Hard Case Crime: Fake I.D. (4 page)

One of the perks of being a bouncer at a bar on the Upper East Side was that I met a lot of good-looking women. Girls were always coming up to me at the door, starting conversations. The underage ones were just trying to kiss up to me so I’d let them into the bar, and other ones were just trying to scam free drinks. But a lot of them really liked me too, giving me their phone numbers without me even asking. I went out with a lot of the girls I met at work, and had sex with some of them, but I’d never had a relationship that lasted for more than a month.

I was hoping Frank, my boss, was around so I could hit him up for an advance on my salary. Sometimes Frank bartended for the day crowd but his son, Gary, was working the bar.

I was on my way to the back, to hang up my coat, when a hand touched my shoulder. I turned around and Kathy was standing there, smiling, holding a plate with a burger and fries.

“Tommy, I’m so glad you’re here—I have some amazing news to tell you.”

“You brought me my dinner?”

“Seriously. I’ll be right back.”

I watched her bring the plate over to a guy sitting at the bar. Kathy was a twenty-five-year-old aspiring actress. Last year, when she first started working at O’Reilley’s, we had a one-night stand. She was tall and thin with long straight brown hair. I guess most guys would think she was beautiful, but she wasn’t really my type. I never understood why some women starved themselves, trying to look like the models in magazines. To me, nothing was sexier than a woman with a nice stomach and big thighs.

Kathy came back smiling and hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. Then she said, “So you won’t believe it. Remember that audition I told you I was going to last week? You know, the one for the new Terrence McNally play at the Manhattan Theatre Club?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Well, I got a callback. Isn’t that unbelievable? And my agent says they don’t fool around at the MTC. If you get a callback, they really like you.”

“That’s great,” I said. I was happy for her, but I really wasn’t in the mood to hear about how somebody else’s acting career was taking off.

“I’m not gonna get my hopes up though—I mean I don’t want to jinx it or anything. But I really love this part and I know I can do it. But I wanted to talk to you about something else. It was something my agent suggested actually. He thought it might be a good idea if I did a showcase with another actor—you know, a scene or a one-act play—and my agent says he’ll get some directors and producers to come down and watch it. And, I don’t know what you think, but I thought it might be fun if you and me, I don’t know, did a scene or something together.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” I said.

“Great!” she said. “I was thinking about this play called
Police Story
. It’s an old play from the fifties. Anyway, it’s a really good police drama and there are some really good husband-and-wife scenes in it. If you liked it too, maybe we could try it. I’ll go to the drama library at Lincoln Center tomorrow and see if anything else looks good. I’m so nervous.”

Kathy went to take somebody else’s order and I went to the back and hung up my coat. I was starving and if I didn’t eat something soon I was going to pass out. I went into the kitchen and had Rodrigo cook me a well-done burger, loaded with onions and relish, with a side of onion rings. I stood in the kitchen, bullshitting with him until the food was done. Rodrigo was a short Mexican guy with a thick black mustache. He was trying to learn English and I helped him out whenever I could. Today he was trying to learn how to ask his landlord for more heat. I got a piece of paper and wrote out exactly what he should tell him.

“Thank you, Tommy,” Rodrigo said. “Now my wife and me—we don’t freeze.”

I took the burger with me to the bar. Pat Benatar was singing “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” and I was singing along, suddenly in a better mood. I reached over and poured myself a pint of Sam Adams and then I started to wolf down my food. The burger was okay—not as well-done as I liked—but it could’ve been raw meat and I would’ve eaten it.

At the other end of the bar, Gary was having a conversation with one of the old-timers. Gary was the only person at O’Reilley’s I didn’t get along with. I didn’t have anything against him, but he didn’t like me because his father gave me special treatment. Frank was always telling Gary that he was throwing away his life, trying to be a rock star and smoking pot, and he wanted him to go back to college. I pretty much agreed with Frank about Gary. I knew I shouldn’t be the one to talk because my career wasn’t exactly skyrocketing, but at least I was a pretty good actor—I wasn’t just wasting my time. Sometimes Gary played his band’s demo tape and I couldn’t believe how bad they sucked. They sounded like a high school band, practicing in somebody’s garage. Besides, when you’re in your thirties you still have a shot of making it as an actor, but anybody who turns on MTV knows that all the hot new rock stars are in their twenties. Gary was thirty-four, two years older than me, and his band was still playing in bars—not even bars, in
coffee
bars—in the East Village.

Gary was tall, thin and very pale. He dressed like your typical wannabe rock star, in skin-tight leather pants and ripped T-shirts. He wore silver hoop earrings and he had blond streaks dyed into his straight brown hair. I had never seen him with a girl and I was pretty sure he was gay.

I finished my burger. I was still hungry, but the food would hold me over for a while.

“Hey, Gary,” I called down the bar. “Your father coming in tonight?”

Gary shook his head.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Said he’s not feeling well. Why?”

“Forget it,” I said. “It’s no big deal.”

I didn’t know what I was going to do. I could get by without money for tonight, but I still needed some money to live on and it would probably be a good idea if I paid my rent and some bills eventually. If Frank didn’t show up tomorrow I’d be in serious trouble.

A girl came into the bar. I watched her take her coat off, spread it over a stool two stools away from me, then sit down. She looked over at me and smiled and I smiled back. She looked like she was coming from work—wearing a short black skirt and a black blouse. Gary took her order—“A frozen margarita please”—and then she crossed her legs. I took another look—wavy dark hair, dark skin, probably Indian—and then I slid over one stool, held out my hand, and said, “Pleasure to meet you, I’m Tommy.” We shook hands and started talking. She told me her name, but it was something Indian I didn’t understand. It sounded like she’d said “Tree Lips,” but I knew that couldn’t be it. I have no idea what we talked about, but she was laughing so I figured she must like me.

