sexy.
Lays down a twenty: “The door’s open. You’re here. I’m here. Double Johnnie Black, straight up, keep the change.”
“No can do, sir.”
Sir. He knows what that means. You’re old. Older than “Dad.” Varick Street misfit. Scram, Eliot.
“Please.”
She shakes her head sadly. She’s seen it many times—a dry alcoholic on the verge. She leans on the bar, close to him: “You’re strong when you want to be.” Softly: “Don’t you want to be? Big guy?”
Leaning into her fragrance: “May I ask you a question?”
“No can do. I’m in a long-term relationship.”
Stepping back, flushed with embarrassment: “No. Not that.” (Forced smile.) “I mean, is this a gay bar?”
“You mean strictly?”
“Yes.”
“Dude, there is no more ‘strictly.’ ”
Out of nowhere, a warm wave of relaxation washes over him and a grin, ear to ear, not seen on the Conte visage for months, as his desire to drink is extinguished for a while. He likes her. Wants her to like him. (Just “like,” that’s all.) Turns and starts to walk away when she stops him with: “You’re not that old looking, you know. Really, you’re really not. You could be considered an attractive father-figure option in some quarters.” Conte wonders, In which quarters? In what possible world? Hers? Absurd.
At the door, turning back to her, that grin again: “I’m fifty-six.”
Coming over to him: “I’m twenty-eight, big deal. It’s allrelative.” She hands him the twenty, winks, says, “I’ll take a rain check, Daddy.”
He puts the twenty in his wallet and removes his defunct business card:
ELIOT CONTE, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR 1318 MARY STREET
[email protected]
Writes in his cell number on the card: “If you ever have the kind of trouble the police have no interest in pursuing, give me a call, angel.”
“Couldn’t afford you, Pops.”
“You can. You’d be redeeming the rain check.”
She looks at the card again for a long moment and replies, “Would you by any chance be related to—”
“Yes. But not by chance.”
She points to the street: “The storm passed. Feeling better?” He suppresses an urge.
“Don’t lose the card, angel. I owe you.”
In the vicinity of Rutger Park, a stone-packed snowball thuds against and cracks the passenger side window of his nine-year-old Toyota Camry. Skinny teenage male, white, arms akimbo, sneering, sagging pants. Conte rolls down the window. Sagging pants says, “Bring it on, Gramps.” Conte considers the offer with surging pleasure. The kid gives him the finger. Conte shouts, “I’m making progress, asshole,” and drives off.
Home, in the driveway, calls Anthony Senzalma.
“Dinner at 8? Joey’s? It’s crucial.”
“With pleasure, Eliot, as always.”
Calls Joey’s and makes the usual unusual request, invariably granted, to sit not in the dining area, where Senzalma feels vulnerable, but in the cramped office behind the kitchen.
Inhales it as he opens the door—sautéing garlic. She’s making the sauce of garlic and olive oil, simple, even I can do it, Catherine said shortly after she moved in, who was not in his league as a cook—in truth, she was not much good at all as a cook, though it was a truth never uttered, except by her, though she tried and made many disasters, which he always pronounced very good. He lets her make breakfast, always, because anybody can make oatmeal in the microwave, or pour cold cereal into a bowl and start the coffee, and she throws mediocre sandwiches together with the best of them.
Walks in quietly. Can see her in the kitchen—her back to him. He’d warned her how many times? Lock up when I’m away, the neighborhood is changing, but with Big Don Belmonte here, no need, maybe. Where was Big Don? She doesn’t hear him enter—radio, open door. What does he have to do to bring her to her senses? He sings out with the old mocking tone, “Honey! I’m home!”
She turns: The spontaneous smile that brings the sun,
Lays down a twenty: “The door’s open. You’re here. I’m here. Double Johnnie Black, straight up, keep the change.”
“No can do, sir.”
Sir. He knows what that means. You’re old. Older than “Dad.” Varick Street misfit. Scram, Eliot.
“Please.”
She shakes her head sadly. She’s seen it many times—a dry alcoholic on the verge. She leans on the bar, close to him: “You’re strong when you want to be.” Softly: “Don’t you want to be? Big guy?”
Leaning into her fragrance: “May I ask you a question?”
“No can do. I’m in a long-term relationship.”
Stepping back, flushed with embarrassment: “No. Not that.” (Forced smile.) “I mean, is this a gay bar?”
“You mean strictly?”
“Yes.”
“Dude, there is no more ‘strictly.’ ”
Out of nowhere, a warm wave of relaxation washes over him and a grin, ear to ear, not seen on the Conte visage for months, as his desire to drink is extinguished for a while. He likes her. Wants her to like him. (Just “like,” that’s all.) Turns and starts to walk away when she stops him with: “You’re not that old looking, you know. Really, you’re really not. You could be considered an attractive father-figure option in some quarters.” Conte wonders, In which quarters? In what possible world? Hers? Absurd.
At the door, turning back to her, that grin again: “I’m fifty-six.”
Coming over to him: “I’m twenty-eight, big deal. It’s allrelative.” She hands him the twenty, winks, says, “I’ll take a rain check, Daddy.”
He puts the twenty in his wallet and removes his defunct business card:
ELIOT CONTE, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR 1318 MARY STREET
[email protected]
Writes in his cell number on the card: “If you ever have the kind of trouble the police have no interest in pursuing, give me a call, angel.”
“Couldn’t afford you, Pops.”
“You can. You’d be redeeming the rain check.”
She looks at the card again for a long moment and replies, “Would you by any chance be related to—”
“Yes. But not by chance.”
She points to the street: “The storm passed. Feeling better?” He suppresses an urge.
“Don’t lose the card, angel. I owe you.”
In the vicinity of Rutger Park, a stone-packed snowball thuds against and cracks the passenger side window of his nine-year-old Toyota Camry. Skinny teenage male, white, arms akimbo, sneering, sagging pants. Conte rolls down the window. Sagging pants says, “Bring it on, Gramps.” Conte considers the offer with surging pleasure. The kid gives him the finger. Conte shouts, “I’m making progress, asshole,” and drives off.
Home, in the driveway, calls Anthony Senzalma.
“Dinner at 8? Joey’s? It’s crucial.”
“With pleasure, Eliot, as always.”
Calls Joey’s and makes the usual unusual request, invariably granted, to sit not in the dining area, where Senzalma feels vulnerable, but in the cramped office behind the kitchen.
Inhales it as he opens the door—sautéing garlic. She’s making the sauce of garlic and olive oil, simple, even I can do it, Catherine said shortly after she moved in, who was not in his league as a cook—in truth, she was not much good at all as a cook, though it was a truth never uttered, except by her, though she tried and made many disasters, which he always pronounced very good. He lets her make breakfast, always, because anybody can make oatmeal in the microwave, or pour cold cereal into a bowl and start the coffee, and she throws mediocre sandwiches together with the best of them.
Walks in quietly. Can see her in the kitchen—her back to him. He’d warned her how many times? Lock up when I’m away, the neighborhood is changing, but with Big Don Belmonte here, no need, maybe. Where was Big Don? She doesn’t hear him enter—radio, open door. What does he have to do to bring her to her senses? He sings out with the old mocking tone, “Honey! I’m home!”
She turns: The spontaneous smile that brings the sun,
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