Chum

by Jeff Somers

  Improbably, I could sense an erection on the horizon and hastily, blurrily, considered my options. I could: a. dump her unceremoniously on the floor and flee; b. try to talk some sense into her; or c. feign unconsciousness. All three options had dire drawbacks. The first could result in injury and humiliation. The second would get nowhere, I could sense, and would only prolong the time during which she was pressing her supple body against mine in full view of everyone Denise and I counted as mutual friends. The third possibility would probably only result in Miriam unconscious on top of me, which would be worse, somehow, than option b.

  I was paralyzed. Mir was studying my face with an intent look I recognized as “going to kiss.” It was a sort of thousand-yard stare women got when they’d decided to throw caution to the wind and just plant one on you. Somewhere, in the portion of my brain that was still functioning, I knew I had seconds before I was ruined.

  I was saved, then, by Tom, who appeared from the surrounding blur with a cigarette burning between clenched teeth to bend and pluck Mir from my lap with a manly grunt, hefting her in his arms as she squealed attractively.

  “Put me down!”

  “No way, lass,” he panted, turning away. “We’re going to dance.”

  I slumped in my chair and considered Doom, its feel and smell. Tom looked back once and winked. I offered him my middle finger, limply.

  “You’re popular tonight.”

  I glanced up as Kelly sat down in the seat next to me and put her feet up on the next chair. I gritted my teeth, awaiting the sharp comment, the taunt. She just looked at me for a few seconds and then shook her head.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing. I was coming over to save you, but Tommy got here first. We’re watching out for you, is all.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Denise is upset enough.”

  I nodded. “I see. Thanks.”

  She looked me over again. “Listen, I sympathize. You didn’t ask for some drunk coed to throw herself all over you in front of your girlfriend.”

  “The implication being,” I slurred slightly, “that I wouldn’t mind it if Neesie weren’t here.”

  She shrugged. “You didn’t exactly run away from her.”

  I snuffed out my cigarette. “Fuck you, Kelly.”

  “Hey!” she laughed. “Jesus, Hank, pay attention: We like you. The women are looking out for you. You can’t get a better deal than the women looking out for you, dummy.”

  “Where’s Denise?”

  She sighed. “Bitching about you to Flo. Don’t worry, nothing unusual.”

  I looked away. Kelly stood up and clucked her tongue at me.

  “Listen, don’t worry about Miriam. She’s … friendly. She’s thrown herself at just about every older guy who crosses her path. She’s kind of wild. Mary thinks letting her go away to college was the worst possible thing; apparently, she barely escaped high school without serious trouble, and now the general Harrows’ fear is that she’ll show up pregnant and in rehab someday.”

  I blinked. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Poor baby! Come on, dance with me.”

  I looked up at her distrustfully.

  “Don’t worry: I’m approved company. It’s safe.”

  • • •

  Kelly proved to be a better dancer than I would have expected, moving gracefully and with an enthusiasm that proved to be infectious. I’d never interacted much with her; out with her and Flo and Mary and Denise and Bick and the whole lot of them, Kelly and I had barely managed to get past the awkward initial meeting. Intimacy wasn’t easy, under those crowded circumstances. As I faked my dancing skills, hamming it up a bit, I felt an onrush of affection for her and ogled her silently.

  After a few sweaty moments, Luis appeared at my elbow.

  “May I cut in?” he asked in his courtly manner. It didn’t mean anything. Luis had a courtly manner almost genetically.

  I pounded him on the shoulder. “Be my guest, mi amigo,” I panted. “I’m about to have a heart attack.”

  He squinted at me. “Do you require medical attention?”

  • • •

  I found Tom at the bar, drunkenly hitting on the brunette bartender, who regarded him with something like amusement.

  “How’s it going, Tom-O?”

  He sighed, turning his back on her. “She isn’t allowed to drink on duty. My powers of seduction are greatly hampered by sobriety.”

  “Plus his breath smells like puke,” she added, smiling.

  “Where’s our favorite underage drinker?” I asked, winking at her.

  “The wild child Harrows? I dunno. The moment I put her down she stalked—or rather weaved—off to scam more booze from unsuspecting suitors.”

