A Better Goodbye by John Schulian Page B

with radishes, carrots, and celery sticks. “No fairy food,” a cut man once told Nick. The menu was on a wall that was the only color it could be, the color of grease. Maybe it had been painted since a former mayor had bought the place, but it hardly mattered with all the meat that got cooked there every day. The place wouldn’t have looked right any other way. Nor would the waiter have fit in if he had brought them their Bud Lights and taken their order—a porterhouse for Cecil, a New York for Nick—with anything other than a look that suggested he had a shank in his belt.
    Once he was gone, Nick asked Cecil, “The guy you’re helping out, he have as much personality as our waiter?”
    â€œHe gettin’ there,” Cecil said.
    â€œBetter not count on a lot of tips.”
    â€œMan needs the job. Up to him what he does with it.”
    â€œYeah, I suppose. You said he was a fighter.”
    â€œNot much of one. Heart like a blister.”
    â€œAnd you trained him?”
    Cecil took a bite of unbuttered sourdough and chewed it thoughtfully. “Favor to his daddy. Remember Bolo Garcia?”
    â€œSaw him fight on TV a couple times,” Nick said. “He was finished by the time I came around.”
    â€œA true-life ass-kicker. Only thing that beat him was lies. Take a dive down in Texas, they said, and he’d get a title shot.”
    â€œNever happened, huh?”
    â€œHell, no.”
    Nick let Cecil have a moment with his thoughts. Then he asked, “You hear from anybody I used to know?”
    â€œYou the only one I don’t hear from since you ain’t at the airport,” Cecil said.
    â€œSo, give me some names,” Nick said.
    â€œJohn-John Causion, he thinks he a trainer now; ain’t bad, either. And that crazy muthafucka Simmie Watkins got him a storefront church in Detroit.” Cecil started laughing. “You hear about the stripper Rico LaPaglia married?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œShe shot his ass.”
    â€œDead?”
    â€œNot unless she shot him again since he told me.”
    Now Nick was laughing too.
    â€œYou still a good-lookin’ kid, you laugh that way,” Cecil said. “Oughta try it more often. Might get you some pussy.”
    â€œProbably the wrong time for that.”
    â€œThere’s never a wrong time. How ’bout that story in the paper?” Cecil asked. “It do you any good?”
    â€œAndy Rigby’s story?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œNot really. I mean, the buddy I was driving for that day—when the kid jumped me—he keeps saying his boss will have something for me. A month, two months, when one of their drivers moves out of state. But every time I’m supposed to meet the boss, it gets postponed.”
    â€œOn account of you or him?”
    â€œHim. Christ, Cecil, I got rent to pay, you know? I need a job.”
    There was a flash of mischief in Cecil’s eyes. “You want, I could put in a word for you here.”
    Nick couldn’t help smiling. “No, thanks.”
    â€œYeah, these sour muthafuckas, I can’t blame you. But you gonna let me say I’m sorry, ain’t you?”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œFor tellin’ that shitass Rigby where you was,” Cecil said.
    â€œDon’t be sorry, man,” Nick said. “You couldn’t read his mind. Besides, I didn’t talk to him much when he came around. All he did was dig up, you know—” He shrugged rather than say more. No sense having Alonzo Burgess at the table with them even if it was in name only.
    â€œYeah, I know.”
    â€œHe could have written the same thing if he’d never found me. Looked like he was pretty desperate for a story. He a drinker?”
    â€œMight be. Was a time all them newspaper cats boozed pretty hard.”
    â€œForget about him,” Nick said. “I’ll get by.”
    â€œJust the same,” Cecil said,