This Wicked World (44 page)

August flew by in a blur of shockingly hot afternoons and long, hectic nights at the restaurant. Then this morning he walked out to find a moving van parked at the curb and a team of short, burly Latinos carrying boxes out of Amy’s place. He hurried off before he caught sight of her, and vowed to stay away until she was gone. Not a brave reaction, he knew, but maybe, finally, a smart one.

A
FTER HIS PISS
test Boone walks out of the CDCR building. He has a few hours to kill before work, so he decides to see a movie. He buys a paper from a sidewalk box and pages through it to find out what’s playing where. A semi hauling ass down Alameda blows its horn, and he jumps back from the curb, spooked. Two shitbirds in jail ID wristbands snicker, then try to sell him a laptop neither of them knows how to turn on.

The theater is almost empty. Some spy film with lots of running, lots of gunning. They’re in Russia, D.C., Vegas, fighting in a jungle somewhere. Boone can’t follow it; his mind keeps wandering. After a while he gives up, decides to go into work early.

I
T’S A
M
ONDAY
evening, superslow. The only customer at the bar is a tourist from London who’s nursing a pint while his wife and kids shop for souvenirs.

Boone is checking inventory on the shelves, putting together a list of what to pull from the liquor locker, when a ragged figure enters the restaurant. His clothes are grimy, his hair and beard matted, and his eyes dart about in their sockets like nervous birds in twin cages. He hesitates for a second as if confused about where he is, then shuffles to the bar and slides onto a stool. Homeless, or damn close to it.

“Good evening, sir,” Boone says. “Welcome to the Tick Tock. What can I get you?” This is Simon’s latest stroke of promotional genius. He’s decided to class the place up by having the staff greet every customer this way, and there’s a five-dollar fine if you don’t.

The homeless man licks his cracked lips and says, “Johnny Walker Black on the rocks.”

Boone pours the drink and sets it in front of him, and the man reaches into the pocket of his filthy coat and pulls out a plastic bag filled with coins.

“What’s that go for?” he asks.

“Nine dollars, sir,” Boone replies.

The man begins to carefully count out and stack quarters on the bar.

Simon hisses and gestures from the waitress station, and Boone walks down to see what’s bugging him.

“What the fuck did you serve that hobo for?” he whispers.

“Guy asks for a drink, guy has money…” Boone lets his voice trail off with a shrug.

“One and he’s done,” Simon says. “And what the fuck is Robo thinking, letting him in here in the first place?” He storms off to find out.

Simon doesn’t irritate Boone as much as he used to, mainly because Boone knows he won’t have to take his shit much longer. He’s been talking to the owner of a new bar opening on Las Palmas, an exclusive speakeasy catering to the youngest, richest, and most famous of Hollywood’s partying class. The owner comes in for a drink now and then, he and Boone hit it off, and last week he offered Boone a job. Nicer joint, bigger tips, and no rat-faced daddy’s boy looking for any opportunity to bust his balls. Sounds like a dream come true.

He’s feeling fat and sassy as he wipes up a puddle and snaps his towel at Gonzalo, who wings an ice cube at him. Boone ducks and comes up just in time to watch Amy walk in and sit at the bar. For a second he thinks he’s mistaken, that it’s merely a girl who resembles her, but, no, it’s her all right. He walks over to greet her, not even trying to stop the smile spreading across his face.

“Hey,” he says. “Hi there.”

“Hello,” she replies.

She looks great. Silky black blouse, tight jeans. Her hair is loose on her shoulders, the way it’s prettiest, and the playful twinkle has returned to her eyes, the one he fell for the first time they met.

“What can I get you?” he asks.

“That’s not really…” she starts, then stops and sighs. “How about an Absolut and tonic.”

Boone hopes she doesn’t notice how much his hands are shaking as he prepares the drink. She grins after her first sip and says, “Perfect.” He’s got a million questions but isn’t sure he’s allowed to ask them. They haven’t spoken in almost three months.

