Brighton by Michael Harvey Page B

the different permutations of how he might lose his money. Bobby listened to the drone and stared at himself in a clouded mirror that ran behind the bar. He noticed the sag under his chin. A little puffiness around the eyes.
    “So what do you think? Bobby?”
    “Yeah?”
    “What do you think? About Florida?”
    Bobby pulled his eyes off the mirror. He had no idea how they’d gotten from Finn’s basketball bets to the Sunshine State, but there they were. “You wanna go next winter?”
    “I know. I say it every year.”
    “Yeah, you do. Right here, at this bar, sitting on that stool.”
    “This time I got the money. It’s all tucked away and not a penny’s going to the gambling. None of that shit.”
    “That’s good, Finn.”
    “I know I’m too old to play on the circuit.”
    “You can still go down and watch.”
    “I’m thinking I can coach.”
    “Coach?”
    “Sure. You ever seen those New York guineas sitting in the stands at the U.S. Open? All I need is to go down there and find a prospect. I was thinking about a girl. Fifteen, sixteen years old. I’ll teach her the game. How to really hit. Not gonna bang her or nothing like that. Just coach.”
    “Sounds like a plan.”
    “You think so?”
    “Why not?”
    Finn wiped chicken grease off his fingers with a bar napkin and sucked down half his beer in a long, greedy swallow. “Fuck, yeah. Why not?” The thought seemed to warm him. “You’ll come down and visit?”
    “Try to keep me away.”
    “I was thinking I’d get one of those condos in a marina. We could keep a boat. Go out and tuna fish in the gulf.”
    “You ever been fishing, Finn?”
    “Caught a catfish once up at Chandler’s Pond.”
    “Good enough, brother.”
    They laughed and drank to Finn’s make-believe future.
    “Did I tell you who I saw?” Finn said.
    “Who’s that?”
    “Kevin Pearce.”
    Bobby stopped the bottle of beer halfway to his lips and returned it to the bar. “Where did you see him?”
    “Over at Tar Park this afternoon. He was asking about you.”
    “What did you say?”
    “Nothing. He told me he won the Pulitzer Prize or something.”
    Bobby whistled. “No kidding.”
    “That a big deal?”
    “Jesus Christ.”
    “I read the sports page. And that’s mostly to see what time the games start.”
    Bobby’s gaze traveled out the window and down Market Street.
    “B?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You haven’t seen him in twenty, thirty years.”
    “He’s like a brother, Finn.”
    “Like you and me?”
    “That’s right. Just like you and me.”
    Finn grunted and polished off his beer. “I should get going.”
    “Have a good night.” Bobby touched his nose with a finger. “And remember what I told you about that shit.”
    Finn tossed what was left of the chicken in the trash. Bobby watched him go, then walked behind the bar.
    “You see some black broad got killed in Brighton,” the bartender said without taking his eyes off the set. Bobby looked up at the news banner. A reporter stood on a street corner talking.
    “Why should I care?”
    The bartender shrugged. “I know. It’s a fucking smoke, right?” He smiled. Not so much at what he’d said, but just because he could say it. “You want company down there?” The bartender poked his eyes toward a door next to the reach-in cooler.
    “She’s coming in with the books.”
    “Anyone else?”
    “No. And give a yell down fifteen minutes after she gets here. Tell me I got a call or something.” Bobby grabbed another beer out of the cooler and walked down a sagging set of wooden steps to a cold basement. He flicked on an overhead light and took a seat behind a large metal desk. To the left of the desk was a couch, a refrigerator, and a couple of old filing cabinets. Beside the cabinets were three TVs, a dry-erase board drilled into the wall, a Nerf basketball hoop, and a small, free-standing safe. Bobby turned on a computer and began to go through the baseball lines. A phone on the desk rang three times.