“You’d be one of those last hold-outs,” the oilman said. “One of those people they have to pull off their roof with a helicopter.”
Redmond laughed.
“Maybe, maybe,” he said. “But I’d rather be there in my house, knowing what was going on, then sitting somewhere else hoping everything was gonna be okay.”
The oil workers stood up.
“Well, you be careful,” the first one said. “I’ll be watching the news, looking for you up on your roof.”
Redmond laughed again.
“I’ll be sure to wave,” he said.
The offshore workers laughed and carried their beers to the pool table. Redmond turned his empty gaze and empty smile back to the TV. I watched him for a moment, to see if he was going to say anything else. But he stayed silent, so I moved away.
Out on the patio, Mitchell was wearing dusty safety goggles. He stood up, drill in hand.
“Because the door opens out, all we can really do is screw it shut from the outside,” Mitchell said to Frank. “We’ll screw it shut after closing tonight.” He pushed the goggles up onto his forehead. Frank was standing next to him. Both had yellow pine saw dust speckled on their pants.
“Thanks, Mitchell,” I said. “Thanks for coming up here on your day off.”
“I used deck screws,” he said, holding one out to me. “You need a special drill bit for these. That way, you won’t be able to take it off with just a screw driver.”
“Cool,” I said. “I’ll come back up at closing and board it up. And thanks again.”
Mitchell grinned, a tiny, embarrassed grin at the edge of his mouth. “You’re welcome,” he said with a shrug.
Back inside, I handed Frank the brass polish.
“Here,” I said. “Take a rag, rub it on. Anything brass. Let it dry, then buff it off.”
He grabbed a rag and started on the rail at the end of the bar. He leaned in close to the rail, his face tight with concentration. Mitchell sat at the bar with a cup of coffee and his folders. He mumbled to himself and made notes on his chart. I went back behind the bar and started dusting the bottles on the shelves, one by one.
As I fell into the routine, the comfortable sameness of my Saturdays, I had to remind myself not to smile. As far as Mitchell and Frank were concerned, I should be pretty upset about the breakin. I sighed and grimaced a little on occasion, but I felt pretty light.
The only concern I had, the only thing that nagged at all, was the idea that the guy who had broken into my bar would probably break in to my house next. My thoughts wound back to this idea, away, and back again. Still, I finally convinced myself, there was nothing I could do about it now. I’d call Worm as soon as my shift was over and get the money back to him.
Frank was finishing the brass. I went to the register and took out twenty dollars.
“Here,” I said to Frank. He wiped his hands on a towel and took the twenty. “There’s a taco truck at the corner.” I told him what I wanted, told him to get a few for himself and Mitchell and Redmond. He bounced out the door. Redmond and I shot a game of nine ball, then Frank came back with the tacos. We all sat separately at the bar – Mitchell, Frank, Redmond, and I and ate our lunch in comfortable silence.
The silence stayed around us like some sort of happy pact. Mitchell and Redmond were generally quiet anyway and Frank seemed to sense it. After lunch, he kept the coffee pot full and kept finding small tasks to keep himself busy. He cleaned the grime behind the sinks, wiped the bugs out of the pendant lights. Now and then he’d ask me a question – where the glass cleaner was, how to change a mop head – but he seemed to understand that the quiet was part of the afternoon and he kept his questions to a minimum.
About three, the door opened and Sugarland Richie loped in. He wasn’t wearing his denim shirt and it took me a long second to recognize him. He was wearing a black t-shirt and had his mess of hair pulled back in a pony tail.
“Jesus,” I said, jumping up. “Are you okay?”
Now it was Richie’s turn to look at me like I was an idiot.
“I just spent two nights in jail,” he said. “I had to call my dad to bail me out again.” He shuffled over to the bar and flopped onto a stool. I ran behind the bar and poured us two shots. He downed his immediately and I poured him another one.
“What the hell happened?” I asked.
He shook his head mournfully.
