Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [62]
A month ago, when she went national, gushing with Oprah about her abusive deadbeat exes, commiserating about the dearth of men capable of loving a strong woman, it was as if she were appealing directly to him, confessing her shyness, her hope that some such man would emerge from some unlikely place, as Nicky went on hiding in the shadows, his encounters limited to flybys as he hauled a bus tub to the kitchen. And yet, he has always maintained the belief that she could go for a low-life like him—or a nice guy with a shit job and no prospects. After all, her two husbands had been a hack disc jockey and some strapping clod stuck in the minors—not exactly high-class millionaires. In those brushes in the barroom, he swears he sensed a subtle leaning, a longing to shake these studio geeks and let loose.
“I see you all the time,” she says, the familiar voice electroshock silky in his ear. “I mean, where have I seen you?”
The majestic swoop of hair falls into view, elbow lands, a finger floats, and now she might as well be slipping into Nicky’s Inquisition Fizz.
“Yeah,” he says, dizzy, but not stupid-drunk enough to look up and give away his low-class identity too soon. Milk this moment to the end of heaven, he thinks. There’s a part of him—beyond his own shame—that wants to spare the girl her own embarrassing moment when she realizes he’s the busboy on his night off. Still, Stacy Fredericks walked over here on her own, Nicky reminds himself, just as Lester Dent barks, “We’re outta here, Stace,” hovering nearby. “You comin’?”
Nicky utters, “I see you all the time too,” and in a flash he can hear her glossy grin, smell the metallic glint of her silver-skull earrings, taste the waxy scent of this whole leather masquerade—just as he feels Lester Dent huffing and fleeing into the altered night.
“1-800-INJURED!” she blurts, and now it’s too late—he’s looking right at her, giving her the full view. “You are everywhere. Oh my God, every SEPTA bus—the billboard on 17th, near the studio.” She smiles, awaiting some confirmation, which Nicky is too stunned to offer. “Stacy Fredericks,” she introduces herself.
Nicky shakes her hand.
“You seem surprised. Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask you for free legal advice,” she says, beaming. “You must get that all the time.”
Nicky nods. “I’m not sure I’m the kind of lawyer you need.”
Her smile sinks.
“Sorry,” he says. “It was a compliment—a ridiculous one. I just mean you don’t appear to be injured.” There isn’t the slightest thing wrong with her physically. “You’re even more beautiful in person.”
He’s hit a soft spot, apparently—to think, a blushing anchorwoman. She seems genuinely moved, her hand fluttering at her brow, as if about to swoon.
“Are you okay?” Nicky says. He feels a rush of confidence. “Here, sit.”
“Just a little drunk, is all.”
Nicky offers Stacy the adjacent stool he’s been saving for himself, knowing he’ll have to evacuate the corner spot once Victor arrives—and, speak of the devil, here’s Victor now, an enormous beast of a man in an orange polo shirt, lumbering across the barroom, muttering to himself, it seems, until he adjusts what looks like the chrome husk of a locust in his ear and barks a familiar threat to one of his fourteen managers stationed throughout the city, each prepared for at least one such nightly call—and one such personal visit. Before Nicky can relinquish his seat, Victor is already bearing down on him, stabbing his thumb in the air, delivering his graceless eviction notice.
“Good boy,” Victor mutters to Nicky, his wad of keys spraying on the bar top. He reaches for the bulging back pocket of his madras pants and plants his sixteen-ounce wallet next to his BlackBerry, which his immense finger resumes pounding.
Heart in his throat, Nicky rotates and stands, now, over Stacy Fredericks, who doesn’t seem to have heard a thing, and in fact appears charmed by his spontaneous generosity. “A lawyer and a gentleman,” she says—the compliment penetrating like a poisoned arrow.