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640 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2005
Lyla watched me think things over. When I looked up, she was looking into my eyes, and her mouth was open, just a little. I felt something happen between us, but I moved on.
….
After that we sat without speaking. Her homemade tape was playing Richard Thompson’s Gypsy Love Songs. The time went by like that, and the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. I liked her looks, and her honesty, and her intelligence. I liked everything about her.
The details of those years are unimportant and certainly not unusual. Billy had a ’69 Camaro (the last year that car made any difference) with a 327 under the hood and Hi-Jackers in the rear. There was a Pioneer eight-track mounted under the AM radio and two Superthruster speakers on the rear panel. On weekend nights we drank Schlitz from cans and raced that car up and down University Boulevard and Colesville Road, trolling for girls and parties. On the nights when we got too drunk the cops would pull us over and, in those days, simply tell us to get on home. Our friends enacted roughly the same ritual, and amazingly none of us died.
I closed my eyes and felt the bourbon numb my lips and gums and the back of my throat. I waited for the warmth to fill my chest and followed it with a deep pull of beer. The beer was cold and good, and a chip of ice slid down the neck and touched my hand as I drank.
…
I shook a cigarette out of Boyle’s pack. Boyle produced a Zippo from his jacket pocket and thumbed open its lid. I leaned toward the flame, hit it, and took a drag that burned deeply into my chest. My smoke found his and drifted up through the misty cones of light that opened out from the lamps above.
Lyla lifted her wineglass. ‘Takes the edge off,’ she said, and had a sip. ‘Yeah, that’ll do it.’
‘I thought you looked a little thick today,’ I said. And I had noticed her hand shaking as she picked up her glass.
She shrugged apologetically. ‘Happy hour stretched to last call. Sorry I didn’t make it over last night.’
Near the register hung a framed photograph of Jackie Kahn, former Athena’s bartender and mother of my child, a boy named Kent, now nine months old.
He wore a nonvented Italian-cut suit over a powder blue shirt with a white spread collar, and a maroon tie featuring subtle geometrics, gray parallelograms shaded in blue to pick up the blue off the suit.
You know, you don’t always have to work so hard at being cynical around me, Nick. I know that, in your own way, you have a fairly clear idea of what’s right and what’s wrong. Not all the good that gets done in this world gets done in a church or a meeting hall, I realize that.
I could have called Boyle back and ended it right then, if I had just called him back, things might not have gone the way they did between Lyla and me, and I never would have met Jack LaDuke. But the thirst for knowledge is like a piece of ass you know you shouldn’t chase; in the end, you chase it just the same.
…
You got this one way of lookin’ at things, like it’s right or it’s not, and nothing in between.
…
I don’t believe in this victimized-society crap. All those people pointing fingers, never pointing at themselves. So people get abused as kids, then spend the rest of their lives blaming their own deficient personalities on something that happened in their childhoods. It’s bullshit, you know it? I mean, everybody’s carrying some kind of baggage, right?
You got matches? You always got matches, Nick.
I had another beer, and another after that. By then, it had gotten pretty late. I thought of my cat, out in the weather, hungry and pacing on the stoop. I dimmed the lights and put on a coat, then locked the place and set the alarm. I went out to the street.