A Cure for Night Read Online Free PDF Page B

ten?"
    "Fine," I said, trying not to think about the hours I'd have to kill in the meantime, trying instead just to focus on the fact that I had carved some order into my night.
"Sure. Meet at Blue Ribbon, get the Black Angus for two?"
    Paul laughed. "You can't afford Blue Ribbon anymore," he said.
    "You're right," I said. "Steak's on you."
    BLUE RIBBON Brooklyn was on Fifth Avenue in Park Slope, walking distance from my apartment on Bergen. I'd gone home first, changed out of my suit. I was still living in the apartment I'd rented back when I made a corporate lawyer's salary, a spacious one-bedroom with exposed brick walls and a marble fireplace that no longer worked. It was an irony of the New York real estate market that it was financially easier to stay in an apartment that I couldn't afford than it was to pay the broker's fee and moving costs to go somewhere cheaper. I'd had nearly a hundred grand invested and saved when I'd left the firm; much of that money was gone now, and more drained out with each passing month that I lived beyond my present means.
    Even though I arrived at the restaurant a few minutes late, Paul wasn't there yet, which wasn't a surprise: he was usually late, just as I had been when I'd worked at Walker Bentley.
    I ordered a martini, up with olives, and settled in at the bar to wait. The restaurant was crowded, loud; even the bar was full. Paul came bustling in ten minutes later, wearing a suit but no tie, making his way easily through the packed room. He was tall and thin, with carefully sculpted hair, the first faint signs of encroaching age starting to show on the outskirts of his face. He apologized for being late in the offhand manner of someone who always was.
    "I do miss this," I said after we'd been seated and ordered our dinner.
    "Miss what?" Paul said.
    I gestured out at the restaurant, filled with well-dressed, attractive people eating expensive food.
"The money," I said with a laugh.
    "Don't worry about the bill—pay whatever you can afford; I'll
cover the rest."
    "I appreciate that," I said. "But I don't like it. I mean, in the
sense that I don't like not being able to pull my end."
    "We're friends and it's money," Paul said. "So who gives a fuck?
At least you get to do something sexy. I've been practicing for over five years
and I've spoken in court one time. That's when they sent me to a status
conference to inform the court that we were not opposing the other side's motion
for an extension of time. I can quote my entire speech: 'Your Honor, the
defendant has no objection.' "
    "Trust me," I said. "What I've been doing for the past six months
has not been sexy."
    "You get to hang out in court all day," Paul said. "Like the
lawyers on TV."
    "That's where the similarity ends," I assured him.
    Paul raised his glass in a toast. "So, more important,
congratulations on your new case. Skipping all the way to murder—you can't tell
me that's not sexy."
    "The murder isn't really my case—another lawyer's going to be the
first chair. I'm just there to do research, that sort of thing—I assume, anyway.
I'm going to be handling misdemeanors with most of my time—minor stuff, really."
    "Fuck it, it's still sexy. All crime is sexy. I mean, you know the
kind of shit I do all day. If I'm not careful, I'm going to officially become an
antitrust lawyer. I can't even figure out my own taxes."
    "You always seemed to like it okay," I said. "You always seemed to
like it more than I did, anyway."
    "More than you did isn't too hard to pull off, pal," Paul said.
"But it does get empty. You know, the 'is that all there is' blues. Lately I've
been seriously thinking of going back to church."
    "
Back
to church?"
    "When I was a kid I went to church," Paul said. "I wore a clip-on
tie, went with my folks."
    "And why are you thinking of going back?"
    "I don't know," Paul said. "I want to be better."
    "You're going to start going to church to get help being better?"
    "That's what church is all