evidence of anything.
The bartender walks from the door behind the bar, an old guy named Sam who’s been here forever. Word is that Sam worked the streets years ago but lost his nerve and asked for other duties. I ask him for a Corona and he nods and says, “One of the usual for my man Crooch,” and reaches into the cooler, pops the top, and slides it my way.
“You okay, Sam?” I say as I sit on the stool next to Nico. “You look jumpy.”
“What?” he says, cuffs sweat from his thin mustache, and turns to straighten a towering stack of highball glasses that are already skyscraper straight.
Nico’s mumbling into the phone about somebody who skipped their payment yesterday, and my experienced guess is he’ll ask me to pay the guy a courtesy call when he hangs up.
My first sip of beer hits the spot so squarely the bottle stays suctioned to my lips ’til it’s half gone. This beer and the painkillers I gulped earlier have gangbanged my hangover numb, and I’m starting to feel pretty good.
Nico’s
Daily Racing Form
whispers to me from the bar top,
Leo, Leeeo
….
Still talking on the phone, Nico recognizes the hunger in my eyes and reluctantly nods for me to help myself. Nico hates it when people cadge his bets; with me, he tolerates it. There’s a nice adrenaline surge at the thought of taking his picks with me to Hollywood Park tonight to invest a little of the dough the old man gave me today. Then there’s the counterthought…
…which Nico interrupts by finally clicking off the phone and scribbling on his legal pad, probably writing down a name, an address or two, an amount. His next move should be to rip the note from the pad and slide it to me across the battle-scarred bar top. This he does without giving me as much as a sidelong glance. “Hey, Crooch, twist this hump’s balls, uh? He’s got a two-week miss workin’ that’ll turn into three Monday.”
This week I’d planned to tell Nico I was quitting, but this morning I promised the old man I’d wait before announcing it. I seriously doubt I’ll lift a finger to collect from this guy and hate to lead Nico on. In light of everything, though, I react to Nico’s order the way I always do. “Where’s he employed?”
Nico sips his screwdriver, lights a Salem cigarette, and clasps his hands before him as if in prayer. “He’s a car salesman that schleps for North Hollywood BMW.” His lips break into something you might call a smirk—which, for Nico, is tantamount to a belly laugh. “When he’s not spikin’ our smack and bangin’ our whores.” Nico gives me a little more contact information about the guy, then studies me from head to toe like he’s sizing me up for a new suit. He stares at the usual lineup of liquor bottles behind the bar, taking slow sips of his drink, and turning to me finally says, “Tell me the truth, Crooch. You doin’ okay?”
I drain my beer. “Why the hell would you ask me that?”
He shrugs his hands, his shoulders, stares at the liquor bottles again. “The reasons for my concern are too numerous and complex for me to fully express at this time.” He turns to me again. “At least some of it, though, has to do with Al Levitch.”
Al Levitch would be Macky’s chief of collections, a person I’ve had some unfortunate dealings with lately. “What does Levitch have to do with me?”
“She was in here earlier.”
“Al never comes in here.”
Yeah, that’s right—
she,
Al being short for Allesandra. Al is, shall we say, somewhat sexually confused, though all outward indications are she’s lesbian.
After a pause to take a sip of his screwdriver, he looks me in the eye, serious as a heart attack. “Well, my friend, she was in here today, lookin’ for you. She didn’t say what she wanted, but it had to be the markers you have with Macky. I’m hearin’ Macky and Al’ve been breakin’ a lot of wind over those markers, and pretty soon they might break a lot more than wind. You catch my drift?
The bartender walks from the door behind the bar, an old guy named Sam who’s been here forever. Word is that Sam worked the streets years ago but lost his nerve and asked for other duties. I ask him for a Corona and he nods and says, “One of the usual for my man Crooch,” and reaches into the cooler, pops the top, and slides it my way.
“You okay, Sam?” I say as I sit on the stool next to Nico. “You look jumpy.”
“What?” he says, cuffs sweat from his thin mustache, and turns to straighten a towering stack of highball glasses that are already skyscraper straight.
Nico’s mumbling into the phone about somebody who skipped their payment yesterday, and my experienced guess is he’ll ask me to pay the guy a courtesy call when he hangs up.
My first sip of beer hits the spot so squarely the bottle stays suctioned to my lips ’til it’s half gone. This beer and the painkillers I gulped earlier have gangbanged my hangover numb, and I’m starting to feel pretty good.
Nico’s
Daily Racing Form
whispers to me from the bar top,
Leo, Leeeo
….
Still talking on the phone, Nico recognizes the hunger in my eyes and reluctantly nods for me to help myself. Nico hates it when people cadge his bets; with me, he tolerates it. There’s a nice adrenaline surge at the thought of taking his picks with me to Hollywood Park tonight to invest a little of the dough the old man gave me today. Then there’s the counterthought…
…which Nico interrupts by finally clicking off the phone and scribbling on his legal pad, probably writing down a name, an address or two, an amount. His next move should be to rip the note from the pad and slide it to me across the battle-scarred bar top. This he does without giving me as much as a sidelong glance. “Hey, Crooch, twist this hump’s balls, uh? He’s got a two-week miss workin’ that’ll turn into three Monday.”
This week I’d planned to tell Nico I was quitting, but this morning I promised the old man I’d wait before announcing it. I seriously doubt I’ll lift a finger to collect from this guy and hate to lead Nico on. In light of everything, though, I react to Nico’s order the way I always do. “Where’s he employed?”
Nico sips his screwdriver, lights a Salem cigarette, and clasps his hands before him as if in prayer. “He’s a car salesman that schleps for North Hollywood BMW.” His lips break into something you might call a smirk—which, for Nico, is tantamount to a belly laugh. “When he’s not spikin’ our smack and bangin’ our whores.” Nico gives me a little more contact information about the guy, then studies me from head to toe like he’s sizing me up for a new suit. He stares at the usual lineup of liquor bottles behind the bar, taking slow sips of his drink, and turning to me finally says, “Tell me the truth, Crooch. You doin’ okay?”
I drain my beer. “Why the hell would you ask me that?”
He shrugs his hands, his shoulders, stares at the liquor bottles again. “The reasons for my concern are too numerous and complex for me to fully express at this time.” He turns to me again. “At least some of it, though, has to do with Al Levitch.”
Al Levitch would be Macky’s chief of collections, a person I’ve had some unfortunate dealings with lately. “What does Levitch have to do with me?”
“She was in here earlier.”
“Al never comes in here.”
Yeah, that’s right—
she,
Al being short for Allesandra. Al is, shall we say, somewhat sexually confused, though all outward indications are she’s lesbian.
After a pause to take a sip of his screwdriver, he looks me in the eye, serious as a heart attack. “Well, my friend, she was in here today, lookin’ for you. She didn’t say what she wanted, but it had to be the markers you have with Macky. I’m hearin’ Macky and Al’ve been breakin’ a lot of wind over those markers, and pretty soon they might break a lot more than wind. You catch my drift?
Similar Books