They stare at each other for a few seconds, until Amy finally says, “I’m moving.”

“I saw,” Boone replies.

“To Montana.”

“Open a used bookstore, marry a rich cowboy, right?”

Amy looks down at her drink, a little embarrassed, and stabs her ice cubes with her straw. “I don’t know about that,” she says. “I just want to do something different from what I’ve been doing, and Montana seems like a good place to do it.”

Boone’s smile is officially phony now. Hall-of-fame phony. “Supposed to be pretty there,” he says.

“It really is,” Amy says. “The mountains, the trees. I’m renting a little cabin by a river outside Bozeman.”

Boone steps back from the bar and looks over at the homeless man as if he signaled for another drink. He wants to get away before Amy senses his disappointment. It’s nothing she should have to deal with.

“Good luck out there,” he says. “You deserve it.”

She lifts her purse onto the bar and accidentally knocks over her drink. Boone is right there with a towel.

“I’m so nervous,” she says.

“Me too,” Boone replies.

She reaches into her purse for a folded-up sheet of paper, passes it to him. “Here’s my e-mail address,” she says, “and you already have my phone number. Keep in touch. Maybe you can visit sometime.”

“Definitely,” Boone says. He plays it cool, even though he’s pretty sure you’re only this happy a few times in your life.

“It’s my birthday,” the homeless man announces to nobody in particular.

“It’s his birthday,” Boone says to Amy. “Let me get you another drink.”

She lays her hand on top of his, starts to say something, then stops herself. What comes out instead is, “That’s okay. I’m leaving tonight, gonna try to make it as far as Vegas.”

Without thinking, Boone leans forward and kisses her on the lips. When he pulls back, she says, “So, yeah, maybe you can come in the spring, after I’m settled in.”

“I’m off parole in January,” he says.

“Or maybe January,” she says.

She squeezes his hand once more, then slides off the stool. On her way out she pauses next to the homeless man and says, “Happy birthday, dude.”

“Hey! How’d you know?” he replies.

She turns to wave good-bye to Boone, then walks out the door.

“She’s hot,” Simon says from the waitress station where he’s been lurking. “When she dumps you, give her my number.”

Boone is feeling too good to get into it with him. A couple more customers come in, and he sets them up. The homeless guy finishes his drink and moves on to continue his celebration elsewhere.

When it’s time for his break, Boone walks out front to see what’s up with Robo. The fat man tells him a filthy joke and asks to borrow twenty dollars.

Most of the clubs are closed tonight, so there’s not much traffic on the boulevard. A police car cruises past with two supremely bored cops inside. The sky is stained purple from all the neon, and it’s still hot, ninety degrees at 10:00 p.m. An old Caddy rolls up to the valet stand. Robo steps over to open the passenger-side door, while a kid in a red vest attends to the driver, Mr. King. Boone smiles to see the respect the old man and his wife are shown.

He looks up at the full moon and imagines Amy driving alone across the desert tonight, the only bright thing in all that windy black. She’ll be fine, he tells himself, she’ll be fine, and heads inside to finish his shift.

Thank you to Asya Muchnick and Timothy Wager, for untangling the knots.

Thank you to everyone at Little, Brown, for all your hard work.

Thank you to the American Academy of Arts and Letters and the Rosenthal Family Foundation, for your generosity.

And thank you to Janet Fitch, Clayton Moore, Chris Offutt, and George Pelecanos, for your kindness.

a cognizant original v5 release october 14 2010

RICHARD LANGE is the recipient of a 2009 Guggenheim Fellowship and the author of the highly acclaimed story collection
Dead Boys,
which received the Rosenthal Family Foundation Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters
.
His fiction has appeared in
StoryQuarterly
,
The Sun
,
The Iowa Review,
and
The Best American Mystery Stories 2004
. He lives in Los Angeles. This is his first novel.