like civilized people, her hand softly moist in mine, her blue eyes shining.
“Nice move you put on that old man, Mr. Milodragovitch,” she said, not stumbling over the name. “But you didn’t learn that move in a bar.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Listen, my father, after he got hurt, ran a place over in Lake Charles, so I grew up in a bar,” she said, a Cajun lilt coming into her voice, “and I tended bar all the way through my undergraduate degree and then law school, so I know something about violence in bars. You popped that old man as if you were cutting a diamond. Any harder, you might have killed him. Any easier, he would have been fighting mad.” She raised her glass again. We drank deeply. I loved the warm burn of the whisky. Molly McBride reached across the bar to take the cigarettes and matches out of my shirt pocket. Her blood-red fingernails seemed to sparkle against my chest. “You’re a pro,” she added, lighting our cigarettes.
“Thanks,” I said, my burning cheeks bunched around a kid’s grin. “I spent some time in law enforcement,” I explained, “and I’ve been a private investigator for years, but the real truth is that most of what I know about violence I learned in bars.”
“Me, too,” she said, laughing through a cloud of smoke, then filling her mouth with Scotch, smiling with pleasure.
“Not too many young women drink single malt whisky,” I mentioned.
“Learned it from my Daddy, God rest his soul,” she said. “He always said that the only people who drank white whiskey were sissies or drunks, and the only people who drank bourbon were white trash chicken fuckers, con men, and counterfeit Confederate gentlemen, and —”
But before we could continue the conversation, a string of rental cars and the motel van deposited a gaggle of traveling men who had come in on the last flight and who always needed a drink or two after the inevitable rough landing at the Austin airport. I found myself wishing that they would go away, hoping that they would not drive Molly McBride back to her room, but she stayed at the bar, smoking my cigarettes and sipping Scotch until the nervous fliers cleared out, and I offered her a last drink since I usually closed at ten on Sunday nights.
“I’ve got a bottle of single cask Lagavulin in my room,” she said as she signed her check. “Two-fifteen,” she added, “if you’re interested.”
“I’ve got to check out, make the drop, and stock,” I apologized, “and I’m kind of involved.”
“Who isn’t?” she said, then smiled. “Let the day man stock. I don’t have to be in court until one o’clock, so let’s have a drink or two. And by the way, the ice machine on the second floor is on the blink.” Then she walked toward the door, her long legs elegant above high heels. At the doorway she paused to smile over her shoulder, saying, “Give me ten minutes…” Then disappeared down the hallway.
I quickly totaled the register, then covered the phony overage with unwashed cash from the safe in the kitchen, wrote Mike Herrera a note of apology for neither cleaning nor stocking, locked up the liquor, washed my hands, did two quick lines of the dead man’s coke, then went out the door with a bucket of ice under my arm, following Molly McBride quickly enough to catch the faint trace of lilac she trailed behind her.
Over the five marriages I’d never been particularly faithful. Or unfaithful, either. The whole question seemed theoretical and had nothing to do with the actual moment. Or the fact that marriage and the notion of fidelity had been invented when women could be bought for horses, cows, or in certain places sheep. The lies and the betrayal — that was the important part, the part that hurt forever.
Besides, maybe this woman just wanted a drink, some legal conversation, maybe even a soft and sad good night kiss to relieve the loneliness, but as I raised my fist to knock on her door, my guts shivered as if I were fourteen
“Nice move you put on that old man, Mr. Milodragovitch,” she said, not stumbling over the name. “But you didn’t learn that move in a bar.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Listen, my father, after he got hurt, ran a place over in Lake Charles, so I grew up in a bar,” she said, a Cajun lilt coming into her voice, “and I tended bar all the way through my undergraduate degree and then law school, so I know something about violence in bars. You popped that old man as if you were cutting a diamond. Any harder, you might have killed him. Any easier, he would have been fighting mad.” She raised her glass again. We drank deeply. I loved the warm burn of the whisky. Molly McBride reached across the bar to take the cigarettes and matches out of my shirt pocket. Her blood-red fingernails seemed to sparkle against my chest. “You’re a pro,” she added, lighting our cigarettes.
“Thanks,” I said, my burning cheeks bunched around a kid’s grin. “I spent some time in law enforcement,” I explained, “and I’ve been a private investigator for years, but the real truth is that most of what I know about violence I learned in bars.”
“Me, too,” she said, laughing through a cloud of smoke, then filling her mouth with Scotch, smiling with pleasure.
“Not too many young women drink single malt whisky,” I mentioned.
“Learned it from my Daddy, God rest his soul,” she said. “He always said that the only people who drank white whiskey were sissies or drunks, and the only people who drank bourbon were white trash chicken fuckers, con men, and counterfeit Confederate gentlemen, and —”
But before we could continue the conversation, a string of rental cars and the motel van deposited a gaggle of traveling men who had come in on the last flight and who always needed a drink or two after the inevitable rough landing at the Austin airport. I found myself wishing that they would go away, hoping that they would not drive Molly McBride back to her room, but she stayed at the bar, smoking my cigarettes and sipping Scotch until the nervous fliers cleared out, and I offered her a last drink since I usually closed at ten on Sunday nights.
“I’ve got a bottle of single cask Lagavulin in my room,” she said as she signed her check. “Two-fifteen,” she added, “if you’re interested.”
“I’ve got to check out, make the drop, and stock,” I apologized, “and I’m kind of involved.”
“Who isn’t?” she said, then smiled. “Let the day man stock. I don’t have to be in court until one o’clock, so let’s have a drink or two. And by the way, the ice machine on the second floor is on the blink.” Then she walked toward the door, her long legs elegant above high heels. At the doorway she paused to smile over her shoulder, saying, “Give me ten minutes…” Then disappeared down the hallway.
I quickly totaled the register, then covered the phony overage with unwashed cash from the safe in the kitchen, wrote Mike Herrera a note of apology for neither cleaning nor stocking, locked up the liquor, washed my hands, did two quick lines of the dead man’s coke, then went out the door with a bucket of ice under my arm, following Molly McBride quickly enough to catch the faint trace of lilac she trailed behind her.
Over the five marriages I’d never been particularly faithful. Or unfaithful, either. The whole question seemed theoretical and had nothing to do with the actual moment. Or the fact that marriage and the notion of fidelity had been invented when women could be bought for horses, cows, or in certain places sheep. The lies and the betrayal — that was the important part, the part that hurt forever.
Besides, maybe this woman just wanted a drink, some legal conversation, maybe even a soft and sad good night kiss to relieve the loneliness, but as I raised my fist to knock on her door, my guts shivered as if I were fourteen
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