“You were not. You were pretty wonderful, as I recall.” I know two guys who slept with her before I came along. Then she ran to Gwyneth. I’ve often wondered if I was so lousy in bed that I drove her to switch teams. I doubt it. I must say she has a good eye. I loathed Gwyneth, still do, but the woman could stop traffic on any street in town. And her current partner, Ava, once modeled lingerie for a local department store. I remember her ads in the Sunday newspaper.
The second drinks arrive and we grab them.
“If you want to talk about sex, I’m leaving,” she says, but she’s not angry.
“I’m sorry. Look, Judith, every time I see you I think about sex. My problem, not yours.”
“Get help.”
“I don’t need help. I need sex.”
“Are you propositioning me?”
“Would it do any good?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
“You have fights tonight?” she asks, changing the subject, and I don’t resist.
“I do.”
“You’re sick, you know. That’s such a brutal sport.”
“Starcher says he wants to go.”
“You take Starcher to the cage fights and you’ll never see him again.”
“Relax. I’m just joking.”
“You may be joking, but you’re still sick.”
“Thank you. Have another drink.” A shapely Asian in a short, tight skirt walks by and 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.
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.
