Bernie gave him a thumbs-up in reply, wondering if Jesus knew he’d just passed a good facsimile of the Boy Scout salute.
Someone had shoved over a dozen pizza ads under his door. Pizza Hut, Mother’s, Papa John’s, Joe’s Chicago Style, Pizza Inn, Rome Village, Hunky-Dory Quick Ital, The Pie Place. Son of a bitch probably went around pulling them off doors all over the neighborhood. On every one of them he’d circled Free Delivery.
Bernie poured a scotch and sank into the swayback sofa. Right alongside was a chair he’d paid over a thousand dollars for, supposed to correct all your back problems, but he couldn’t stand the damn thing, felt like he was sitting in a catcher’s mitt. So, though he’d had it almost a year, it still smelled like new car. The smell, he liked.
Suddenly he felt tired.
And the couple next door were at it again. He sat listening and had another scotch before he went and knocked at 2-D.
“Yeah?”
Lenny was a short, red-faced man who’d carry his baby fat with him to the grave.
“Bernie Rose, next apartment over.”
“I know, I know. What’s up? I’m kind of busy here.”
“I heard.”
His eyes changed. He tried to close the door but Bernie had reached up and grasped the edge, forearm flat against it. Guy got even more red-faced trying to shove it closed, but Bernie held it easily. Muscles on his arm stood out like cables.
After a moment he swept it open.
“What the—”
“You all right, Shonda?” Bernie asked.
She nodded without meeting his eyes. At least it hadn’t gotten to the physical stage this time. Not yet.
“You can’t—”
Bernie clamped a hand on his neighbor’s throat.
“I’m a patient man, Lenny, not much for getting in other people’s way. What I figure is, we’ve all got our own lives, right? And the right to be left alone. So I sit over there for almost a year now listening to what goes down in here and I keep thinking, Hey, he’s a mensch, he’ll work it out. You gonna work it out, Lenny?”
Bernie rocked his hand at the wrist, causing his neighbor’s head to nod.
“Shonda’s a good woman. You’re lucky to have her, lucky she’s put up with you this long. Lucky I’ve put up with you. She has good reason: she loves you. I don’t have any reason at all.”
Well, that was stupid, Bernie thought as he returned to his own apartment and poured another scotch.
It was quiet next door. The swayback couch welcomed him, as it always did.
Had he left the TV on? He didn’t recall ever turning it on at all, but there it was, unspooling one of those court shows currently fashionable, Judge Somebody-or-another, judges reduced to caricature (brusque, sarcastic New Yorker, Texan with accent thick as cake icing), participants either so stupid they jumped at the chance to broadcast their stupidity nationwide or so oblivious they had no idea that’s what they were doing.
Yet another thing that made Bernie tired.
He didn’t know. Had he changed, or had the world changed around him? Some days he barely recognized it. Like he’d been dropped off in a spaceship and was only going through the motions, trying to fit in, doing his best imitation of someone who belonged down here. Everything had gone so cheap and gaudy and hollow. Buy a table these days, what you got was an eighth of an inch of pine pressed onto plywood. Spend $1200 for a chair, you couldn’t sit in the damn thing.
Bernie’d known his share of burnouts, guys who started wondering just what it was they were doing and why any of it mattered. Mostly they disappeared not long after. Got sent up for lifetime hauls, got sloppy and killed by someone they’d braced, got taken down by their own people. Bernie didn’t think he was a burnout. This driver for damn sure wasn’t.
Pizza. He hated fucking pizza.
Come right down to it, though, that was pretty funny, all those pizza ads stuck under his door.
Chapter Thirty
When Driver was a kid, every night for what seemed like a year he had
Someone had shoved over a dozen pizza ads under his door. Pizza Hut, Mother’s, Papa John’s, Joe’s Chicago Style, Pizza Inn, Rome Village, Hunky-Dory Quick Ital, The Pie Place. Son of a bitch probably went around pulling them off doors all over the neighborhood. On every one of them he’d circled Free Delivery.
Bernie poured a scotch and sank into the swayback sofa. Right alongside was a chair he’d paid over a thousand dollars for, supposed to correct all your back problems, but he couldn’t stand the damn thing, felt like he was sitting in a catcher’s mitt. So, though he’d had it almost a year, it still smelled like new car. The smell, he liked.
Suddenly he felt tired.
And the couple next door were at it again. He sat listening and had another scotch before he went and knocked at 2-D.
“Yeah?”
Lenny was a short, red-faced man who’d carry his baby fat with him to the grave.
“Bernie Rose, next apartment over.”
“I know, I know. What’s up? I’m kind of busy here.”
“I heard.”
His eyes changed. He tried to close the door but Bernie had reached up and grasped the edge, forearm flat against it. Guy got even more red-faced trying to shove it closed, but Bernie held it easily. Muscles on his arm stood out like cables.
After a moment he swept it open.
“What the—”
“You all right, Shonda?” Bernie asked.
She nodded without meeting his eyes. At least it hadn’t gotten to the physical stage this time. Not yet.
“You can’t—”
Bernie clamped a hand on his neighbor’s throat.
“I’m a patient man, Lenny, not much for getting in other people’s way. What I figure is, we’ve all got our own lives, right? And the right to be left alone. So I sit over there for almost a year now listening to what goes down in here and I keep thinking, Hey, he’s a mensch, he’ll work it out. You gonna work it out, Lenny?”
Bernie rocked his hand at the wrist, causing his neighbor’s head to nod.
“Shonda’s a good woman. You’re lucky to have her, lucky she’s put up with you this long. Lucky I’ve put up with you. She has good reason: she loves you. I don’t have any reason at all.”
Well, that was stupid, Bernie thought as he returned to his own apartment and poured another scotch.
It was quiet next door. The swayback couch welcomed him, as it always did.
Had he left the TV on? He didn’t recall ever turning it on at all, but there it was, unspooling one of those court shows currently fashionable, Judge Somebody-or-another, judges reduced to caricature (brusque, sarcastic New Yorker, Texan with accent thick as cake icing), participants either so stupid they jumped at the chance to broadcast their stupidity nationwide or so oblivious they had no idea that’s what they were doing.
Yet another thing that made Bernie tired.
He didn’t know. Had he changed, or had the world changed around him? Some days he barely recognized it. Like he’d been dropped off in a spaceship and was only going through the motions, trying to fit in, doing his best imitation of someone who belonged down here. Everything had gone so cheap and gaudy and hollow. Buy a table these days, what you got was an eighth of an inch of pine pressed onto plywood. Spend $1200 for a chair, you couldn’t sit in the damn thing.
Bernie’d known his share of burnouts, guys who started wondering just what it was they were doing and why any of it mattered. Mostly they disappeared not long after. Got sent up for lifetime hauls, got sloppy and killed by someone they’d braced, got taken down by their own people. Bernie didn’t think he was a burnout. This driver for damn sure wasn’t.
Pizza. He hated fucking pizza.
Come right down to it, though, that was pretty funny, all those pizza ads stuck under his door.
Chapter Thirty
When Driver was a kid, every night for what seemed like a year he had
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