Dirty Words - [22]

"Might as well, the afternoon I've had."

Andy checked his watch. "Hmm. Three o'clock and you're stone sober."

We walked in together. Lady Luck was built around an old horseshoe bar, had about thirty pictures of Sinatra for decoration and high windows so that the cruel, cruel sunlight only trickled down into drunken eyes. All that, and Andy allowed me to pick the records for his jukebox. Only box in Manhattan with Big Mama Thornton, that I knew of. Best of all, Andy would break my arm if I ever tried to pay.

And I mean he would break my arm.

In many places.

But lovingly.

"How was Jersey?"

He shrugged. "Simple. You coulda done it."

"What's that mean?"

"I meant it was straightforward. Sheesh, you're sensitive when you're sober."

"What'd he do?"

"The guy?" He shrugged again. "He wasn't particular about who he stuck his dick into. Knew it too."

"Living dangerously, huh?"

Andy hit the light switches. "Used to."

My drink arrived before I noticed Andy making it. Everyone thought Andy was just a skilled bartender. That's not to say that he couldn't sling booze with the best, but I knew otherwise. Those hands had paid for the bar I was sitting at, and it wasn't simply due to his magnificent Mai-Tai recipe. He's sixty-six and faster than a man half that age. I know. I'm half that age. I've done the math.

I tasted my drink. "Andy, do you know any… accountants for the families and/or crews?"

Andy stopped counting the register bank. "Accountants?"

"Accountants."

He looked up and ran his fingers through his bone-white hair. "Never heard of any, but I'd have to assume they have some. Why?"

"Some cokehead's wandering around saying he is one."

"Probably just a jerk-off who says it to get out of jams," he said, dismissively waving his hand at the idea.

"Figured that, but why the hell would he claim to be an accountant? That's what I can't get."

"Good point." Andy cracked an Amstel bottle with his hands and sipped. It wasn't the screw-top kind. "Name?"

"Brian. Don't have a last name. Preppy-looking fella."

"He a problem?" Andy raised an eyebrow. I knew what the question within the question was.

"If he is what he says, he's certainly making a show of it. If he gets busted, well…he seemed soft."

Andy made a face like he'd just bitten into a cockroach. "I'll make some calls." In Andy's estimation, the worst a man could be was soft. Soft men would fold faster than Superman on laundry day to save their own asses. In our line of work, soft men could get you killed the same as a bullet.

My train of thought derails when the jackass claps me on the back, making my drink slop over. He laughs at a joke that I wasn't listening to. I resist punching his larynx and fake a laugh instead. He orders us another round, takes a gulp and staggers off to the jukebox. One more Dave Matthews song and I swear to God… While he's gone, I dump my shot into his glass again.

"You done?" The bartender asks, pointing at the wings I'd ordered.

"All yours." When the wings came out, I offered the jackass one, trying to at least appear friendly. He sucked off the meat and dropped the spit-covered bone on the other wings. I've spent the rest of the night fighting the urge to pull his scrotum over his forehead.

A few days ago, I walked back into Zen to check up on Vic and Bertie. Afraid of what I might find, I was a little ashamed at the relief I felt when I saw a new girl bartending.

I got a dirty look from her when I "ahem-ed" her eyes away from her iPhone. "Where's Vic and Bertie today?"

She looked up with an unusual amount of suspicion for somebody who doesn't know me. "You a friend?"

I got a chill at her tone. "Friend, customer. Take your pick."

"Then it'd be best if you talked to them." With that, her attention went back to the phone. Instinct told me Brian was involved. Couldn't tell you why. Instinct also told me it was already bad.

I spent the afternoon trying to find them at all the other watering holes. As the sun set, I ended up at Lady Luck again, confused and aggravated.

"What's wrong with you?" Andy asked. "You look like ten miles of cat shit."

"You seen Vic or Bertie?"

"Yeah, he came in looking for you. He seemed upset about something." Andy scratched his stubble. "Looked like he hadn't slept in a while. Circles under his eyes."

I wondered if his sleeplessness was chemically induced. "Did he leave a number?"

"Nope. Just asked if I'd seen you. I said, "nope". Then he left."

Damn.

Things got complicated fast. When a waitress from Zen came into Lady Luck, I got the first of several accounts about the previous night's hubbub. I asked who else had seen it. She gave me names and I tracked them down. In the end, I got five different versions from five different witnesses. It was like living in my own personal fucking Rashomon.

The story that I've accepted is the one I managed to piece together from the consistencies in each account. Brian was one of those consistencies.

No signs of Vic or Bertie. Amazing how you can see people nearly every day, spend hours together and never exchange numbers or addresses. I didn't even know their last names.