A Drink Before the War Read Online Free PDF Page A

cheekbone. Van Morrison was singing about “crazy love” on the boom box behind me, and we sat in the cramped office, staring at each other in the afterglow of the heavy Chinese food and the humid day and the satisfaction of knowing where our next paycheck was coming from. She smiled, a slightly embarrassed one, but didn’t look away, and begantapping that pencil lightly against the chipped tooth again.
    I let the stillness settle between us for a good five minutes before I said, “Come home with me.”
    She shook her head, still smiling, and swiveled the chair slightly.
    â€œCome on. We’ll watch a little TV, chat about old times—”
    â€œThere’s a bed in this story somewhere. I know it.”
    â€œOnly as a place to sleep. We’ll lie down and…talk.”
    She laughed. “Uh-huh. And what about all those lovely young things who tend to camp out on your doorstep and tie up your phone?”
    â€œWho?” I asked innocently.
    â€œWho,” she said. “Donna, Beth, Kelly, that chick with the ass, Lauren—”
    â€œThat chick with the ass , excuse me?”
    â€œYou know the one. The Italian girl. The one who goes”—her voice rose about two octaves—“‘Oooooh, Patrick, can we take a bubble bath now? Hee!’ That one.”
    â€œGina.”
    She nodded. “Gi-na. That’s the one.”
    â€œI’ll give them all up for one night with—”
    â€œI know that, Patrick. I hope you don’t think that’s something to be proud of.”
    â€œWell, gee, Mom…”
    She smiled. “Patrick, the major reason you think you’re in love with me is because you’ve never seen me naked—”
    â€œIn—”
    â€œIn thirteen years,” she said hurriedly, “and we both agreed that was forgotten. Besides, thirteen years is a lifetime to you where a woman is concerned.”
    â€œYou say it like it’s a bad thing.”
    She rolled her eyes at me. “So,” she said, “what’s on tomorrow’s agenda?”
    I shrugged, drank some beer from the can. Summer was definitely here; it tasted like tea. Van had finished singingabout “crazy love,” and was heading “into the mystic.” I said, “I guess we wait for Billy to call, call him at noon if he doesn’t.”
    â€œSounds almost like a plan.” She drained her beer, made a face at the can. “Any more cold ones?” I reached into my wastebasket, which was doubling as a cooler, tossed a can to her. She cracked it, took a sip. “What do we do when we find Mrs. Angeline?”
    â€œHaven’t a clue. Play it by ear.”
    â€œYou’re such a professional at this.”
    I nodded. “That’s why they let me carry a gun.”
    She saw him before I did. His shadow fell across the floor, crept up the right side of her face. Phil. The Asshole.
    I hadn’t seen him since I hospitalized him three years ago. He looked better than he had then—lying on the floor holding his ribs, coughing blood onto a sawdust floor—but he still looked like an asshole. He had a hell of a scar beside his left eye, compliments of that sensible pool stick. I’m not sure, but I think I beamed when I noticed.
    He wouldn’t look at me. He looked at her. “I’ve been downstairs honking for the last ten minutes, hon’. You didn’t hear me?”
    â€œIt was pretty noisy outside, and…” She pointed at the boom box, but Phil chose not to look at it because that would have meant looking at me.
    He said, “Ready to go?”
    She nodded and stood. She drained the beer in one long swallow. That didn’t seem to make Phil’s day. Probably made it worse when she flipped the can airborne in my direction and I tapped it into the wastebasket.
    â€œTwo points,” she said, coming around the desk. “See you tomorrow, Skid.”
    â€œSee