  I sighed. We leaned, elbow to elbow, against the bar. “Women that beautiful should not drink so much,” I said.

  I could feel Tom eyeing me. “You feeling okay?”

  I ignored that. “Where’s Bick?”

  We scanned the dance floor and saw no sign of his tall, charmless body. The table of honor gave us Mary, a white blur surrounded by well-wishers.

  “Dunno.”

  “Let’s go find him, then.”

  “Do we have to?”

  I shrugged. “Beats waiting for Neesie to find me.”

  He snorted. “Hmmph. Says you.”

  • • •

  Out in the lobby, sunk into one of the soft leather couches, Mike was entertaining a group of people with stories about David Bickerman, who was, Tom and I agreed, unusually entertaining for such a classless bastard.

  “So there’s Bick, after hours, out in the cold, still standing there when we get out. Christ, we all just assumed the bastard’d gone home. He’s like, blue. So he’s waiting there for us and he gestures us over and says, ‘This is the guy’s car, the Beemer’—the guy who had him thrown out you see. ‘We’re gonna slash his tires.’ We laughed, but he was serious.”

  The pop-eyed disbelief on Mike’s face was more amusing than the story.

  “I remember that,” Tom offered, horning in on Mike’s audience. “Every time the goddamn bar door opened, he was gone like the fucking wind, into the shadows. I’d glance over to say, ‘Watch yourself, someone’s coming,’ and there’d be nothing but a ghostly outline of where Bick had been, like in cartoons.”

  Everyone laughed. Mike looked a little sour.

  “Speaking of Bick,” I said, “anyone seen him?”

  Someone offered: “I think we just saw him go by a few minutes ago with someone, toward the elevators.”

  I nodded and dragged Tom off. Mike looked relieved.

  Tom wasn’t done. As we moved toward the elevators, he was still griping. “S’true. He got us all to hunker down to slash that asshole’s tires, and every time a cricket fucking rubbed its legs together, he was gone.”

  I rubbed his arm soothingly. “Water under the bridge.” I pulled out my best Luis impersonation. “Tonight is a night for celebration.”

  Tom doubled over, red-faced, laughing. I pushed my hands into my pockets while he gasped, and looked around, innocently.

  “Oh, man, that’s fucking funny.” He looked up from his squatting position. “Holy shit, is that Bick?”

  I looked up in time to see an elevator closing. Bick was obvious in his tall graceless tuxedo. Then a glimpse of fabric, a high heel, a unique pink dress, and the elevator closed.

  I stood staring, for some time.

  Tom started laughing again. I kicked him, lightly.

  “Sorry,” he gasped. “Sorry, man, but that is goddamn hilarious.”

  I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him erect. “All right,” I said seriously. “Is this a male bonding moment or do we have to convene the Women’s Council?”

  That sobered Tom. “You think it’s that bad?”

  “Don’t you—if it’s what it looked like?”

  He scratched the back of his head. “That’s a terrible seal to break, H
ank. The girls. Christ, they’ll tear him apart.”

  “Yep. And it looks like he’ll deserve it.”

  He closed his mouth with a click, then shook his head. “We have to at least make an effort to confirm or deny before we throw him to the girls. There ought to be a presumption of innocence before we go tell everyone that Bick is humping bridesmaids somewhere.”

  “All right,” I said, striding purposefully toward the elevators and exhaling smoke. “Let’s see if there’s any reason to cut his balls off, and if there is, we’re going to feed the fucker to the girls.”

  “Yeah!” Tom enthused. “This is fucking fantastic!”

  • • •

  In the elevator, smothered behind two immense old dowagers in fur coats and sheets of pan-fried makeup:

  “Where are we going?”

  I didn’t look at Tom. “I’m guessing the tenth floor. That’s where Bick’s room is, anyway.”

  “He’d do it in his own room? My God.” He sounded excited.

  A moment of silence, between floors four and five.

  “If he’s not in his room,” I added, “what then?”

  “Miriam’s room, of course. Her and some cousin are sharing one.”

  I blinked. “We know it’s Miriam?”

  Tom squeezed my shoulder. “Man, get a hold of yourself, okay? It was Miriam. Which doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

  Six, seven, eight.

