up and down. It didn’t sound like a bad idea.
“I don’t know. Have you seen Frankie?”
He coughed briefly into his fist before he answered.
“I think Frankie’s probably out of town, honey.”
That seemed odd. Frankie hadn’t said a word about going out of town. He reached out and touched her arm, then leaned on the bar.
“I was going to buy you a drink, but you’ve got one,” he said. He looked around. “What do you have to do to get some service around here?”
“I guess Moe’s in the back.”
“Can you call him?”
“Call him?”
“Yeah.”
She looked at him. He had on a good suit that fit him well. And his shoes were actually some nice cowboy boots. They looked like Tony Lamas. They had a cool green-lizard toe. That damn Frankie. What did he mean going out of town and not telling her?
“I can pour you something,” she said. “What you want?”
“I want a vodka martini, very dry.”
She shook her head. He was easy on her eyes.
“I don’t know how to make one of those.”
“Maybe you should learn.”
Well, maybe she should. Maybe he had plenty of money, like Frankie. If he was in the same business as Frankie, he probably did. She smiled at him.
“Or we could always go somewhere they know how to make one,” he said.
“I know a good place,” she told him.
23
T he little dog got stranded on the roof, looking down to trees in the yard, cars with their lights passing on the street in the mushy squishing snow, a moon sky smoked gray by fast-moving clouds. The stopped-up rain gutters held plenty of water and melting snow and he stood there slanted downhill drinking from one for a long time.
He went back to the window to try and get back in where it was warm, but it was too high above him now, the roof too steep to let him make a decent jump. He’d been lucky not to roll his little butt right off the gutters when he’d first jumped through the hole left by the loose pane he’d pushed out with his head.
The roof was wide and long and had peaks in it. The little dog could get around on it pretty good and he spent some time checking most of it out, only thing, there wasn’t much of a place to lie down where it wasn’t slanted, and maybe for that reason he wasn’t able to get any sleep. What he did was drape his belly over the ridgeline, half in front, half in back, and try to sleep that way, but it must not have been very comfortable for him, might have even hurt his little pooched-out belly, because he kept getting up. It was cold, and the wind was blowing, and he never did go to sleep, even though he seemed to try more than once to achieve that natural dog state.
Most of the night passed with him watching it. Lights below that shone on the yard went off. The traffic slowed and almost stopped. A siren sounded far off and died. The small town quieted, as if the dark had brought some angel of peace with folded wings into the streets to smoke cigarettes and hang out at deserted corners for the duration of a single freezing night. There was only the hum of semis in the fog out on the interstate to cut through the silence, and he, a solitary little dog, didn’t know what they were.
Near daylight, shaking with cold, he whined beneath the window. There was nothing out there for him to eat. The man he liked wasn’t around anywhere that he could see. He couldn’t smell him either. So he went down to the very edge of the roof, ran back and forth a few times, taxiing, looking down and whining, and then he jumped, his ears lifted out from the sides of his head like the fragile wings of birds, into the darkness that swallowed him.
24
W hen Miss Muffett woke up, she didn’t know where she was. It wasn’t completely dark, but on the other hand, she couldn’t see anything very clearly. Somebody was next to her, but she didn’t know who it was. Then she figured out that she was in the back seat of a car. Was it her car? She couldn’t tell. It was getting to be
“I don’t know. Have you seen Frankie?”
He coughed briefly into his fist before he answered.
“I think Frankie’s probably out of town, honey.”
That seemed odd. Frankie hadn’t said a word about going out of town. He reached out and touched her arm, then leaned on the bar.
“I was going to buy you a drink, but you’ve got one,” he said. He looked around. “What do you have to do to get some service around here?”
“I guess Moe’s in the back.”
“Can you call him?”
“Call him?”
“Yeah.”
She looked at him. He had on a good suit that fit him well. And his shoes were actually some nice cowboy boots. They looked like Tony Lamas. They had a cool green-lizard toe. That damn Frankie. What did he mean going out of town and not telling her?
“I can pour you something,” she said. “What you want?”
“I want a vodka martini, very dry.”
She shook her head. He was easy on her eyes.
“I don’t know how to make one of those.”
“Maybe you should learn.”
Well, maybe she should. Maybe he had plenty of money, like Frankie. If he was in the same business as Frankie, he probably did. She smiled at him.
“Or we could always go somewhere they know how to make one,” he said.
“I know a good place,” she told him.
23
T he little dog got stranded on the roof, looking down to trees in the yard, cars with their lights passing on the street in the mushy squishing snow, a moon sky smoked gray by fast-moving clouds. The stopped-up rain gutters held plenty of water and melting snow and he stood there slanted downhill drinking from one for a long time.
He went back to the window to try and get back in where it was warm, but it was too high above him now, the roof too steep to let him make a decent jump. He’d been lucky not to roll his little butt right off the gutters when he’d first jumped through the hole left by the loose pane he’d pushed out with his head.
The roof was wide and long and had peaks in it. The little dog could get around on it pretty good and he spent some time checking most of it out, only thing, there wasn’t much of a place to lie down where it wasn’t slanted, and maybe for that reason he wasn’t able to get any sleep. What he did was drape his belly over the ridgeline, half in front, half in back, and try to sleep that way, but it must not have been very comfortable for him, might have even hurt his little pooched-out belly, because he kept getting up. It was cold, and the wind was blowing, and he never did go to sleep, even though he seemed to try more than once to achieve that natural dog state.
Most of the night passed with him watching it. Lights below that shone on the yard went off. The traffic slowed and almost stopped. A siren sounded far off and died. The small town quieted, as if the dark had brought some angel of peace with folded wings into the streets to smoke cigarettes and hang out at deserted corners for the duration of a single freezing night. There was only the hum of semis in the fog out on the interstate to cut through the silence, and he, a solitary little dog, didn’t know what they were.
Near daylight, shaking with cold, he whined beneath the window. There was nothing out there for him to eat. The man he liked wasn’t around anywhere that he could see. He couldn’t smell him either. So he went down to the very edge of the roof, ran back and forth a few times, taxiing, looking down and whining, and then he jumped, his ears lifted out from the sides of his head like the fragile wings of birds, into the darkness that swallowed him.
24
W hen Miss Muffett woke up, she didn’t know where she was. It wasn’t completely dark, but on the other hand, she couldn’t see anything very clearly. Somebody was next to her, but she didn’t know who it was. Then she figured out that she was in the back seat of a car. Was it her car? She couldn’t tell. It was getting to be
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