we both have a look. “Dibs,” I say.
The alcohol kicks in—it takes longer for her because she is naturally wound tighter—and Judith manages a grin, the first of the evening. Could be the first of the week. “Are you seeing anyone?” she asks, her tone noticeably softer.
“Not since we last met,” I say. “It’s been all work.” My last girlfriend said good-bye three years ago. I get lucky occasionally, but I’d be lying if I said I was on the prowl for a serious woman. There is a long, heavy gap in the conversation as we get bored. When we’re down to the last few drops of our drinks, we go back to Starcher and my mother and the next weekend that we both now dread.
We walk together out of the bar, dutifully peck each other on the cheek, and say good-bye. Another box checked off.
I loved her once, then I truly hated her. Now I almost like Judith, and if we can continue these monthly meetings, we might become friends. That’s my goal, because I really need a friend, one who can understand what I do and why I do it.
And it would be much better for our son, too.
7.
I live on the twenty-fifth floor of a downtown apartment building, with a partial view of the river. I like it up here because it’s quiet and safe. If someone wanted to bomb or burn my apartment, it would be difficult without taking down the entire building. There is some crime downtown, so we live with plenty of video surveillance and guards with guns. I feel secure.
They fired bullets into my old apartment, a duplex on the ground floor, and they firebombed my old office five years ago. “They” have never been found or identified, and I get the clear impression the cops aren’t looking that hard. As I said, my line of work inspires hatred and there are people out there who’d love to see me suffer. Some of these people hide behind badges.
The apartment has a thousand square feet, with two small bedrooms, an even smaller kitchen, seldom used, and a living area that’s barely big enough to hold my only substantial piece of furniture. I’m not sure a vintage pool table should be classified as furniture, but it’s my apartment and I’ll call it what I want. It’s nine feet long, regulation size, and was built in 1884 by the Oliver L. Briggs company in Boston. I won it in a lawsuit, had it perfectly restored and then carefully reassembled smack in the middle of my den. On an average day, or when I’m not away in cheap motels dodging death threats, I rack ’em up time after time and practice for hours. Shooting pool against myself is an escape, a stress reliever, and cheap therapy. It’s also a throwback to my high school days when I hung out at a place called The Rack, a real local dive that’s been around for decades. It’s an old-fashioned pool hall with rows of tables, layers of smoke, spittoons, cheap beer, some petty gambling, and a clientele that acts tough but knows how to behave. The owner, Curly, is an old friend who’s always there and keeps it running smoothly.
When the insomnia hits and my walls are closing in, I can often be found at The Rack at two in the morning playing nine ball alone, in another world and quite happy.
Not tonight, though. I glide into the apartment, floating on the whiskey, and quickly change into my fight clothes—jeans, a black T-shirt, and a bright, shiny yellow jacket that snaps at the waist, practically glows in the dark, and screams “Tadeo Zapate” across the back. I pull my slightly graying hair into a tight ponytail and stuff it under the T-shirt. I change glasses and select a pair rimmed in light blue. I adjust my cap—also a bright yellow that matches the jacket, with the name Zapate across the front. I feel sufficiently disguised and the evening should go well. Where I’m going the crowd is not interested in misfit lawyers. There will be a lot of thugs there, a lot of folks with legal troubles past, present, and future, but they’ll never notice me.
It’s another sad fact of
The alcohol kicks in—it takes longer for her because she is naturally wound tighter—and Judith manages a grin, the first of the evening. Could be the first of the week. “Are you seeing anyone?” she asks, her tone noticeably softer.
“Not since we last met,” I say. “It’s been all work.” My last girlfriend said good-bye three years ago. I get lucky occasionally, but I’d be lying if I said I was on the prowl for a serious woman. There is a long, heavy gap in the conversation as we get bored. When we’re down to the last few drops of our drinks, we go back to Starcher and my mother and the next weekend that we both now dread.
We walk together out of the bar, dutifully peck each other on the cheek, and say good-bye. Another box checked off.
I loved her once, then I truly hated her. Now I almost like Judith, and if we can continue these monthly meetings, we might become friends. That’s my goal, because I really need a friend, one who can understand what I do and why I do it.
And it would be much better for our son, too.
7.
I live on the twenty-fifth floor of a downtown apartment building, with a partial view of the river. I like it up here because it’s quiet and safe. If someone wanted to bomb or burn my apartment, it would be difficult without taking down the entire building. There is some crime downtown, so we live with plenty of video surveillance and guards with guns. I feel secure.
They fired bullets into my old apartment, a duplex on the ground floor, and they firebombed my old office five years ago. “They” have never been found or identified, and I get the clear impression the cops aren’t looking that hard. As I said, my line of work inspires hatred and there are people out there who’d love to see me suffer. Some of these people hide behind badges.
The apartment has a thousand square feet, with two small bedrooms, an even smaller kitchen, seldom used, and a living area that’s barely big enough to hold my only substantial piece of furniture. I’m not sure a vintage pool table should be classified as furniture, but it’s my apartment and I’ll call it what I want. It’s nine feet long, regulation size, and was built in 1884 by the Oliver L. Briggs company in Boston. I won it in a lawsuit, had it perfectly restored and then carefully reassembled smack in the middle of my den. On an average day, or when I’m not away in cheap motels dodging death threats, I rack ’em up time after time and practice for hours. Shooting pool against myself is an escape, a stress reliever, and cheap therapy. It’s also a throwback to my high school days when I hung out at a place called The Rack, a real local dive that’s been around for decades. It’s an old-fashioned pool hall with rows of tables, layers of smoke, spittoons, cheap beer, some petty gambling, and a clientele that acts tough but knows how to behave. The owner, Curly, is an old friend who’s always there and keeps it running smoothly.
When the insomnia hits and my walls are closing in, I can often be found at The Rack at two in the morning playing nine ball alone, in another world and quite happy.
Not tonight, though. I glide into the apartment, floating on the whiskey, and quickly change into my fight clothes—jeans, a black T-shirt, and a bright, shiny yellow jacket that snaps at the waist, practically glows in the dark, and screams “Tadeo Zapate” across the back. I pull my slightly graying hair into a tight ponytail and stuff it under the T-shirt. I change glasses and select a pair rimmed in light blue. I adjust my cap—also a bright yellow that matches the jacket, with the name Zapate across the front. I feel sufficiently disguised and the evening should go well. Where I’m going the crowd is not interested in misfit lawyers. There will be a lot of thugs there, a lot of folks with legal troubles past, present, and future, but they’ll never notice me.
It’s another sad fact of
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