  “Should we get physical?” Tom wondered. “You know, violent?”

  “Why, for God’s sake?”

  “Well, the whole moral thing, you know, defending Mare’s honor.”

  “Dammit, Tom, take a swing if you feel morally compelled to. But don’t expect me to wade in.”

  The doors opened on the tenth floor, serene and empty.

  “Then why are we up here?”

  I didn’t have an answer to that one. I stepped out of the elevator, counting off rooms. The floor was all in blue, various micromanaged shades of it in a powdery, dry-feeling configuration that urged me to hold my breath as I walked the hall. I wondered if hotels bought carpet and wallpaper and paint in bulk and then just used it until they ran out, entire floors spray-painted a certain color for no better reason.

  I paused. “Ten-fifteen, that’s it, the Groom’s ready-room.” I fussed with my tie. “What should we do?”

  Tom shrugged his jacket onto his shoulders, winked at me, and made purposefully for the doors, two wooden doors with the number in gold, each with big, ornate handles. I watched Tom dumbly for a moment, and didn’t step forward and reach for him until he’d actually paused before the doors and taken the preparatory step backward, a little wobbly because the man was, I realized suddenly, fantastically drunk.

  “Tom!”

  He rocked back, weaved, and kicked the doors open with a loud whoop and a crack of broken wood.

  “Bickerman!” he shouted, red-faced and grinning. “Send the girl out with her underwear still in place, and no one gets hurt!”

  It was the Glee. I let my arms fall to my sides and looked down at the dark blue of the carpet, defeated. The Glee had done Bad Things before, and it had done it again. The fucking Glee.

  Bick’s face, ruddy and amazed, appeared around one corner of the door. “Jesus fucking Christ, are you two fucking crazy?”

  I gestured at Tom. “He is. I’m just stupid.”

  “They’re gonna bill me for this goddamned door, you know.”

  “We’re here,” Tom announced happily, “to defend Mary’s honor.”

  Bick stared at Tom for a few seconds, then looked back at me. “Hank, maybe you could step in for a moment?”

  I nodded, still looking down at my feet.

  “Tom,” Bick asked reasonably, “can you give us a few minutes?”

  Tom nodded, all solemn dignity. “I will smoke a cigarette.”

  As I passed Tom, I squeezed his shoulder. I stepped through the remnants of the door and into the room. I paused then, because on the oversized bed lay Miriam, snoring loudly, her mouth open, her dress still on, albeit with both straps off her shoulders.

  “Hank,” Bick announced, “I have a problem.”

  I nodded. I sat down in one of the big stuffed chairs and put my head in my hands, eyes just over my fingers so I could see.

  “Jesus, Bick, you’re a fucking asshole,” I said reasonably. “She’s your goddamn sister-in-law.”

  He held up his hands. “Whoa! Whoa!”

  I hid my eyes again. “Fuck, man: your underage sister-in-law.”

  Bick was shaking his head. “Whoa! Okay? First off, she’s eighteen. She’s not underage.”

  I shook my head in my hands. “Oh, Christ, that’s the wrong tack to take.”

  “Okay, okay. Sorry. The point is, nothing was going on. You’re right: She’s my sister-in-law. We were just talking. We’re family, for God’s sake.”

  I nodded, my head still in my hands. “Okay. Okay, fine. So let’s get her out of here then, okay? Unless you’re so innocent and sure of yourself you don’t mind if Mary comes up here and sees her hot little number of a sister passed out on your bed.”

  Silence, and when I looked up, Bick was deep in thought, his smooth little forehead wrinkled and tortured. Finally, he looked up at me. “Okay. But I can’t exactly be seen carrying her snoring through the halls, huh? I mean, Mare’s a monster now. The Monster will not be amused.”

  I nodded. “Right. Hey, Tom!”

  Tom popped into the room in fine fettle, red-faced and happy to help. “You rang?”

  I sighed. “Go get Luis.”

  • • •

  Luis swept his gaze across the room, and then looked me in the eye. “It is not right to mock marriage like this,” he declared.

  I clapped him on the shoulder. “We know, Luis, really. Now listen up, you’re needed.”

