Nerve Damage by Peter Abrahams

“Want me to take care of that?” He couldn’t help himself.
    Jerry gazed at the pieces for a moment, then shrugged. Roy, stooping to pick them up, realized he was still wearing the skullcap. He folded it neatly and put it in his pocket.

Ten
    Rain fell harder. Roy set his armful of wood on the passenger seat. As he drove off, a police cruiser pulled over, took the spot he’d had. Roy circled the block. The cruiser was still parked outside Jerry’s house but no one was in it. Roy did a U-turn, found a space on the other side of the street, a space with an unblocked view of Jerry’s front door and the cruiser. He waited. Rain pelted down on the pickup, light drumming waves of sound that washed over him.
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    â€œI’ve never been there,” Roy said.
    â€œWhere?” said Delia.
    â€œVenezuela,” Roy said. “What we’ve just been talking about. Your trip.”
    â€œIt’s not my favorite place.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with Venezuela?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œThat doesn’t sound convincing.”
    She rolled over, laid her head on his chest. Her lips moved against his skin. “Do I have to convince you, Roy?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œNothing. Maybe I just don’t feel like going.”
    He tangled his fingers in the curls of her hair. “Why not?”
    â€œThe whole thing’s just so…”
    â€œWhat?”
    She sighed; her breath flowed, warm and soft against his chest. “It’s not worth talking about. I have to go. That’s that.”
    â€œBut I thought you were excited about this project. What about the pineapples?”
    â€œFuck the pineapples,” Delia said. Then she laughed to herself, a low, throaty laugh Roy loved. She reached down, took his balls in her hand, hefted them like a produce manager sizing up the goods. “Fuck the pineapples,” she said.
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    Roy opened his eyes.
    â€œWhat the hell?” he said.
    No rain. No rain and late in the day, tree limbs, chimneys and roofs all in black silhouette against an orange sky. Across the street, the police cruiser was gone and Jerry’s house dark. A woman walked up to the front door, laid a bouquet on the front step and moved off, entering a house down the street.
    â€œWhat the hell?” Roy said. He’d wanted to talk to that cop. “What’s wrong with me?” He drove back to Baltimore.
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    The same bartender was working the hotel bar. Roy ordered what he’d had last time—chowder, T-bone steak, roast potatoes, Caesar salad, heavy ale, pecan pie with ice cream. Tonight he actually felt hungry. All at once, with no warning, he found himself rising into a good mood, as though some internal helium pump had clicked on. He hadn’t been in a good mood in a while, had almost forgotten the power of its lift.
    â€œHow’d the scrap business treat you today?” the bartender said.
    â€œNot bad.”
    â€œI was talking to this cousin of mine,” she said. “He says with commodity prices like they are, there’s real money in scrap.”
    What would Murph say to something like that? Not from where I’m sitting. Roy said it.
    â€œYou’re just the modest type,” she said. “I can tell.” She leaned forward a little, was wearing a low-cut top to begin with. “There aren’t many modest guys around these days,” she said. “But there sure as hell should be.”
    Roy laughed.
    She gave him a quick look. Roy read a lot into it, maybe too much. “What’s your name?” she said.
    â€œRoy.”
    â€œNice name—I’ve never known a Roy,” she said, topping up his glass. “I’m off in an hour, just dropping in that little fact.”
    No, he hadn’t read too much into it. The bartender was nice-looking, smart, a little on the plump side, even matronly—but that felt right at the moment, perfect, in fact. Roy