting Skitch for drinks, and then getting all twisted up with that Jewish girl from Jersey, and then seeing his father for a second time in one night on the street, what with all of it, Junior had slipped from a priority to a nagging detail that he couldn't quite remember. And long ago Kyle had decided that nagging details he couldn't quite remember were best left ignored.
But now he had to make amends. Junior was playing it cool, but later he would be apoplectic, no doubt, his dark face darkening and spittle flying as he hurled invective upon Kyle's broad shoulders. Then he'd sputter a bit and slow down, looking for Kyle to say something in his own defense. Should Kyle act all contrite, like what he'd done was the worst possible thing in the world? Or should he toss it off like it was no big deal, dude, but things got in the way, and tell Junior to stop sweating the small stuff? That's the way he really felt, but he figured contrition was the way to go. As he sat at the bar, he put on the face of a penitent.
At one point, when Junior went into the back room for something, Old Tommy looked over and gaped his toothless smile. "You're dumber than a dingo," he said, "and that's pretty damn dumb."
"I know," said Kyle.
"You get any at least?"
"A little."
"What the hell does that mean? You get laid, yes or no?"
"No."
"Dumber than a blue-balled dingo," said Old Tommy, shaking his head.
Finally Junior came out of the back room, wiped the bar a bit, and slowly made his way down to Kyle.
"I'm so sorry, dude," said Kyle, his head hanging at an appropriately contrite angle. "No excuses, I just screwed up."
"My daughter had a dance recital tonight," said Junior with a scary calm. No loud words, no spittle. "I had to leave the party after it to cover for you. My daughter said, 'Do you have to go, Daddy?' "
"That's bad."
"It was like being in the middle of a country-and-western song."
"Welcome to my life."
"I hate country-and-western songs."
"Want me to close tonight?"
"No, Kyle."
"How can I make it up?"
"You can't."
"Kat says you fired me."
"I think you just fired yourself."
"Dude."
"This isn't easy for me," said Junior. "From this side of the bar, it looks pretty damn easy."
"Well, maybe it's easier for me than it is for you. But this has been a long time coming."
"Junior, we're friends."
"I know we are, but that has nothing to do with the bar. I need someone I can rely on here, someone who will show when he says he'll show. To get someone like that, I need to guarantee hours, and the hours I'm going to guarantee him are yours."
"Well, maybe until you find someone . . ."
"I have someone lined up already."
"Already?"
"She's starting tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? That's cold. It's like you were just waiting for me to screw up."
"If I was, I didn't have to wait long. You know why my father hired you, Kyle?"
"Because I can hit."
"No. Well,
not only that. It's because he cared about you."
"I loved your father."
"I know you did, and he felt the same way about you. He didn't mind that the bar always needed cleaning the mornings after you worked. He didn't mind that you were overly generous with the bar's liquor. He didn't mind that the till was never right, because he knew there was usually more in it than what was supposed to be there."
"I would never steal from this place."
"He knew that, Kyle. He explained to me that the reason there was too much cash in the till was that you cared so little about money you would sweep half your tips in with the rest of it."
"I'll keep better track if that's what you want. And I'll spend more time cleaning."
"He hired you because he wanted to help you. And then after your mother died, that cemented it. He decided he would do everything he could for you."
"He was a good man."
"Yes he was, but maybe he was wrong. Maybe letting you slide in the job, come in when you wanted, do a lousy job, maybe that wasn't helping you at all."
"No, it was. He was right."
"You're too old for this, Kyle. Sloughing off work, stopping between first and second because you think you see your long-dead dad, taking pride in your irresponsibility. It's enough already. All these years after my father first took you in, you're still lost."
"When did you become so damn grounded?"
"When my daughter was born. When I bought a house and got a mortgage wrapped around my throat. When my father died and left me the bar."
"It's a pity, dude."
"No, it's life. And I'm sorry, but this is the way it is."
"Look, Junior, I'm working through things."
"Then do it, and do it quickly. Come back after, and we'll talk."
"But I need the job, I need the money. I got nothing coming in without this."
Junior looked at him for a moment and then went to the cash register. He pressed a button, the drawer popped open, he started counting out some bills. When he was done, he closed the drawer, walked over to Kyle, slapped the stack of bills on the bar.
"What's that?" said Kyle.
"All those tips you didn't collect. My father kept track, and after he died, so did I."
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