  He shrugged his jacket on and cocked his head. “What do you need? Luis is here to help.”

  “Luis,” I said, taking a deep breath because I felt shitty and was beginning to approach sober, “you are rumor control. You are in charge of disinformation. It’s your job to keep the women downstairs and unsuspicious until Tom, Bick, and I rejoin you.”

  Luis blinked. “The women? You want me to lie to the women? Oh, Henry, that is dangerous.”

  Tom clapped a hand on Luis’s other shoulder. “No more dangerous than not helping us, my Latin friend.”

  Luis glanced at the hand and then back to me. “I am rumor control,” he said.

  “Yes!”

  “What,” he asked, “does that mean?”

  “Good Lord,” Tom exclaimed, leaning in to examine Luis carefully. “He’s drunker than I am!”

  Luis appeared offended. “We have all been drinking heavily.”

  “Luis!”

  He focused on me again.

  “Rumor control means you must guide the conversation down there away from topics such as: Where is Bick? Or Where is Miriam? Or What in hell are Tom, Henry, and Bick up to now? Okay?”

  “Guide conversations,” Luis confirmed. “Si, I understand.”

  “Being in charge of disinformation,” I continued, “means making sure that none of them come up here. Especially Mare, but none of them.”

  “Use force if necessary,” Tom advised.

  “Force,” Luis repeated seriously.

  “Okay, go. Luis, you are the man.”

  He nodded. “Yes.” He turned and made his way out of the room, careful to not stagger.

  I turned to Tom. “All right. Where’s Bick?”

  Tom shrugged. “Dunno. I think he slipped away.”

  “Fucker.” I pushed my hair out of my face. “All right, you get her feet, I’ll get her shoulders.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Her room.”

  “How will we get in?”

  I swore. “Check her bag for a key. Otherwise, we always have you and your subtle way of entering a room.”

  He rummaged a bit, eventually dumping
the contents of her bag on the bed. “Check!”

  “Thank God for small blessings. Let’s go.”

  I slid my hands under her armpits, Tom gripped an ankle in each hand, and we lifted her off the mattress. She sagged for a moment, but Tom made no move to exit the room.

  “Henry,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re bad guys, aren’t we?”

  I looked down at Miriam’s peaceful, upside-down face. “Yeah. We might be.”

  II.

  SAINT PATRICK’S DAY

  The sheer motherfuckery on display was stunning, just stunning. Instant motherfuckers, just add alcohol—and none of the morons were even Irish, as far as I knew anyway. And Tom wasn’t even around, which made the levels of motherfuckery absolutely stunning, since Tommy usually supplied all the motherfuckery in any situation.

  Mary was being a saint, as always, displaying an unwise amount of tolerance for Bick’s amateur-status doofusness. I tried to catch Florence’s eye, but she was talking to Mike pretty seriously, so I just finished my drink, reached out, and grabbed the Sub-Doofus, Henry.

  “Get me another beer!” I shouted over the tinny, disturbing noise of the Clancy Brothers.

  Henry blinked dimly at me and then took the glass and fought his way to the bar. I turned to Denise for moral support and leaned in to her ear. She and Henry were fighting.

  “Why do we keep coming out on this fucking holiday?”

  Denise shrugged. “We’re optimists, I guess.”

  She so didn’t want to be there, especially when Henry had walked in with Bick and Mary and Miriam, who had of late become quite a little slut; seasoned, no doubt, by a half year of debauchery away at school. I wasn’t sure what the whole story was because Denise’s withering glance told of more than just a dislike. I was keeping my eye on the Sub-Doofus, seeking clues: Had he boffed the little tart? Then again, the way she came in hanging off him—not that she didn’t hang off every guy she saw—maybe that was all it was. Maybe Denise just saw through her gosh-shucks kid routine and saw the inner slut coming out.

  Insult to injury: The bar was some faux Scottish monstrosity, which everyone seemed to have mentally agreed was close enough. It was unbearable, and the dick-to-me ratio an unsatisfactory ten-to-one at least. I glanced at Denise and gave up because she was just standing there with her arms wrapped around herself, pissed off and trying very hard to make Sub-Doofus Henry burst into flame by sheer force of will.