Manhattan Noir - Lawrence Block [65]
When Maureen reappeared she was glowing. Freshly made-up, she flashed an enigmatic smile. Bar stool to bar stool, torso to torso, she and Vitorio exchanged breathy whispers and biting kisses.
Abruptly Vitorio left. Maureen’s face fell and I thought she was going to cry. I talked her out of another drink and walked her to Broadway, where I watched her board the east-bound bus. Was I hoping she would invite me home for a drink? Would my answer have been yes or no?
She didn’t ask. I grabbed a cab to my place on Central Park West, ate a grilled ham and cheese, and watched a movie on TV.
During the following week while I made acting rounds, I asked some friends about Vitorio. Word was that he lifted weights and fucked anything that moved. His other favorite pastime was getting into barroom brawls. Enough outlet for anyone’s testosterone. You’d think.
I ran into Vitorio when I stopped at Actor’s Equity on 46th Street to relax in the lounge. Flashing that smirk, he bitched about Maureen calling him all the time. I was angry but I’m no tough guy, so I didn’t confront him. I simply walked away as fast as I could.
Friday, Maureen called me again about having drinks at the Bull.
I could hear the wind blowing through the park. It was supposed to rain. I’d ordered Chinese takeout and there was good stuff on TV.
But Maureen sounded so desperate. And I enjoyed going out drinking with an attractive woman other than Louise.
And something could happen. “Okay. See you there about 8:00.”
“I went down on the son of a bitch!” she yelled before I could hang up. “And he walks out on me like that. What a jerk I am.”
My mind buzzed with words like dignity and self-esteem and self-respect, but I didn’t say any of them. I listened to more ranting until we finally said goodbye. I was sure she’d been going to bed sucking on a bottle every night.
The calendar said September. The wind told me December. No rain yet, but the night wasn’t over.
So there we were. She was hoping for déjà vu to happen in the Bucking Bull––that some guy or the same guy would show up. It was a fair bet that she’d buried the degradation down deep.
The Bucking Bull is a steak house with a small bar. The decor is a cliché of snorting bulls and brave toreros in tight yellow outfits and funny black hats, at the ready with red capes in one hand and raised swords poised to strike in the other.
This night the bar was almost as cold as outdoors. I ordered black coffee and a double Courvoisier. On the music machine Wynton Marsalis was blowing the blues.
I had successfully quit smoking the year before. But since Maureen met Vitorio I’d started again. I lit up, chased my booze with coffee, and puffed my cigarette, trying to form smoke rings while Clive made faces at me. It was illegal to smoke in the bar. That was the routine while I waited. Smoking and drinking and breaking Clive’s chops.
Finally, Maureen raced in. She was wearing a shiny low-cut dress. Blue. It looked good with her pale skin and red hair. “Hey, pal,” she said, pressing her cheek against mine, dropping a blue sequined purse on the bar, and draping a small blue cape on the stool next to me. The cold didn’t seem to bother her.
That’s when I noticed her split lip. The kind you get when someone smacks you. Hard.
I thought about asking what had happened but didn’t. In spite of her battle scars she was still gorgeous, acting as if the world was her oyster. She pushed a bunch of quarters into the machine and danced over to me before the Latin music even began.
“Working?”
She nodded. Her right hand mimed holding a tray. Like many Broadway gypsies, she kept body and soul together waiting tables. She showed Clive an index finger.
“One Chivas Regal,” Clive said, pouring and delivering a double along with a bowl full of cashews.
Maureen tossed her drink down and rapped the bar with the heavy empty glass. Clive obliged with another double.
She had a long svelte body, and though she’d gotten too skinny for my taste, she was still a looker. She was also very screwed up.
One of my