Moondogs - Alexander Yates [96]
The meal was awkward. Bobby was already very drunk, and he got drunker at a pace that neither of them cared to match. He toasted to them both, first individually and then as a pair. He toasted to the shirtless boys who came by to light beachside torches anchored deep in the rocky sand. He toasted to Charlie Fuentes, and to his alter ego, the real Ocampo. And he toasted Howard, “Wherever he might be.” Torchlight flickered wickedly over his divided face. One of the boys returned to the table to say that, while they did have more beer to offer, it was all warm. Katrina suggested this was a sign that Bobby should go to bed.
“Nonsense,” he said, waving her off. “This is a problem that I have a solution for. I am a man of solutions. I am a solver.” He brought his empty beer to his lips and then, remembering it was empty, set it back on the table. “In my room. In my duffel bag which is in my room …” he paused. “I have a fifth of rye.”
“I think you’ve had enough,” Katrina said.
“You, my love, should talk.” He got up and left the restaurant, walking across the sand toward the guest bungalows. After getting about twenty yards away he stopped and pitched forward a bit, nearly stumbling. They all seemed to realize at the same moment that he didn’t have his cane.
“I’m not bringing it to you,” she called, her voice carrying over broken shells. “If you’re going to use it to get more booze, I’m not helping.”
“Do I need help? I do not. I have the reflexes of a dancer,” Bobby shouted. “Onward.” But he didn’t go on, or come back. He stood for a long time in that spot. Then he sat and faced the water.
“He’s stubborn,” Katrina said in a low voice. “He’ll stay there until he falls asleep, likely.” Then she put her fingers around Benicio’s wrist, as she had been doing since the night before, when they’d met in his father’s restaurant. Could it really have been just the night before? “I’m going down to the water,” she said. “You should come with me.”
Benicio couldn’t escape the feeling that he’d already lost. Even if he didn’t do it, he really, really wanted to. “I think I’ll keep an eye on Bobby,” he managed. Katrina lingered at the table for a moment, still holding his wrist. Then she let it go and walked down to the shore, in the opposite direction that Bobby had gone. Benicio watched her fade to nothing in the torchlight. He picked up Bobby’s cane and went to sit beside him in the coarse sand.
“Hey,” Bobby said, “you want the key to my room?” He jingled it in the dark space between them. “The fifth is almost full.”
“I’m not getting it,” Benicio said. “You shouldn’t, either.”
“I shouldn’t,” Bobby agreed. “I should not.” He took his cane and worked it into the sand. A little mound rose above it, like the mounds of earth above Bugs Bunny when he tunnels somewhere. Benicio heard a noise behind them and turned. The shirtless boys were back there, watching from amid the palm trunks that caught the last traces of torchlight like a sieve. They stared back at him fearlessly, delightedly, before returning to the main bungalow at a fast walk.
Benicio turned back around and found Bobby’s face and mouth closer than they should have been. There was weight on his chest and dry, soft gauze against his cheek. He made sure not to push him away too hard, for fear of hurting him.
“I’m sorry,” Benicio said.
“What for?” Bobby rubbed the back of his hand over his lower lip. There was spit and sand on it.
“I didn’t