“It was fucked up,” he said. “You know how it is over there. I mean, there were some guys selling coke or whatever, but nothing different, you know?” He shook his head and the stray strands of his black hair bounced around his face. “Somebody must have been, like, wanting revenge or something. Fuck. Can I bum a cigarette?”
I took a pack off the shelf and gave it to him. He took his time, packing it into his palm, then slowly unwrapping the cellophane.
“I haven’t had a cigarette in two days,” he said. He pulled out one cigarette, turned it around, and stuck it back in, tobacco-end facing out. An old superstition. He would smoke that one last. Then he took out another and lit it.
“It was fucked up,” he said at last. “There were dealers all over the place, but I was the only one they took in. The cops didn’t even frisk anybody else. I think they were just doing it to scare the dealers into bribing them, you know?”
“Were they bribing them?” I asked.
He shook his head at my ignorance.
“Fuck yeah they were bribing them,” he said. “The cops were just walking around, shaking hands with all these guys. Then I’m the only one that gets arrested.” He took a drag. “Then some dude gets his fucking head blown off outside and not one cop sees it. And I’m the one who goes to jail because I got some shit in my pocket.” He jammed his cigarette out in the ashtray, then tilted his head back and swallowed the shot.
“Want another one?” I asked.
“Nah,” Richie said, standing up. “My dad is picking me up in half an hour. He’s making me drive to San Antonio with him. He says he wants me to evacuate, but I know he’s just doing it so he can lecture me for three hours in the car.” Sugarland Richie picked up the cigarette pack. Out of habit, he tried to slip them in his breast pocket, but the t-shirt didn’t have one. He grinned and stuck the cigarettes in his jean pocket.
“Is he pissed?” I asked.
Richie laughed.
“Oh, fuck yeah,” he said. “You shoulda seen him.” I’d met his father, once or twice. He had round glasses and a round head. “He was red all over. I mean, like his neck, the top of his head. Everywhere.” Richie’s shoulders shook a little when he laughed. “But he didn’t say anything. Just drove me home, then said he’d pick me up today. It’s gonna be a shitstorm all the way to San Antonio.” He was grinning now. “Thanks for the cigarettes, Little John,” he said. “I’ll see you after the storm, I guess.” And then he left.
The afternoon rolled on. Redmond had his second Lone Star. Mitchell washed his coffee mug and gathered up his papers and left. I was getting anxious to call Worm, but couldn’t get a moment alone. Finally, Frank asked me what else he could do.
“Grab the broom and sweep the parking lot,” I said.
He pulled the broom and dustpan out of the utility closet and pushed back out the front door. Through the window, I could see him, back bent to the Houston sun, serious at the task of sweeping up cigarette butts and broken bottles. I stepped into the doorway and pulled out my phone, but Worm didn’t answer. Worry crept up my back but I ignored it.
At five, Tracy came in to work the night shift. She was wearing a tight blue shirt and jeans that pulled beautifully at her hips. She gave me a wink and moved behind the bar without speaking to me. I counted out my tips. Frank stood nearby, hovering a little.
“Frank,” I said. “Would you like to work again tonight?”
He nodded eagerly. I scratched behind my ear.
“Come back at eight,” I said. “I won’t be here, but Tracy can show you anything you need to know.”
&nb
sp; On the way home, I stopped at Lee’s Liquor, a small store in a strip center near the highway. It was a clean, well-lit place, narrow and long with high wooden shelves and a wall of beer coolers. It was down the street from a massive liquor store, a huge chain with a better selection and cheaper prices. But I stopped at Lee’s whenever I could, in part because they stocked my brand just for me, but also because it was quiet and calm. There was no music playing, no TV.
The hurricane panic had come through Lee’s already. The shelves were half barren. Empty liquor boxes and wine boxes were scattered by the storeroom door.
Mrs. Lee, the owner, waved to me from behind the counter as she waited on a customer. Mrs. Lee had an oval face and short black hair and thin lips coated in bright red lipstick. She and her husband bought the liquor store soon after emigrating from Viet Nam. She was proud of telling people how they slept on the storeroom floor for the first six months, until they could afford an apartment.
