Burning Down George Orwell's House (28 page)

“Is it worth fifty thousand dollars?”

“No, but it's a very special single malt distilled in 1984. Even you will be impressed.”

“We'll start with that and then hit the town. We'll go see Miss Ukraine. Oh, wait … let me guess. You've quit drinking too.”

“No, I've definitely dialed it back a bit, but I'd love to go get shitfaced. In fact, that would do me a world of good.”

“That's a relief. On the way, we should visit Lily at McCrotchety's. She's been asking about you.”

“Sounds perfect,” Ray said. The cleanup hitter for the Sox struck out with men on base, sending the game into extra innings. “Damn. Meet me later and we'll talk.”

“You're a strange man, Ray-son d'etre,” Bud said. “Now are you going to clean this for me or what?” He handed Ray his overcoat, which felt soft and outrageously expensive. The inner pocket had a stain that looked like the result of an unsecured whisky flask.

“I'm not responsible for garments left over six weeks,” Ray said.

The bells rang again when Bud pulled the door closed
behind him. He got erased by the crowds of shoppers on the sidewalk, by the nannies and beat cops and the homeless men whistling happy songs through missing teeth. Summer sent its final breath of old newspapers and fast food bags flying past the windows. A cold, lake-effected winter was on its way, and then spring. Ray un-muted the ballgame, which was still away at a commercial. One of the teams would eventually win and the other would lose, even if it took all night. He busied himself pressing strangers' clothes and waiting for the jingle of his next customer.