Shivers (13 page)

She lived near the Flushing subway line, but it was useless to her tonight. If she took the train she would have to spend two hours in the subway system switching from line to line until she reached her destination. It would be much simpler just to take a bus to Jamaica Avenue. She could walk the rest of the way.

She arrived at the corner just as the bus pulled in. She stepped inside, paid her fare, and sat way in the rear where she could sit and watch the rest of the riders. She hated being up front where everyone could stare at her. She was afraid someone might recognize who she was—had been—and start an embarrassing fuss. As it was, she assumed every whisper she heard was some comment being made behind her back.

The bus was crowded and it took forever to make its way across Queens. She knew there had to be pretty residential neighborhoods in the borough, but they didn’t pass through any. All she saw were flat brick buildings, garages, little brown children hanging out on stoops and in alleys. Every block seemed to have a small superette in which hungry people rushed about from shelf to shelf, anxious to get home before they missed their favorite TV shows.
Face it, Lina. You’re one of
them
now. One of the little people.
She kept glancing at the slip of paper with the address, trying to memorize the words so she’d not have to look again. Too nervous. She couldn’t do it.

She got off when the bus reached Jamaica Avenue and walked a few blocks beneath the elevated subway. This neighborhood was much like her own—both had train lines constantly thundering overhead, the crowded streets speckled during the day by the light coming through the tracks. The sky was releasing a light drizzle. Lina wished she had brought an umbrella.

Near the Cypress Hills stop on the J line, which ran above the avenue, she was to look for a bar called McGreeley’s. So many taverns along the street—made her feel right at home. There were lots of pizza parlors too, as well as video-game arcades, real-estate offices, and tiny Chinese restaurants. And the usual squabbling children and their parents. She checked the address once more and stopped to make sure she was going in the right direction. Yes, she could see the lighted green sign in the distance. That was the bar. She was to go inside and order a beer—at nine o’clock someone would contact her. She was half hoping that this was all an elaborate joke that Brock had planned for her benefit, a “coming home” party at McGreeley’s Bar and Grill.

She saw through the window as she approached that few people were inside. The place was not as brightly lit as most of the old Irish bars, but wasn’t nearly as dark as the places for singles some of them had turned into. Lina hated those joints. Youngsters, youngsters everywhere. Young bucks looking for pretty faces. Not for her, those joints.

No one turned to look at Lina as she entered. She saw with amused resignation that the bar was filthy. On one side was the counter, long and wooden, with chewed-up, red-cushioned stools for seats. There was a mirror behind the bar, exactly in the center, with row upon row of booze on either side of it. The other wall was lined with a lot of empty tables. The floor was grimy. No wonder they kept the lights down.

There were three people sitting at the bar. Two men and a woman. The men, both old and dissipated, were together, engrossed in a conversation about baseball. They looked as if they were ready to fall off their stools. A whole collection of beer bottles and shot glasses lined the bar in front of them. The woman, who was very old and heavy, was hardy more alert than the men were. Judging from all the butts in the ash tray, she was a heavy smoker, and appeared to be drinking straight scotch or bourbon. The lady was in another country.

The bartender was nowhere in sight.

Lina sat on the other end of the bar, close to the door, away from that awful harsh light that was always in the center of the counter near the register. She took a dollar bill from her purse, feeling very lonely and desperate. She only hoped that the man she was supposed to meet would show up before she got herself too stoned. According to the clock it was only eight-thirty. A cockroach crawled across the counter, its antennae quivering. It finally walked out of sight behind the bar.

A door slammed shut from somewhere in the darkened depths of the tavern and a man walked into the room and behind the counter. Rather young to be tending bar in this gin joint, Lina thought. Late teens, early twenties, good-looking Irish face. A good build softened by too much beer fat. The man walked over to her, dish rag in hand, and dispassionately wiped the counter as he approached.

“What can I get you?” he asked.

“A—a glass of beer, please.”

“Okay.” He went to the tap, grabbing a glass from underneath the counter.
Not the voice,
Lina mused,
not the voice I heard. And yet?

He came back with the beer. “Thirty cents.”

Lina handed him the dollar. “I’m Lina,” she said, watching his face for a reaction.

