damned if he was going to turn his life over to the little despot. Maybe he had an attitude problem—as many had suggested—but at least he was staying sober.
The large group broke down into three smaller groups. Crow wound up with an ex-gang-banger named Jellybean, whom Crow had met before; an emaciated kid with a head full of proto-dreadlocks; the muumuu woman; and the rock-and-roller with the spiky hair. They all exchanged first names. The kid with the locks called himself Vince. The muumuu woman said her name was “Vogue, like the magazine.” The rock-and-roller’s name was Debrowski.
“Say what?” said Jellybean.
“Da- brow -ski,” said Debrowski. “Like the fucking magazine.” She had a nice voice, deep and clear.
Jellybean sat back. “Hey, it’s cool. Da. Bra. Ski. I got it.” He turned to Vince. “You got that, brotha?”
Vince muttered, “Hey, I just be bein’ here.”
Jellybean took another run at it. “Duh- bra -ski.”
“Close enough, Bean,” Debrowski said. She looked at Crow. “So what’s your story? I haven’t seen you here before.”
Crow said, “I don’t have a story.” At least not one he cared to share. A black-and-red button on Debrowski’s motorcycle jacket read Bitch + Attitude .
She raised her eyebrows. “Like hell,” she said. “So what do you do when you’re not hanging out with us losers? I bet you sell shoes or something. That what you do? I bet you used to get a snootful and sell those shoes like a demon. Used to be number one with a shoehorn, I bet.”
“That’s right,” said Crow. It didn’t pay to argue with some people. Obviously, this woman didn’t play by the rules. “I sell shoes. I’m this wizard with a shoehorn.”
Debrowski laughed.
Crow repressed a smile. Strangely enough, he liked her. At least she wasn’t moping around and feeling sorry for herself. He figured her for a newcomer, maybe on her third or fourth meeting. She would never make it past step one. He found himself wondering what she would be like with a few drinks in her.
Debrowski winked at him, as though she’d scanned his thoughts, then turned to the voluminous Vogue, whose large lips were knotted into something resembling the terminus of her digestive system.
“So what are you looking so pissed off about? You’re not the only one can’t go out and get fucked up tonight.”
Vogue glared.
Jellybean muttered, “No shit.”
Crow hid a smile. This was not going to be one of your peaceful gatherings, but it promised to be interesting.
V
Work ain’t about making money, son. It’s about spending time, and you only got so much of it you can afford to shell out.
—SAM O’GARA
S TANDING IN FRONT OF his dresser, David Getter centered his tie and snugged it up.
“Why do you have to go?” Mary Getter looked at his reflection in her vanity mirror. She was applying a layer of AromaVedic Restorative to her face, carefully spreading the oily cream over the fine lines at the corners of her eyes.
“I have to go introduce him to his new boss.”
“You have to be there for that? Joe can’t introduce himself?” She replaced the jar in its pyramid. As usual, she felt a comforting warmth as her fingers entered the twelve-inch-tall, open-sided copper structure. The pitch of its sides exactly matched that of the pyramid at Giza.
“It’ll be better if I’m there.”
“I don’t see why you have to go out there in this cold. It’s below zero.”
He shrugged into his suit coat. “It’s just over on the other side of the bay, Mary. I won’t be gone long.”
“I don’t see why you have to get all dressed up.”
“I always get dressed for business meetings.”
“This is business? I thought you were just doing Joe a favor.”
“A business favor.”
“And you have to be there?”
He slipped his wallet into his inside jacket pocket. “I want to be there.”
Mary watched her husband make a final check for lint on his shoulders and sleeves. She took a deep,
The large group broke down into three smaller groups. Crow wound up with an ex-gang-banger named Jellybean, whom Crow had met before; an emaciated kid with a head full of proto-dreadlocks; the muumuu woman; and the rock-and-roller with the spiky hair. They all exchanged first names. The kid with the locks called himself Vince. The muumuu woman said her name was “Vogue, like the magazine.” The rock-and-roller’s name was Debrowski.
“Say what?” said Jellybean.
“Da- brow -ski,” said Debrowski. “Like the fucking magazine.” She had a nice voice, deep and clear.
Jellybean sat back. “Hey, it’s cool. Da. Bra. Ski. I got it.” He turned to Vince. “You got that, brotha?”
Vince muttered, “Hey, I just be bein’ here.”
Jellybean took another run at it. “Duh- bra -ski.”
“Close enough, Bean,” Debrowski said. She looked at Crow. “So what’s your story? I haven’t seen you here before.”
Crow said, “I don’t have a story.” At least not one he cared to share. A black-and-red button on Debrowski’s motorcycle jacket read Bitch + Attitude .
She raised her eyebrows. “Like hell,” she said. “So what do you do when you’re not hanging out with us losers? I bet you sell shoes or something. That what you do? I bet you used to get a snootful and sell those shoes like a demon. Used to be number one with a shoehorn, I bet.”
“That’s right,” said Crow. It didn’t pay to argue with some people. Obviously, this woman didn’t play by the rules. “I sell shoes. I’m this wizard with a shoehorn.”
Debrowski laughed.
Crow repressed a smile. Strangely enough, he liked her. At least she wasn’t moping around and feeling sorry for herself. He figured her for a newcomer, maybe on her third or fourth meeting. She would never make it past step one. He found himself wondering what she would be like with a few drinks in her.
Debrowski winked at him, as though she’d scanned his thoughts, then turned to the voluminous Vogue, whose large lips were knotted into something resembling the terminus of her digestive system.
“So what are you looking so pissed off about? You’re not the only one can’t go out and get fucked up tonight.”
Vogue glared.
Jellybean muttered, “No shit.”
Crow hid a smile. This was not going to be one of your peaceful gatherings, but it promised to be interesting.
V
Work ain’t about making money, son. It’s about spending time, and you only got so much of it you can afford to shell out.
—SAM O’GARA
S TANDING IN FRONT OF his dresser, David Getter centered his tie and snugged it up.
“Why do you have to go?” Mary Getter looked at his reflection in her vanity mirror. She was applying a layer of AromaVedic Restorative to her face, carefully spreading the oily cream over the fine lines at the corners of her eyes.
“I have to go introduce him to his new boss.”
“You have to be there for that? Joe can’t introduce himself?” She replaced the jar in its pyramid. As usual, she felt a comforting warmth as her fingers entered the twelve-inch-tall, open-sided copper structure. The pitch of its sides exactly matched that of the pyramid at Giza.
“It’ll be better if I’m there.”
“I don’t see why you have to go out there in this cold. It’s below zero.”
He shrugged into his suit coat. “It’s just over on the other side of the bay, Mary. I won’t be gone long.”
“I don’t see why you have to get all dressed up.”
“I always get dressed for business meetings.”
“This is business? I thought you were just doing Joe a favor.”
“A business favor.”
“And you have to be there?”
He slipped his wallet into his inside jacket pocket. “I want to be there.”
Mary watched her husband make a final check for lint on his shoulders and sleeves. She took a deep,
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