“Hey,” she yelled. “I still have two bottles of Blanton’s.” She didn’t know my name, but she knew my drinking habits. “You should buy both.”
“Both?”
“Hurricane coming,” she said. “You need both.”
I dutifully took the two bottles off the top shelf and carried them to the counter. Mrs. Lee swiped my credit card, then wrapped the bottles in paper bags.
“Where’s Mr. Lee?”
“He’s at the house. Boarding up the windows. Then he’s gonna come back here and we will stay here. All night.”
“Why here?” I asked. “Why not at home?”
“Eh,” she said. “We can always get a new house, you know? We have to be here, make sure the store is okay.” She pushed my card and the slip for me to sign across the counter. “Besides,” she said with a wink, “that’s not really my house. That’s just where I sleep now. This place will always be my house.”
NINE
At home, I tried Worm two more times. It wasn’t unusual for him not to answer his phone for hours, even days, at a time. Even so, I couldn’t help feeling itchy and nervous, like I was being watched. I poured myself a Blanton’s and looked around my little house.
Everything seemed vulnerable and weak – the front door, the pane windows with wilting glass. I turned on the TV for noise, but there was nothing but news about the hurricane, now a category three in the middle of the Gulf, so I turned it off.
I walked out the back door to the porch to smoke a cigarette and Worm was there, of course. He was crouched on the deck boards, his back against the shingled wall. He was wearing the same clothes as the day before. The ashtray was full on the deck next to him.
I had seen him look worse, but not much. His skin looked like a potato’s skin and under his eyes it was purple and puffy. He had a new bruise on his temple and a cut along the edge of his chin.
“Jesus,” I said.
Worm stood and took a step toward me to give me a hug-handshake, but I lifted my cigarette to my mouth to keep him back.
“Hey, Little John,” he said.
I dropped into the folding chair and reached down for the ashtray. Worm sat down next to me but couldn’t stay down. He got back to his feet.
“What the fuck do you want?” I asked. Worm couldn’t keep anything still. His hands scratched at his forearms. His feet shuffled on the porch.
“Nothing, man,” he said. “I mean, nothing really. I just, you know.” He pulled at his ear. “My phone’s been dead and I was trying to reach you and I figured I’d just wait here. You know.” He moved to sit again but didn’t.
I flicked the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. His eyes went to the cigarette, then back to me, but I didn’t offer him one. He rubbed at his nose and I stared into the back yard.
“I just needed to talk to you,” he said. “Things are a little different today than they were yesterday.” He glanced at the door then at his feet then at me. “I figured it wasn’t fair, you know, to make you hold that stuff for me. I knew you didn’t want to.” I stabbed out my cigarette and he watched it. “So, I thought I’d come back and get it so you don’t have to worry about it anymore. Because, you know. I don’t. It wasn’t.” He raised his hands then dropped them at his sides. “It wasn’t fair of me.”
He was pacing and twitching over me and it was getting annoying, so I stood up and moved to the railing. He moved behind me as I lit a cigarette.
“So, you know,” he said. “If you’ll just give me the stuff, the money and the gun, I’ll just take it so you don’t have to worry about it anymore.”
I flicked the end of my cigarette with my thumb and looked up at the treetops.
“It’s not here, Worm,” I said.
“Oh,” he said, “Okay.”
I put my cigarette on the edge of the railing.
“It’s at the bar,” I said.
His voice went high. “No, it isn’t,” he squealed and I turned and punched him in the stomach as hard as I could.
Worm dropped to his knees. His right hand curled across his stomach, his left hand splayed on the deck boards. I picked my cigarette up from the railing. I didn’t step on his hand. I didn’t kick him in the face. I sat back down in the folding canvas chair and listened to Worm try to retch.
“Jesus,” he said, gasping. He gagged a couple of times and rolled onto his side. I smoked.
He drew air in deep through his open mouth then finally pulled himself up on the railing.
“What the fuck, Little John,” he said. “Fuck.”
“I ought to fucking kill you, that’s what,” I said. “You stupid son of a bitch. You told someone I had the money and they broke into my bar.”
