He was seriously tiring of me, so I said,
“The River Inn, across the road, does a rather good lunch.”
I added the rather just to keep him off balance.
Some of the smile slithered back. He said,
“Capital.”
I mean, outside of Booker nominees, who talks like that?
He added,
“My treat.”
My cup fucking overfloweth.
A man brushed past me. I vaguely recognized him, a Down syndrome adult. I asked,
“How yah doing?”
He gave me a radiant smile, said,
“Wonderful, Mr. Tayor, thank you.”
Oh, God, if I’d only known, that brief encounter would feature large in what was to come. When I finally learned of the alley murder, I immediately thought of that lovely soul.
I just pray that I was as warm as he seemed to think I was. Gabriel was meanwhile moving fast and I had to hurry to catch up. The guy was a power walker and he stopped, noticing my limp, said,
“I do apologize Mr. Taylor; I’m accustomed to speed.”
Bollix.
I said, clenched teeth,
“Tell you what Gabe, you power on over there, grab the corner table and order up.
They do great bacon and cabbage.”
Like Mr. Perfect would ever eat such basic peasant food. He asked, smirk in place,
“And for you Mr. Tayor?”
“Pint and a Jay chaser, oh, and you call me Jack.”
His face ran a gamut of emotions, none of them exuding warmth.
He said,
“Righty-ho, see you anon.”
The fuck was this guy? Who on heaven’s earth spoke like that?
And he was gone.
Trailing coldness in his wake.
Whatever else I know, I knew bacon and cabbage wouldn’t be his.. . forte?
And I seriously doubted he watched True Blood.
I stopped outside the hospital, saw Gabe already disappearing into the River Inn, and reached into my jacket for my cigs. Yeah, yeah, I know,
“Smoking again.”
Rationing them, OK?
I cranked up my Zippo; it had the logo,
“Fifth of…”
And gulped down a lungful of Blue Superkings.
I moved over to the dismal smokers’ shed. It should have a sign proclaiming:
“Give me your huddled masses.”
A motley crew of: frazzled nurses, patients, I kid you not, trailing IVs, stunned relatives, and
Dr. Ravin.
I know my kin. For once I did the decent thing. I pretended not to see him. A man, my age, with a jaundiced pallor, on crutches, said,
“Hiya Jack.”
I did the Irish gambit, when you haven’t one flogging notion of who they are, said,
“Jesus! Haven’t seen you in ages.”
He moved closer to me. He had the scent of death on him, I know it from familiarity. He said,
“I’m Gerry Malloy.”
I didn’t ask,
“So how are you?”