by Clea Simon
‘This is different.’ She hears the exhalation. Pictures the smoke. ‘This is for Frank. And Greg and the others specifically asked me to be there.’
TWENTY-SIX
Mystery solved. The night won’t be about music so much as it will be about Frank – about Min, really. The acknowledgment that she never received. Well, Tara is happy enough to sign on. It’s not like her own marriage lasted any longer – or forged any more passionate a bond.
She thinks about Peter. About the friendship she thought they’d settled into. Something easy, lower key. At least Min and Frank were talking at the end, she thinks. What the hell. At least they’ll go hear some music.
Thinking of the evening ahead, she clears her desk up early – earlier than she’d intended at least. Waits for Rebecca to leave, of course. And the rest of the department, but she’s out by six. September. The light has already begun to fade, the shadows lengthen. It’s that, she tells herself, that’s making her sad. Autumn means the end of things. Death, even.
It’s not cold, but she’s shivering by the time she reaches her apartment, which feels more empty than before. Maybe she should get a cat again. It’s not like she travels. Not like she spends that much time at work. In her mind, she can hear what Min would say, and her answer surprises her.
‘No.’ She finds herself talking out loud as she pulls on a sweater. Pours herself a glass of wine. A generic Chardonnay, bought on sale. ‘I’m not waiting for someone. Some man.’
She catches herself and makes a silent correction. It’s Peter’s censure she anticipates as much as Min’s. Not that she wants to get back with him. Only, he’s been there – been the constant – for so many years.
The wine tastes sour, after what she had at Scott’s. She makes a face as she carries it into the bedroom. As she thinks about what to wear. Part of her wants to consider this a date. A quick shower and shave. The nice panties. She’s still got her figure, even if her skin tone is off, and the lace boy-cut briefs make her ass look good.
She stops. Puts the glass down. The last time she saw this man, she was frightened. She really needs to think. And so turning from her closet, she returns to the living room, where there is no cat. But a small carving of a horse stands at attention, tail like a flag, as if ready to run.
What does she know about Nick? What does she want? She washes her face and puts on some lipstick, ready to find out.
When she hears the knock, she ignores it at first, hoping whoever it is will go away. When it repeats – a simple tap, tap, tap – she fears the worst. Greg, come to call her out. Threaten her – or expose her. The words come to her as she rises from the couch. Expose her? As what, she wonders.
A fake. A tourist. Her worst fears answer for her. An outsider, always, merely looking in. Facing off with him can’t be worse. She goes to open the door.
‘Gina?’
The name pops out. The woman, already walking away, can’t be anyone else. The jet-black bob. The pleather mini that cuts into her thighs. But at the sound of her name she turns and fixes Tara with a grin.
‘This is your place. Awesome.’ She nearly bowls her surprised host over, as she pushes the door further open. As she strolls into Tara’s home. ‘I wasn’t sure you still lived here. It’s been years.’
‘Yeah.’ Tara struggles to remember when Gina had ever been here. Back when she first got the apartment, she’d had a party. Peter had always been uncomfortable with her friends. Her gang, he called them. His, too, if he wanted. Which he didn’t. So she’d thrown a shindig to celebrate her independence. Her freedom. She still remembers cleaning up the mess. ‘Yeah, I do.’
She follows the other woman into her own living room. Watches her collapse on the sofa and eye her glass of wine. ‘That looks good,’ she says.
‘Hang on.’ Old habits die hard. Tara heads to the kitchen. Takes down another glass. The Chardonnay is nearly gone, so she pours out what remains. Considers opening another. Considers the situation. ‘So what brings you to my place?’
The question should be normal, but it sounds rude, and so she fetches another bottle from the metal rack on the counter. One of Peter’s purchases, but she likes it, and he seemed pleased that she wanted it. Gina’s voice reaches her as she wrestles with the cork.
‘I ran into Phil.’ A low chuckle. Not an accident, then. ‘He told me you were talking to people for a story? About the scene? Chris Crack and the Aught Nines?’
‘Yeah, I am.’ Tara fills the second glass and puts the bottle in the fridge. ‘It’s not cold,’ she starts to say, as she returns to the living room. She stops short. Gina is holding the figurine – Nick’s carving. Turning it over in her hands. Tara puts the glass down carefully, aware of a sudden urge to grab the piece from the dark-haired rocker.