After a while, I asked her if she was waiting for somebody. “Actually, I am,” she said, looking toward the door. “I’m waiting for a friend.” I asked for her phone number and she hit me with the old “I have a boyfriend” line. I knew it couldn’t be too serious—she was wearing rings on every finger on her left hand
except
her ring finger. I could have pushed it, seen if she was just playing hard to get, but I wasn’t in the mood. When the friend showed up I told Tree Lips that it was very nice meeting her and that I hoped we had a chance to hang out again sometime. Then the girls went to sit down at a table and I reached across the bar and poured myself another pint of Sam Adams.

“Why did you tell her you’re an actor?”

I looked up and Gary was across the bar from me.

“Who asked you?” I said.

“I just couldn’t help overhearing what you were saying,” he said. “I mean you were talking so
loud
.”

I took a sip of beer, ignoring him.

“You don’t hear me telling people I’m a musician,” he went on. “When people ask me what I do for a living I say I’m a bartender.”

“You
are
a bartender.”

“And
you’re
a bouncer.”

“No, I’m an actor.”

“No, what you are is what you get
paid
to do. Until you’re working full-time as an actor you’re a bouncer and acting is just a hobby. You shouldn’t be afraid to be who you are.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I said.

I took the beer with me to the other end of the bar and finished it in a few gulps. Then I went outside to check IDs.

It was a normal Wednesday night until around ten-thirty when Janene walked in with two friends. I’d met Janene at the door about a month ago. On one of my nights off I took her out to dinner at Carmine’s on Forty-fourth Street and then we went back to my place and she spent the night. I hadn’t called her since and I felt bad about it now. I’d had a great time with her—she was nice, good looking, fun to talk to—what the hell was wrong with me? Naturally, she was giving me the silent treatment tonight. She said hi to me at the door, but she didn’t smile, and now she was standing with her friends at the bar, pretending not to notice me.

I kept looking over at her. No doubt about it—she was spectacular. Her dirty blond hair was cut to a shoulder-length bob and she was wearing tight jeans and a blue wool sweater. She was thirty-one but she looked twenty-five. She was a big girl—about five-ten, one-eighty—just my type.

When it got slow at the door I went over to the bar and started talking to her. I’d forgotten how beautiful her eyes were. They were bright blue and always seemed to sparkle. I also noticed her negative body language, how she wouldn’t turn her shoulder toward me, but I kept bullshitting with her anyway.

Then, out of nowhere, she said, “So why didn’t you call me?”

I’d been expecting this question and I was ready with an answer.

“I was planning to,” I said. “I’ve just been really busy lately.”

“Whatever,” she said, pretending she didn’t care, but it was obvious she did. “I just don’t get it, though. I mean I thought we had a good time together.”

“We
did
have a good time together. At least I know I did.”

“Then why didn’t you call me? And don’t tell me you were busy. How long does it take to make a phone call?”

Looking down I said, “I guess I didn’t think you liked me that much.”

“Come on,” she said. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I’ve heard a lot of girls talking—about how when they sleep with a guy on the first date it means they don’t really care about the guy—what he thinks of them.”

“That’s crazy,” she said. “What do you think I do, sleep with every guy I go out with?”

A guy standing behind Janene, drinking a bottle of beer, looked over at us.

“I know I was wrong,” I said, “I should’ve called you. But I just wanted to tell you what was going on in my mind, that’s all.”

“And what do you think I thought after I didn’t hear from you?”

“We had a misunderstanding then—what can I say? But I really am sorry. Believe me I had a great time with you—it was probably one of the best dates I’ve ever had. I’d really like to hang out with you again sometime, but if you don’t want to I’d understand.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess I’ll have to think it over.”

“Fair enough,” I said, “but believe me, I won’t let you down again—you can count on that.” I started to leave, then I looked back at her and said, “And, by the way, I just want to tell you—you look great tonight.”

“I do?” She was blushing.

“Come on, you know you do.”

She was looking down.

“Look,” I said, “I’m gonna get off at one-thirty tonight. If you feel like it, maybe you want to stick around. We could go out for a late drink somewhere—or just get some coffee. We could just talk, you know, see how it goes.”

“Maybe,” she said.

We made some more eye contact, then I said, “You know where to find me.”

I went back to my stool by the door. While I was working, every now and then, I looked over in Janene’s direction and when she saw me we both smiled. I had a feeling I was winning her back, but I couldn’t tell for sure. Then, around one o’clock, she came over to me and said, “My friends are going home.”

“What about you?”

“I told them I have a date with the bouncer.”

Lying next to Janene in the dark I said, “I wish I could offer you something to drink, but all I have is tap water.”

“That’s all right.”

“You sure? Because I could run out and get something—I don’t mind.”

“No. Really.”

I ran my fingers gently down her forehead then over the side of her face.

“Anybody ever tell you you have beautiful skin?”

“You’re always complimenting me.”

“Is something wrong with that?”

“I guess not.”

“It’s so soft and smooth—like a nectarine.”

“Thank you,” she said laughing.

I kissed her, then I reached across her body to turn on the lamp.

“What are you doing?”

“I want to see your face.”

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because...I guess I’m just a little insecure, that’s all.”

“What do you have to be insecure about?”

“My legs.”

“Jesus, women always think there’s one thing wrong with them and it’s always the most attractive part of their body. All right, give it to me. What’s wrong with your legs?”