Monday Night Man by Grant Buday Page B

father?”
    Joy brings the double vodka.
    Marie drinks back half, then crunches up a piece of ice.
    â€œI see you and your old man got one thing in common.”
    Marie stops chewing, gulps back the rest of her double, then stands. Behind her, Shack makes cross-eyes at her bum. “Oh, we got a lot more in common than that.” She speaks in a mock high voice. “Don’t we, Daddy?” She wraps her arm around Skinny’s shoulders, and, with her free hand, gives his crotch a good firm squeeze right there in front of everyone.
    Skinny stands on the sidewalk in front of the Empress looking up. The nine o’clock gun has just gone off. Straight overhead the sky is black as a bruise. A plane passes, lights blinking.
    Horst joins Skinny. “Well, you won your bet.”
    â€œI showed her.”
    â€œYou did.”
    Skinny says, “You ever been in an airplane?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œMy daughter’s a stewardess. Did I tell you that?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWell she is.”

IF HORST HAD a choice, he’d have a daughter rather than a son. He wondered what a female version of himself would look like. It was a scary thought. Even more frightening though is that he’d love her so much he couldn’t bear it. What if she looked at him with those child eyes, what if she fell asleep on his chest, what if she cried, or called “Dad” in her sleep? It brought tears to his eyes even to think about it. He’d follow her around with a gun to protect her. And if something did happen, he’d have to kill himself. It would be the only way he could survive.
    Kids. Horst envied the absolute confidence of their inexperience. Knowledge isn’t power, just like talking things over never helps. Experience means fear. No. Give Horst the bliss of ignorance any day.

THE YOUNG
AND THE
OLD
    H orst broods like an old cod in the weed-choked fish-bowl of Wally’s front window. The massive philoden-dron has overgrown the window and ceiling, the whole huge plant trailing back down to one withered stem root-bound in a gallon paint can. Horst stares at it.
    â€œWhy don’t you repot this bugger?”
    Wally Wong swats a fly above Horst’s head with a rolled Racing Form. The fly joins the other black scabs on the wall. Wally spreads his form on Horst’s table and leans on his fists. “Go to the track?”
    â€œWent swimming.”
    â€œSwimming?” Wally snorts and shakes his head.
    â€œThey swim in Hong Kong, Wally?”
    Wally sucks his teeth. “Only people swim in Hong Kong are fish.”
    Horst is too broke to go to the track. He went swimming at Britannia, because Saturday afternoon it’s free. Him and five thousand screaming kids. Horst is out of work again, and hasn’t slept a full night in weeks; some guy from Toronto moved in upstairs and he snores.
    Stewart Gull steps into the cafe and holds the door open for Ray Bunce, who announces that it’s time for rice.
    â€œRice?” Wally stares. “Got no rice. Got veal cutlet. You win?”
    Bunce shakes his head. “Took a pounding.”
    â€œYou bullshit. Just don’t wanna leave tip.”
    Gull grins at Bunce’s cleverness.
    Wally says, “Who win triactor?”
    â€œIt was three-two-five,” says Gull.
    â€œThree? Who three?”
    Gull shrugs.
    Horst slaps the table. “Look at this guy. What the hell good is that? You don’t even know the names of the horses!”
    Gull stares in stung silence. He’s twenty-two, skinny as a bike, and wears a fedora and suit coat, playing like he’s some old-time gambler. Gull doesn’t even know how to read the Racing Form, but he’s always hanging around, talking closers and front speed.
    Gull bugs Horst. For one thing, Gull’s always telling Horst things he already knows. Worse, Gull seems to like Horst.
    Boyle Rupp has come in too, but is keeping strangely quiet. He’s trying to