‘That’s OK.’ Gina puts the figurine down and reaches for the glass. She means the wine, but for a moment Tara wonders if the other woman has read her mind. ‘Anyway, I’m here.’ Gina grins up at her, and the illusion dissipates. ‘So who else are you talking to?’
That’s it. Tara nods. Gina always wanted to be included. To be part of the action. ‘Well, Phil,’ she says, since Gina knows that anyway. ‘Onie from Last Call.’ She skips over Katie. Over Greg, too, for different reasons. ‘And Nick,’ she says. She has to work to keep her voice level. ‘Used to be a bartender?’
‘Yeah, Nickie.’ She nods so hard her body shakes. Tara watches the wine slosh around the glass. ‘He had the sexiest eyes.’
‘He gave me the horse.’ The words come from nowhere. As if she were claiming him as hers.
‘The horse?’
Tara reaches for the little creature. Almost misses how Gina’s eyebrows disappear beneath her bangs.
‘I knew he wasn’t squeaky clean, but I didn’t think – oh.’ Tara looks up. Gina is grinning. She picks up her glass and takes a deep drink. ‘Sorry,’ she says and nods toward the figurine. ‘That. That’s cute.’
‘What did you think I meant?’ The germ of an idea is tickling her brain. One she can’t quite shape. Gina looks down. Her glass is empty.
‘Hold on.’ Tara gets up before the other woman can start talking. Can leave. Gets the bottle.
‘Thanks.’ Gina takes a swig. ‘I’m sorry. I shoulda … I mean, I knew he worked at the Casbah. But, like, he was one of the good ones.’
Tara freezes, still holding the bottle. She makes the effort to put it down. To speak.
‘One of the good ones.’ She repeats the words. ‘At the Casbah?’
‘He put me in a cab a few times when some other guys wouldn’t have, if you know what I mean. And he wasn’t one of the Casbah cash cows. He wasn’t even there that night.’
‘That night?’ Gina can’t be saying this. Can’t be talking about Chris Crack, not after saying that about Nick – about him working there. But she is.
‘I thought I had a chance with him – with Chris, I mean.’ She’s picked up something. Seen how Tara is looking at her. How she looked at the carving. ‘I mean, it wasn’t like he and Neela were going to get married. But I don’t know if he could even get it up anymore, and Neela wasn’t letting go. She just wanted to be with him, no matter what.’
She shrugs. Disappointment. Regret. It’s hard to tell.
‘They were getting high together?’ Tara whispers. Her mouth is so dry. ‘Neela was shooting up when she knew she was pregnant?’
Another shrug. ‘She didn’t even care about the baby. Isn’t that funny? Frank was furious when he found out. I thought he was going to kill her.’
‘How’d he …?’ She has to pause to swallow. ‘How’d Frank find out?’
‘Don’t know.’ Gina’s almost done with her second glass. Tara slides the bottle over. ‘Somebody had been talking to him. Asking questions about the club. Really riled Frank up.’
‘Riled him up?’ She can barely form the words.
‘Yeah, for real.’ Gina’s nodding, lost in her memory. ‘Telling him he should care, what with his girlfriend using an
d all. Really pushing him about all the shit that was coming in.’
She’s talking about Peter. It hits Tara like a flash, only – nothing adds up.
‘This was at the Casbah?’ It’s the first question she can muster.
‘Think so.’ Gina shrugs. ‘I can’t say for sure. I only snorted a little. You know, to be with Chris. But they didn’t call that place the Cash Bar for nothing. Someone made some money there.’
‘Yeah, someone did.’ Tara is glued to her seat. The question she asked, and the question that was answered. Gina has emptied the bottle into her glass.
‘So, you wanna talk about the music? About the old days?’ The plump woman blinks. Her eyes are filling with tears.
‘Gina.’ Tara sits up, another question forming. ‘Why did you come to me? Why are you telling me all this?’
Surely the woman must know what she’s saying. What she’s revealing, after all these years. But her guest merely shrugs. Spills a little wine on her skirt. Rubs at it, to make it go away.