“No,” he said, raising his hands. “No.”
“Don’t,” I yelled. I was on my feet and standing over him. “Don’t fucking lie to me.” He was still hunched over his gut, so I pushed his shoulder back so he was looking up at me. “They broke into my bar, you asshole. You told somebody that I had the money and the gun and they broke into my bar looking for it.” His eyes were darting, looking around behind me. “They knew about the floor safe. Mitchell didn’t even know about the floor safe.” He started to open his mouth. “Don’t fucking lie to me anymore,” I said, pushing him again.
“Okay, okay,” he said. He slumped back against the railing and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. When he spoke again, his voice was thick and low. “It’s not mine. I mean, you figured that out already.” He sighed. “It’s not mine and I shouldn’t ever have touched it. And now I need help, John. I need to give them the money back or they’ll …” His voice trailed off and he waved his hands in front of his face. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry they broke into the bar. I didn’t think any of this would happen.”
I sat down in the chair again and pulled out my cigarettes. I shook one out for me, then handed one to him. He sat down in the other chair and we lit our cigarettes and smoked.
“I’m sorry, Little John,” he said. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I didn’t think I’d get caught.”
“You’re an idiot,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “Jesus, I know. But now if I could just get the money back, it’ll all be okay. The money and the gun. I just. I just. Just let me take it back and everything will be okay.”
The smart thing would have been to drive him to the bar and give him the money. Drive him right then and there and give him the gun and the money and be done with his stupid ass forever. That would have been the smart thing. But I was enjoying watching him squirm.
“You can’t have all the money, asshole,” I said. “Your friends stole $12,000 of my savings, plus the drop from last night, plus what was in the till. So they don’t get it all back. I’ll take my money out and they can have what’s left.”
Worm eyes went wide like he was going to cry, but he just said, “Okay.”
“And it’s not here,” I said. “It’s at the bar, but your friends were too stupid to find it.” I thought, suddenly and gleefully, of Ruby. I loo
ked at my watch. “Come by the bar after closing and I’ll give you the money and the gun.”
His voice was a thin rasp. “Why not now?” he whined.
Because I was enjoying it.
“Because I have fucking plans, asshole,” I said. “Come by the bar after closing. Late, like three-thirty, so the staff is all gone. I don’t want anyone to see me with you.”
“John,” he said. “What am I supposed to do until then?
I laughed. “Do what worms do best – crawl in the fucking dirt and hide.” His face dropped. “Three-thirty and not before. I’ll give you the money and the gun and then we are done. Do you understand? We are done. You are no longer a part of my life.”
“I understand,” Worm said. He looked at his hands. “I’m sorry, John.”
I stood and jabbed my cigarette out in the ashtray.
“Good,” I said. “Now get the fuck off my porch.”
I went inside and pretended to watch TV until I was sure Worm had left. Then I took a scalding hot shower and lay on the bed and let the breeze from the ceiling fan cool my skin. I felt good. Great. I was done with Worm and free of the money and everything was back to how it had been but better.
I was done with Worm, so I’d quit the coke. Or at least cut back. If I wanted any coke, I’d have to get it from someone else and that alone would make me cut back. My head was racing, with Worm and cash and coke dealers, but I felt good. I had a chance at a clean break and it would start with dinner with Ruby.
TEN
At seven, I met Ruby in the parking lot and, despite everything, despite the money and the gun and Worm and the break in, everything but Ruby fell away. Just looking at her was a physical thing, like an ache I felt in my hands and arms. She was wearing a white tank top with a lacy black scarf over her shoulders and large round earrings that looked Balinese or Indian.
I wanted to take Ruby somewhere new, show her how Houston had changed, but I didn’t really know any of the new places and she wanted to go to The Bayou. It was a Cajun place we’d been to a few times when we were dating. It was really just a small room with white walls and purple Mardi Gras posters. The chairs were folding chairs, the tables were card tables with a roll of paper towels propped up in the middle of each one. Other than us, the place was empty.
Last Call Lounge Page 10
