like a burning and a freezing both at once.
âPuerto Rico?â They were outside again. âWe werenât talking about no Puerto Rico. We were talking about typing. You said Monk is typing?â
Slow grin. A shake of the head. âOkay,â Alex said, fishing around in his bag. âAfter I have a drink, we head up there. You can hear for yourself.â
The sun climbed higher. A piraguero planted his cart on a corner by the bus stop, his block of ice gleaming like a diamond. Youngsters clutching towels and a big red cooler rounded the corner to the subway. A pair of moms parked strollers under the bodega awning to have a chat, heads bumpy with curlers. Clack clack clack, a pounding machine sound interrupted only by that little DING and then the sharp carriage SNAP back to more clack clack. Hadnât even reached Monkâs floor but they could already hear the clatter batter. As they reached the door, a lull. A moment of quiet in the stairwell.
Alex pulled out the plastic pint of vodka. He uncapped it with a twist and took the first gulp. Shut his eyes a moment, almost breathless calm. Leaned up on the wall by Monkâs door. When he opened his eyes, he looked grateful.
âSunday mornings,â he said, âI get the shakes some. The sense of never-ending ñoña . Maybe the blurry-vision thing. After that first dose, I have to just be calm a moment. Wait for the brains to come back.â
He passed Mink the bottle. Mink waited. Would Monk hear them? Would he come to the door? Why that exciting sense that he was doing something wrong? Now he heard: another sheet of paper scrolled into the machine. Mink figured it must be that big gray Royal typewriter, that archaic paperweight that he noticed many times on top of the radiator in the living room. Monk must have moved it to the kitchen table for it to sound so loud. The typing began again, steady waves of clatter. It was action and speed, a solidly forward momentum.
Mink put bottle to lips. Took a deep swallow that burned a steaming path to his empty stomach. Bubbling lava. âRaindrops blasting hell on a tin roof,â he said.
âIâm waiting for a book,â Monk was always saying. On the stoop on the street by the coal-black bridge. âIâm waiting for a book.â Squinting into the distance. This clatter must be the sound of that big locomotive thundering into the station.
Alexâs eyes blank. Nodding slow like he heard a good riff. Mink stopped him from knocking. The typing slowed to a trickle.
âBut I thought youââ
âForget it,â Mink whispered. The typing picked up speed. It was a motorboat now, chugging away from dock. Monk was doing something, and Minkâstanding there like a peeping tomâwas doing nothing.
He passed the bottle back. A warm fuzzy spreading out from his chest. The typing. Heavy rain thumping against an umbrella.
âI was going to ask him,â Alex said, motioning with his head.
Mink slowly registered the words. âAsk him?â
âYou both. Youâre out on the street lots of the time when I come back from ⦠dates.â
âYes.â Mink felt like he was reminiscing. âWe all know about your crazy Saturday nights. We always place bets on whether youâll come home with a blonde or a brunette.â
âThatâs just what I wanted to ask him. Ask you. Did you happen to notice? Last night?â
âLast night?â
âYeah. What I came home with.â
Mink accepted the bottle. Two, three gulps of dazzling vodka burn. âI told you.â He passed it back. âMonk and I had a fight last night. We didnât get to the hangout part.â
Alex shut his eyes. Trying to recall. Answers on a test. âThere was this lesbian circus act,â he said. âA Puerto Rican woman named Lourdes and a black woman named Sharon.â
âSo whoah . There are two women in your crib right now?â
Alex