“Dave,” he replied. He rung up the cash register, came back with the change, and went down to the other end of the bar to wipe up. Obviously, her name had meant nothing to the man, so he couldn’t be her “date.” She doubted if either of the old sots talking sports were her mysterious callers, either.

She looked at the clock. 8:35. She would nurse this beer for as long as it took. Or she could have one more and then another and then yet another. But she wanted to be
sober
when she spoke to this man; she might
have
to be. If it did turn out to be a surprise planned by Brock, she’d certainly want to be sober, just so she could get drunk with
him,
soaking up the manly ecstasy of his company. They’d go home together, singing loud, obnoxious ditties, kissing messily, falling into bed for good, rough sex. Oh, she wished she hadn’t thought of sex; she hadn’t had it in so long. The bartender came by again, just to look out the window and watch passersby. Lina decided to go into the ladies room; the boy’s nearness was unsettling.

The smell of piss hit her like a blast of hot air as soon as she entered the narrow corridor that led to the rest rooms. It even seemed to be sticking to the floor. She tried not to breathe through her nose. Opening the door marked Ladies, she discovered that the odor of urine was even stronger in there. It was as if the drunkards, entering the ladies room accidentally, pissed on the walls in the absence of urinals. She turned on the tap in the rusty, cracked sink and waited until the brownish liquid cleared. She splashed some water on her hands, and tried to see her reflection in the dusty, shattered mirror. The image was too distorted and dim to make out.

She looked up and saw the pitiful yellow lightbulb above her head, and the smattering of flies that clung to the small frosted window. The door to the toilet stall was open, and she was grateful she didn’t have to use it. The seat was covered with brown stains, and a little puddle had collected around the base. She removed her compact, but was too overcome by the odor to stay in the bathroom, and couldn’t see her reflection in the mirror in any case. Now that she knew what these crummy bathrooms were like when a person was sober, she’d need at least ten beers before she ever went in one again.

Walking back into the front room, she was surprised to see that a man was sitting on the stool next to hers. That must be her contact. Once Lina was back in her seat, she wondered why the man hadn’t even bothered to look and see who had sat down beside him. He was around sixty, bald and heavy-set. He wore a pair of metal-frame glasses. She tapped him on the shoulder. “My name is Lina.”

He looked her up and down drunkenly. “So what, Lina?” He was at least an hour past sobriety.

“I’m sorry. I was supposed to meet someone here. I made a mistake.”

“Do I look like your friend, lady?”

“No. I’ve never met him.”

He looked befuddled. “Whatever you say. Nice to meetcha Lina. M’name’s Sol.”

“Hello. Goodbye. I’m sorry I bothered you.” Turning away, she could feel his eyes boring into the back of her head. She downed her whole glass of beer with one swallow.

“Hmmph. Had a cousin named Lina once. She was a bitch too.”

Lina didn’t answer him. She’d learned to ignore comments like that a long time ago. She asked the bartender for another beer. She left a quarter and a nickel on the bar and went over to the jukebox in the corner. This place was so old and shitty she wouldn’t have been surprised to find one of
her
old numbers on it.

She went back to the bar a moment later, grabbed the foamy glass of beer, and sat down two seats away from the fat man.

One false alarm. How many more? she wondered. It was barely 8:45. Her second glass. Hell, it took a lot more than that to put her away. But she didn’t want to get
started.
Didn’t want to be unprepared for what might be a
strange
encounter. She might need to have a clear head.

A man came through the front door then—a strapping Irish redhead about forty-five, with a big, taut smile on his round and homely face. He went straight to the bar and said hello to the bartender. “Dave. How’s it going?”

“Fine, Jack. How’s life treating you?”

“Okay, okay.” The bartender brought the man a beer, and the two engaged in a spirited conversation about hockey scores and singles bars. Lina looked over the newcomer, but dismissed the possibility of his being the caller; the man she’d spoken to had not had a brogue.

Another man came in and set one seat away from Lina—next to the fat guy with the glasses. He was a loner, she could tell. Rather nicely dressed for this place. A worried face, sort of pinched, long and narrow. A heavy helping of proboscis. Neatly combed hair. Something sinister about him. Was this the one? Lina thought it might be. It was almost nine o’clock. Right on time, yet.

