Arany.
     "Take your pick. I'm not sure about their teeth, though."
     Arany looks confused for a second, then begins to laugh. He shakes his head and hands over the twenty. "You win."
     The bartender takes the note and studies it like he's never seen one before. He suddenly grins at Arany, but instead of making the man more appealing, the smile actually detracts from his looks. His teeth are uglier than Gladys Ferrow's.
     "You'd probably do better in the Rumball. Five blocks down and to the right."
     The money disappearsâand so does the smile.
     "But I'd watch out if I was you. That hole doesn't have the kind of family atmosphere you find here."
     Arany drives by the Rumball once without slowing down, because he isn't sure where he is. The second time around he rolls past slowly, watching the whores, pimps, drunks, drug addicts and other characters on this crowded and uninviting block.
     On his third lap he parks across the street from the bar. He doesn't feel like going in. He feels like smoking. He lights a cigarette, the second one today, rolls the window down a couple of inches and blows the smoke through the crack.
     Dusk is settling on the city, and it's dark enough to make the Rumball's neon light stand out: A pink outline of a nude woman lying on her side; then the sign blinks, the outline changes and the woman is leaning against her elbow, half propped up, and winking an eye.
     Arany blows smoke toward the neon woman through the opening of the window. He is seized again by a strange weakness. He feels giddy and sees the neon woman quivering. He runs his hand across his forehead. He thinks the neon girl smiled at him. Then he sees Celia. He sees her face. He sees her long thighs, or the way he's imagined them God knows how many times while looking at her thick, conservative skirts. Dr. Allesandro, the woman who loves her aging husband, who loves a genius.
     He staggers as he gets out and has to lean against the car for a moment to get himself straight. I'll get a shot tomorrow he thinks, and just thinking about it makes him feel calmer. He walks toward the entrance of the club and is confronted by a hefty young bouncer wearing a blazer and a turtleneck. The man's hair is cropped short, which makes his head look like it comes to a point. He stands with his feet far apart, his hands hanging at his sides and his broad shoulders in the relaxed posture of an experienced fighter.
     Arany imagines himself giving this man a vicious kick to the groin. He remembers from his lessons at the Academy that this move is more difficult than most people think, so he has never been tempted to try it. He has to be careful to not telegraph his intentions, even with his eyes. Then he wonders why he was so eager to kick the man and tries to calm himself.
     He forces his feet to stay still, only moving one hand to flash his badge. "I'm looking for a guy," he says.
     "He's not here."
     Arany feels the urge to kick growing stronger. "His name is Ferrow. One ear is missing."
     "Sorry, friend. We don't let anybody in with only one ear. A house rule, you know."
     Shadows move behind Arany. And he kicks. He kicks with a practiced, sly motion, his instep striking the bouncer's groin with brutal effectiveness. Without waiting for the bouncer's reaction, Arany spins around. The gun is in his hand, as if thrown there by the centrifugal force of his turning body. Arany is now facing two other pumped-up young giants. They stand there, staring at the weapon as if they'd seen one before.
     The bouncer who was now half behind and half to the right of Arany hasn't moved. Arany is wondering if the kick had been too
     "Take your pick. I'm not sure about their teeth, though."
     Arany looks confused for a second, then begins to laugh. He shakes his head and hands over the twenty. "You win."
     The bartender takes the note and studies it like he's never seen one before. He suddenly grins at Arany, but instead of making the man more appealing, the smile actually detracts from his looks. His teeth are uglier than Gladys Ferrow's.
     "You'd probably do better in the Rumball. Five blocks down and to the right."
     The money disappearsâand so does the smile.
     "But I'd watch out if I was you. That hole doesn't have the kind of family atmosphere you find here."
     Arany drives by the Rumball once without slowing down, because he isn't sure where he is. The second time around he rolls past slowly, watching the whores, pimps, drunks, drug addicts and other characters on this crowded and uninviting block.
     On his third lap he parks across the street from the bar. He doesn't feel like going in. He feels like smoking. He lights a cigarette, the second one today, rolls the window down a couple of inches and blows the smoke through the crack.
     Dusk is settling on the city, and it's dark enough to make the Rumball's neon light stand out: A pink outline of a nude woman lying on her side; then the sign blinks, the outline changes and the woman is leaning against her elbow, half propped up, and winking an eye.
     Arany blows smoke toward the neon woman through the opening of the window. He is seized again by a strange weakness. He feels giddy and sees the neon woman quivering. He runs his hand across his forehead. He thinks the neon girl smiled at him. Then he sees Celia. He sees her face. He sees her long thighs, or the way he's imagined them God knows how many times while looking at her thick, conservative skirts. Dr. Allesandro, the woman who loves her aging husband, who loves a genius.
     He staggers as he gets out and has to lean against the car for a moment to get himself straight. I'll get a shot tomorrow he thinks, and just thinking about it makes him feel calmer. He walks toward the entrance of the club and is confronted by a hefty young bouncer wearing a blazer and a turtleneck. The man's hair is cropped short, which makes his head look like it comes to a point. He stands with his feet far apart, his hands hanging at his sides and his broad shoulders in the relaxed posture of an experienced fighter.
     Arany imagines himself giving this man a vicious kick to the groin. He remembers from his lessons at the Academy that this move is more difficult than most people think, so he has never been tempted to try it. He has to be careful to not telegraph his intentions, even with his eyes. Then he wonders why he was so eager to kick the man and tries to calm himself.
     He forces his feet to stay still, only moving one hand to flash his badge. "I'm looking for a guy," he says.
     "He's not here."
     Arany feels the urge to kick growing stronger. "His name is Ferrow. One ear is missing."
     "Sorry, friend. We don't let anybody in with only one ear. A house rule, you know."
     Shadows move behind Arany. And he kicks. He kicks with a practiced, sly motion, his instep striking the bouncer's groin with brutal effectiveness. Without waiting for the bouncer's reaction, Arany spins around. The gun is in his hand, as if thrown there by the centrifugal force of his turning body. Arany is now facing two other pumped-up young giants. They stand there, staring at the weapon as if they'd seen one before.
     The bouncer who was now half behind and half to the right of Arany hasn't moved. Arany is wondering if the kick had been too
Similar Books
The Heavenly Host (Demons of Astlan Book 2)
J. Langland
Heat of Night
Harry Whittington
I Said Yes to Everything: A Memoir
Lee Grant
Faustina and the Barbarians
John McKeown
"H" Is for Homicide
Sue Grafton
Red Red Wine (Tastes of Seduction)
Jess Dee
Jackie's Boys
Bekki Lynn
The Dirty Dust
Máirtín Ó Cadhain
Killing Me Softly
Marjorie Eccles
The Daisy Picker
Roisin Meaney