‘Because you get it.’ She says it like it’s obvious. ‘I mean, you were always a bit of a tight ass, but you love the music. The bands. You saw how it might have been. That the Whirled Shakers should’ve been huge.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
It’s an effort to get Gina to leave after that. The dark-haired rocker is drunk. Probably was before she arrived, and she wants to reminisce. But Tara is driven. Frantic, almost, and the empty bottle helps her trundle Gina out the door. Next week they’ll talk. At the tribute. The one to Frank. She has plans, she tells the pudgy rocker. She doesn’t say with whom.
‘Hey.’ Nick rises as she walks toward the table. Leans forward as if to kiss her, only the table is in the way, and so they sit. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘Thanks for calling.’ She hears herself: too hearty. False. ‘I mean, for keeping after me. It’s … things have been weird.’
He nods, waiting. He’s not a fool.
‘Hi, I’m Monique, and how are we this evening?’ The waitress speaks as if they’re children or unspeakably old, a forced smile on her round face. ‘Would you like to start with a cocktail?’
Tara would, most definitely. But her head is already spinning.
‘I think we need a minute.’ Nick sends her on her way. ‘Please?’
It’s unclear if he’s addressing the waitress or Tara. The girl has already retreated, taking temptation with her, and while Tara watches her go, the green apron string cutting into her waist, Nick begins to talk.
‘I should start by telling you that I know I move too fast.’ She turns back to him, but he’s looking down at the table. ‘Maybe it’s because we knew each other, long ago. Or maybe I’ve just been too lonely, but I think I rushed things. I think I may have scared you off.’
‘Nick.’ She wants to stop him. To get to the point.
‘Going over to your place after.’ He chuckles, but it’s a humorless sound. ‘Leaving a kid’s toy.’
‘No, that was sweet.’ Min had called it creepy. What was it Greg had said about ‘that bartender’? ‘It was, but – Nick?’
She has too many suspicions. She has to know. She takes his hand. She wants him looking at her, not at the plastic breadbasket that neither of them has touched.
‘Back in the day …’ She pauses, then dives in. ‘You knew drugs were moving through the clubs, right?’
She has his attention now.
‘Yeah.’ He draws out the syllable. Quizzical. Cautious. ‘Yeah, of course, I did.’
‘Did you ever …?’ This is the tricky bit. The question she doesn’t know how to ask. ‘Were you aware of any drug trafficking in or around any particular club?’
‘What are you asking?’ He sits up now, pulling his hand back in the process. ‘Are you asking if I was a dealer? I was a bartender, Tara. That’s all. My first real bartending job after years of humping cases and glassware.’
Suddenly, she cannot breathe. ‘Your first …?’ She makes herself inhale. She’s trembling. ‘So you did work at the Casbah?’
He nods. He’s cast his gaze down at the table again, but she can see how his mouth has set in angry lines.
‘But you said …’ She can’t go on. Shakes her head.
‘I know.’ He raises his hands as if to plead for sufferance. ‘Look, Tara, I lied about never working at the Casbah. I lied and I’m sorry. It wasn’t …’ He sighs and the tension leaches out of him. ‘I didn’t plan it. I just – you asked and I spoke without thinking. It’s a period of my life that I’m not particularly proud of. A place I’d rather forget, even if it did get me actually tending bar.’
‘And you knew.’ She’s still kind of stunned. ‘You knew about the drugs.’
‘I knew a lot of things, and nothing at all.’ He’s looking at her now, his eyes sad and tired. ‘I knew the bouncers beat up on kids. Sometimes just for fun. I knew the booze was watered – not by me, but I knew it. And I knew that there was a lot of shit around. I mean, maybe it was everywhere by then. But … yeah, I knew.’ He shakes his head, as if there’s just too much to carry.
‘But you didn’t think to tell me?’ She takes a breath and tries again. ‘I’m not … Look, you know my ex, Peter, was a reporter, right? And that I’m working on this story now. About the scene?’
‘Your article?’ He’s acting like he doesn’t know about it. Like he didn’t agree to be interviewed. ‘Is that what this is about? I thought you were writing about the music. About the community. I thought—’
‘I am.’ She keeps her voice low. Monique is hovering. ‘I mean, that’s how it started. But then Peter started telling me about the story he was working on, back in the day. About all the drugs. The cheap smack. I mean, you worked with Brian …’
It’s the wrong tack.
