The Fury - Jason Pinter [69]
had it they didn't so much as catch on, but an off-duty
detective saw a group of girls walk directly to the bar
once after finishing class on Friday.
The bar had been shut down, but underwent a classic
change in management, and now you'd be hard pressed
to find someone holding a glass who didn't take home
close to six figures. Neither Curt nor I pulled in
anywhere in the universe of that salary, but Curt enjoyed
it because, in his words, finance girls were workahol
ics in every aspect of their lives. They kept their minds
and their bodies sharp, and even though he seemed to
always be in a serious relationship--sometimes several
at once--he enjoyed having nice views at the bar. When
I asked him about it, his answer was simply that I wasn't
pretty enough to hold his attention through more than
one round of drinks.
I got to the bar before he did, took a seat and ordered
a Brooklyn Lager. The bartender, a tall, rail-thin guy
wearing a tight black T-shirt that ended right above his
veiny pelvic area, served it to me then recommenced
putting his elbows on the table and looking tortured.
The stools by the bar were never full here. It wasn't the
kind of place one went to for a quiet drink.
A few months ago I'd gone through a rough personal
patch. When Amanda and I were separated for a while.
Being apart from her led me to drink too much and seek
out my own solitude. Losing a part of your life can be
the most accurate barometer of what matters most. If
you love something, being apart from it will haunt you.
If it doesn't, it can't have mattered all that much to
begin with.
204
Jason Pinter
Being apart from Amanda was a miserable experi
ence. I slept at my desk at the Gazette. My personal
hygiene fell a rung below your average wino's. I
wondered if I was simply the kind of guy who always
needed to be in a relationship. Before Amanda, I'd been
with my previous girlfriend, Mya, for several years. We
also ended badly, and after suffering brutal injuries at
the hands of a maniac, she seemed fully recovered, her
life back on track. I was happy with Amanda, and I
knew the difference between a good and a bad relation
ship. Learning it had nearly killed me, but it was worth
it.
After waiting fifteen minutes and downing half my
beer, Curt strode into the bar. He was tall, black, in
great shape, though his recent sedentary work life had
softened the edges just a bit. He was wearing a dark shirt
made of some shiny fabric. Certainly not what he wore
on the job, unless the NYPD was far more fashionable
than I'd thought.
Though his posture was perfect and he betrayed no
sense of pain, there was still a slight limp evident in Curt's
walk. I remembered seeing him lying there in a pool of
blood, holding back the pain, unwilling to let anything get
over on him. It was as though he was disgusted at himself
for showing weakness, taking the maxim "never let them
see you bleed" quite literally. If he was limping at all, he
was probably in more pain and discomfort than he let on.
We shook hands, and Curt ordered a beer. The bar
tender poured it from the tap, eyeing Curt while letting
the foam pour over, a thin smile on his thin lips. Once
he'd set the glass down and moved away, I said to Curt,
"Now batting for the other team..."
The Fury
205
"Don't even start, Henry."
"What? That's a compliment. Any man who can
attract players from both dugouts is doing something
right. Besides, wearing that shirt, I wouldn't be sur
prised if a few new dugouts spring up."
"You know, Parker, I don't even know what the hell
you're talking about sometimes." Curt sipped his beer.
"How's the leg?" I asked, slightly apprehensive. It
would have been easier to ignore it, to pretend he'd
never been shot and there was nothing holding him
back. It would have been easier to sit here, drink and
carry on, pretend he wasn't limping.
"It's getting better," he said. "Takes a while for the
muscle strength to build up, since they had to slice
through some muscle to repair