Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [64]
Stacy is grinning, anticipating the jackpot finish. Nicky wishes that there were more to the story—or that he could remember the rest of it. He remembers Chris explaining how the Amish collected the money from the community, how, when Chris asked why they didn’t buy insurance, the old Amish guy told him, We believe in two things: God and each other.
“So did you win?”
“Yeah,” he blurts, takes a deep breath. “Five hundred thousand dollars.”
The bluish face of Nicky’s phone lights up a third time.
“Someone’s trying to track you down,” Stacy says.
“My brother,” Nicky says, shaking his head. He turns the phone over.
“You have a brother?”
Nicky goes silent, his thoughts tangled.
“Older or younger?” She’s nearly finished the drink. She offers him the rest before polishing it off.
“Younger.”
“Is he as cute as you?”
Behind her, Victor Gold sets his glass down. The drone of his furious rattle goes on. Stacy seems suddenly flushed again, perhaps embarrassed for her compliment, which has gone unanswered. Nicky wants to say something, but he’s lost in the space of her exposed neck, pinkish in the shadow of her flared collar.
“Is everything all right?” she says.
“Of course, no, it’s fine,” he stutters. “My brother, that’s all. He’s, uh, he’s a bit of a fuckhead. Good-looking, yes, cute, handsome as hell, actually, but a fuckhead. He calls a lot—or I call him, check in on him a lot, make sure he’s not doing anything stupid.” He can hear his brother’s sympathetic voice in his own, and he chokes up. “A man needs to move forward in life. He doesn’t get it.”
“I’m sorry. You want to call him back? I don’t mind—”
“No, no. He’s just—it’s hard to explain—or, it’s actually kind of easy to explain. He smokes a lot of weed and has a shitty job. That’s his life. He wasn’t always that way. He was a good kid, smart. He could have been whatever he wanted. And then my mom died, and then a few years ago my dad shot himself. And he just stopped. And started being a fuckhead. I’m afraid, you know …”
Victor Gold hisses, “Fucking shit,” as he rises from his stool and heads for the kitchen, his shoulder brushing Nicky’s.
Stacy says, “I’m so sorry,” and bows her head into her hand. Nicky is surprised by this sudden display of pity. She reaches for his elbow, offers her tenderness, which is not for him, Nicky understands, but for Chris, who must endure the burden of this faceless brother.
Nicky contemplates the empty stool, the brazenly discarded items on the bar.
He wants to fly from his body. He doesn’t want to be Chris or Victor—just anyone but himself, anyone but the fucked-up son of the ultimate fuck-up.
“You want to go?” he says.
She takes his arm and the moment they hit the sidewalk takes his face into her hands. “I’m so, so sorry,” she says.
“Fuck it,” he mumbles to himself, just as he spots the yellow car whose insides glow when he presses the button on the key he’s aiming toward the street, the silver bunch jangling.
On cue, she turns. “Is that your Maserati?”
They drift toward the brightness under the canopy of birches across the street.
“You have to let me drive,” she says, beaming now.
With a last glance back, he says, “Why not?”
Inside, he imagines the two of them united on a mission to create some new future for themselves. Her smile grows increasingly luminescent, as if draining the light from the overhead lamp. They are ensconced in black leather. As she feels for the ignition, he taps his foot, glares out the window. He flicks open the glove compartment to find the mother lode of dope, rolling papers and all, sealed in a Ziploc bag. At first he doesn’t recognize the blunt silver barrel of a gun, until he reaches for the