‘And you think I had some part – that I sold him the shit that killed him?’ He pulls the napkin off his lap and throws it on the table. ‘Shit, Tara.’
‘No, I don’t think that you …’ She stops. She can’t deny that she wondered. That she wants to ask him. ‘But maybe, you knew something? Or …’
‘Shit.’ His hands are flat on the table. ‘I’m sorry, Tara. I guess I was too lonely. Or maybe I was just a fool. I’m sorry I lied. I thought it wouldn’t mean anything. I mean, we’re talking twenty years ago. I thought you wanted something – something other than a story.’
‘Nick, please.’ She reaches for him as he starts to rise. He pauses, searching her face.
‘You know Brian was crazy about you, right?’ His voice is soft. Sad. He shakes his head. ‘He had such a crush on you. I thought about that that first night. I actually felt like maybe he’d want us to be together. He was my friend, Tara. Shit.’
And then he pushes back his chair, and he leaves.
It’s not like she can sleep. Between Nick and Gina, her brain is racing. She wants to call – someone. To talk it over. She thinks of Peter, of Min, and stops herself. It’s late by then, and she’s drunk too much, too. At least for one more day, she has work in the morning.
Somehow she gets through the night. Wine doesn’t make her sleep anymore, and she wakes sweating, the sheets a tangle. Coffee helps, and she makes it into the office before nine.
‘Ready for vacation?’ Marie’s grin is so wide Tara knows it’s fake. ‘You look ready.’
Tara smiles back. Crocodile teeth. ‘Fuck you,’ she mutters, under her breath, as she turns into her office. It’s not like she can concentrate, and the inevitable last-minute requests – for a memo, a statement, an ever-so-minuscule revision on a website profile – take too long, trying her nerves, and as soon as she gets a chance, she calls Peter.
‘Where are you?’ She’s whispering, but so frantic it comes out a hiss. ‘We need to talk. Now!’
‘Peter?’ She tries his office line next. It’s Friday, a work day. He should be answering. ‘What did you say to Frank? What did you ask him?’ It’s not enough, she’s well aware. Her query is too vague, and the incident too long ago. But s
urely he must remember something. If he said what she suspects … If he outed Chris as the would-be informant.
She waits. The clock on her desk does not tick. She almost misses the sound. The audible passage of time. After two digits have turned over, she tries again. Leaves similar messages. Considers cabbing over to his condo after work. Or, no, his office. Now.
Only she’s got her own life to clean up. She takes a breath and exhales slowly. Then she calls Nick.
‘Hey.’ She modulates her tone. It’s easy. Her sorrow is real. ‘I want to apologize for what I said. Can we talk?’ It’s unsatisfying. Another voice mail, but she makes herself hang up at that point. She’s learned that much since she and Peter split.
When her phone rings a minute later, she grabs it all breathless anticipation.
‘Hey, girl!’ Min is laughing. ‘That hot to talk to me?’
‘Hey, Min.’ No response is the best tactic.
‘I finally listened to my voice mails. Psyched you’re taking some time. Wish I could. Though I am thinking about the day after the tribute. I mean, that’s going to be intense. But, this weekend? Might you be up for some antiquing Saturday? We’ll go out early, then get some brunch?’
Tara could cry. She hardly sees Min these days. Certainly not in the daylight, outdoors. And yet …
‘I don’t know, Min. I’ve got an interview early Sunday.’ Silence. ‘For this piece.’
‘Oh, yeah.’ The liveliness is gone. The spark. ‘Your story.’
‘I’m definitely going to the tribute show next Thursday.’ It’s too little, too late. ‘That’ll be something.’
‘Yeah,’ says Min. ‘It will.’
Her office is quiet after that. The late requests continue to trickle in, and she eats lunch at her desk to get through them. It’s after four when her desktop pings. A message, she sees. Rudy.
About our talk, it says. She closes her eyes. Mulls over a response. I know you’re on vacation next week. That, at least, is a mercy. The on-line calendar keeping everyone in the loop. Monday you’re back. A statement, not a request.
