I walk to the door, my heart still pounding.
—Keep it. And there's a clog in the toilet.
She sees me when I come in, but she ignores me. She sees me sit at the bar, but she keeps working the other side. I wait. She lets it go for about twenty minutes. Then someone right next to me orders a beer and she has to come around to this side. She gives the other guy his bottle, then looks at me.
—Yeah?
—Got a beer?
She pulls one out of the ice, pops the top and puts it in front of me. I take a drink.
—Thanks.
She nods.
—Four bucks.
I dig out a five and drop it on the bar. She takes it and goes to the register and brings back a buck and puts it in front of me. Then she stands there and stares at the Sunday night band and pretends that she's listening to the bluegrass.
—Baby.
She stares at the band.
—Baby.
She turns her face to me, keeping her arms folded over her chest.
—Yeah?
—You busy after work?
She looks down into the beer bin.
—Fucking-A, Joe.
—Baby, nothing happened.
Her head snaps back up.
—Did I ask? That's not my business. I told you, you want to fuck someone, fuck 'em. I shouldn't be surprised if you do.
—I didn't.
—I. Don't. Care.
I take a drink.
—Yeah. Right.
She puts her hands on the bar.
—Joe. I don't care.
She leans closer, not to be heard.
—I can't fuck you. I won't fuck you. So you want to fuck someone? I won't ask you not to. But.
She crosses her arms again and looks back at the band.
—But what, baby?
She doesn't look at me.
—But Tuesday night is date night and you told me you were fucking busy and you were just fucking another fucking girl, a girl with a fucking limo. Fucker!
She yanks her bar rag from her studded leather belt and throws it at me. I let it hit my face and drop to the bar, where it tents over my beer. Someone calls for some margaritas and she goes off to mix them. I pull the towel off my beer and light a smoke. She comes back a minute later and takes up her position staring at the band.
—That was work, baby. I know it sounds like crap, but that woman was the job.
She faces me again.
—And what's that, Joe? I don't even know what the job is. I don't know what keeps you out and why you get beat up and where you get money and why you have guns or what you keep locked in that little fridge. Is it drugs, Joe?
She leans in to whisper.
—Is it drugs? That's fine, you know I don't care. I just want to know. So what is it, what's the fucking job?
I twist the tip of my cigarette against the edge of the tray, lathing away the ash.
—It's hard, baby. The job is hard.
She turns back to the band.
—Great. Thanks. That's a big help.
I keep playing with my smoke.
—The job is hard. But you're harder, baby.
She keeps looking at the band.
—You're the real work.
Still looking at the band.
—And you're worth it.
She tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear.
—Give me that.
She plucks the cigarette from my hand, takes a drag.
—I changed my mind.
She holds the cigarette out to me and I take it.
—Yeah?
—Yeah. It's not OK for you to fuck other women. Or men. Or fucking anybody.
I look at the faint print of her lipstick on the smoke, and put my lips around it.
—No problem.
—And I want to go to dinner.
—No problem.
—Tonight, after work. I want a late dinner. And not diner food. I want to go to Blue Ribbon for oysters.
—No problem.
—And I want to sleep over.
—No problem.
She narrows her eyes.
—You sure you didn't fuck that bitch?
—Yeah.
—OK.
She grabs a beer from the ice and gives it to me.
—I've got to work.
—No problem.
She goes to work, taking care of all her regulars who have been patiently waiting while she fights with her boyfriend.
I drink beer and smoke and use the time until she gets off work. I use it keeping my promise to Daniel. Thinking about my life.
I think about it.
I think about what I do and how much longer I can keep it up. How much longer Predo is gonna let me hang around now that I've finally spat in his face. When Terry's gonna get tired of having me on his turf. How long it might be before Tom slips the leash and lays for me in an alley with a gang of his anarchists. I think about what Daniel said, about digging in.
I could go back to Terry, tell him I'll take my old job back. Tom would have to go. Terry'd make that happen. Kill two birds that way. But then I'd be back where I was twenty-odd years ago, the lash in my hands. And sooner or later Terry is going to get itchy about someone else knowing he has the teeth. No, I've been with the Society, and that hole's not for me.
I could go see Christian. Get my own hog. Bunk out in the Duster clubhouse. Live the Pike Street dream. They'd be happy to have me. The Dusters are always happy to have another good man in a fight. But I'd have to wear the colors, a uniform. And I'd look terrible in a top hat.
I could split the city. Go try my luck in the Outer Boroughs. Maybe find some unclaimed turf. It's out there. Red Hook. Coney Island. There could be good blocks out there. Clear off any other Rogues and start my own Clan. Make a name. Be a boss. But that's a long-odds bet, very long odds. Impossible odds. And I'm not ready to roll those bones yet.
Or I could do as Daniel says, become Enclave. Embrace my nature. Live a life of discipline. Learn how to master the Vyrus. And when the time comes, I could let it take me, and see if I survive. Daniel seems to think I might. But Daniel is crazy. And he's dying. And I'm not anybody's savior.
Amanda Horde knows that.
Besides, none of those lives has Evie in it.
The band plays "Silver Dagger" and I watch Evie open beers. Every now and then she throws me a wink or comes by and leans across the bar and whispers something funny in my ear.
I look at my life, and I find it lacking. But it's my life. I creep a little closer to the edge every day. One day the edge will crumble under my feet and I'll fall.
Fine.
Why should my life be different from anybody else's?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Charlie Huston is a novelist. He lives in Manhattan with his wife, the actress, Virginia Louise Smith.
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