She studied him a while longer. He took quick looks about the bar now and then, darting his eyes into every corner. Didn’t he see her? Nearsighted, maybe, but surely not blind!

Finally getting away from the verbose Irish redhead, the bartender made the new arrival a scotch and soda. The man took little rabbit sips, wiping his mouth after every swallow.
This must be him,
she thought.
Nervous. Nervous like me.
He wasn’t bad-looking; younger than she was. She could easily match up the face with the voice on the phone. She decided to make the first move.

Waiting until the barman and his friend were again making loud conversation, she moved into the seat next to her quarry. She leaned over and said, “Are you looking for Lina?”

He didn’t speak. Lost in thought, he was both frightened and annoyed by the interruption. Finally he said, “Excuse me?”

“Did you come here to meet someone named Lina? I’m Lina.”

He stared at her as if she was crazy. “I didn’t come here to meet anyone.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“I’m very sorry.” Mortified, Lina went back to her seat. The idiot had probably thought she’d been making a pass at him. She quickly downed the second glass of beer. It was now after nine.

She took out the piece of note paper again, just to make sure, but she was definitely in the right place at the right hour on the right night. Damn it! Where
was
the fool? If this was a joke, a cruel joke without rhyme or reason, she would find out whoever was responsible, whether it was Brock or one of his friends, and she would get them back no matter how long it took her. She ordered another glass of beer and decided to stay until nine-thirty and no later.

A middle-aged man and woman, both unattractive, walked in five minutes later and stood next to the two old sots at the end of the bar. Lina slowly sipped her beer. The woman went over to the jukebox and played a couple of country-and-western songs, pleasant melodies that Lina enjoyed listening to. They helped her mood a lot, helped ease her anxiety. When they were over, Lina put in fifty cents and played them again.

The music was still going when he arrived.

It was very sudden. One second the seat next to her was empty. The next it was taken. He was an unimpressive, mousy-looking man, small and nervous, with greasy black hair combed back from his forehead. He was given to quick, jerky movements and had a slight tic in his left eye. At times his leg would shake involuntarily. It was as if he was just home from World War Two.

It was hard to tell his age, but he wasn’t young. In his forties probably. Not exactly bad-looking, if you liked the type. Cuddly. Probably very good in bed. Lina had no desire to find out. She hadn’t had much time to wonder about his identity when he leaned over and said softly, “You’re Lina, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry I’m late. Finish your beer and I’ll buy you another one.”

“Sounds good to me,” she said. She liked him already.

The little man ordered the beer and got straight gin for himself. “Never drink anything else,” he explained. He kept looking around, more nervous than the well-dressed guy she had “propositioned” earlier.

“Have you been here long?”

“A while. My fault. I got here early.”

“I would have been here sooner, but I had to be careful.”

As the bar was quite noisy now, their conversation was relatively private. The volume on the jukebox had been turned up by the man behind the bar. More people were arriving, and all of the stools were taken. The place was jumping. Lina would never have figured it.

“Well, what is this all about?” she asked. “You told me on the phone that you had information about Brock?”

Hearing the name had an affect on the fellow, something Lina couldn’t quite pin down. “He
is
all right, isn’t he?”

“I—I don’t know,” the man said, but Lina was sure he was lying. “Let’s just finish our drinks and I’ll show you something. Something that will explain what this is all about. We shouldn’t talk here.”

“All right,” Lina said, rather excited by the secrecy. “Say, what do they call you?”

“My name is George.”

“Well, George. Thanks for the beer.” Watching him out of the corner of her eye, she took a few healthy swallows. He gave her the creeps, yes, but she
felt
for him—there was an odd, helpless quality about him that made her feel sympathetic. She noticed all his assorted quirks—the tic in the eye, the shaking legs—and wanted him to know that she
liked
him, for what it was worth. Just then he started to scratch his crotch violently, particularly the area above the masculine bulge in his jeans. He looked over at Lina guiltily, but she pretended not to have noticed. Satisfied that she wasn’t looking, George continued to scratch. Lina could hear the noise of his dirty nails clawing against the denim material even before the din of the tavern.
Must have “crabs,”
she thought, repulsed. She finished her beer, quickly, hoping they could depart and that it would all be over as soon as possible. She saw with alarm that George had hardly touched his gin.