he cannot make out the face, but he knows Jack’s voice.
“Hey,” he says, blinking and squinting into the smoky gloom. Soon he can make out Jack’s bulk, sitting at his usual table with his back to the wall. “I’ll get a drink. You want one?”
“Draught,” says Jack. “And bring a Coke for my pal, Anthony.”
“Hey,” says another voice.
“Fair enough.”
Matthew orders two beers and a Coke from Dan who pours them into thick glass mugs and hands them over without saying a word. There is a tired-looking woman sitting at the end of the bar, her blond wig slightly askew. Matthew nods and she smiles back. It takes him a moment to realize it is Suzi, the girl wearing the black wig the first time he came to the Bok-Bok. “Nice look for you,” he says. “I like it.”
“You’re sweet. You buy me a drink, too?” She pats the seat next to her.
“Get Suzi whatever she wants, okay, Dan?”
Suzi gets up and comes over to him. Although he has lied about how flattering the wig is, it strikes him, not for the first time, what a pretty woman she is. Her eyes are huge and look even larger because of the dark circles underneath. Her mouth is very small, and overall she looks like a girl from another time, from the twenties, perhaps, when Betty Boop was the It girl.
“Coupe de champagne,” she says. “You join me, yes?”
“Maybe later, okay? I have to deliver drinks to the boys.”
“Let me know, Matthew.” She pronounces it in the French way, Matte-u—which, although similar to Brent’s pronunciation is infinitely more pleasing to the ear. She runs her green painted fingernail under his chin. “Merci,” she says and toasts him with her drink. Dan snorts.
Matthew makes his way through the tables, most of which are empty. John and Charlie sit together, as always, and, as always, before the end of the evening they will be arguing loudly. Three men Matthew has not seen before scribble something on the back of a paper napkin, and whisper. As he walks past, they stop talking and cover up the napkin. Matthew ignores them.
Jack takes his beer, drinks and wipes foam from his moustache. Three mugs stand empty on the table. Next to him is a man almost as large, wearing a broad-shouldered black leather coat. His forehead is high and his hair black, cut close to the scalp. His skin is the colour of red rice and strong tea. He wears an open, unguarded expression, which is unusual in a place like this. When he smiles, which he does as soon as Matthew approaches, his gums are predominant, and his teeth disproportionately small. There is no defence against such a sincere smile, and Matthew immediately smiles back.
“Thanks. I’ll get the next round,” says Anthony, and he holds out his hand for Matthew to shake.
“Pleased to meet you,” says Matthew.
“Anthony’s been down south in Marseilles.”
“Ah,” says Matthew.
“Anthony used to be a cop in New York City.”
“Tough place to be a cop,” says Matthew. He has trouble reconciling this occupation with the man who sits before him.
“All places are tough when you’re a cop. It was a long time ago.” He reaches up and taps his head. “Wound up with a metal plate.”
“Ouch.” Matthew winces.
“I was moonlighting as a guard at Bellevue. One of the inmates got all whacked out and picked up this big table. Whammo! Cold-cocked me.”
“Jesus,” says Matthew.
“I don’t remember it.”
“Anthony was in a coma for, what, two weeks?”
“Thirteen days. When I woke up there were these spaces where things used to be. Can’t plan things or remember some things like I used to. And I can’t drink the way I used to. I’m better than I was. Some headaches, dizziness. Been eleven years. Now mostly I just have trouble with new situations. Like, when I’m traveling, right, I can read the train ticket fine, and I can read the station board where they list the track numbers. Problem is, sometimes I can’t figure out how one thing relates to the other. Connection synapses don’t fire.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s stupid, though,” says Jack.
“Well, no stupider than before.” Anthony smiles. “I just like to tell new people what’s what, so they don’t draw the wrong conclusions if I draw a memory blank. Worse thing isn’t the head though, it’s numbness.” He flexes his fingers a few times. “Nerve damage. Not exactly conducive to handling a firearm. Not that I want to do that anymore. If I never see a gun again—fine by me.”
“Hell of a story,” says Matthew.
“It’s not a story.” Anthony looks puzzled.
“No, I didn’t mean that it wasn’t true, just that it’s hard.”
“I guess. But I got off light. You should have seen some of the guys in the head ward. Acting like five year olds in a grown man’s body, or couldn’t walk, or talk. Naw, a little confusion, a little numbness, it’s all right. I get a check from the city of New York. I get to come to Paris and all. I’m studying food. That’s what I was doing in the south, but it didn’t work out. I got a job as a kitchen grunt. A crappy job, but it was a start. Good restaurant. But I didn’t catch on fast enough.”
“Sorry to hear that,” says Matthew, but Anthony just shrugs.
“Language problem is the way I choose to see it. I make it a practice not to hang on to resentments. Keep calm. Kind of a vow I took when my life derailed. No more violence, you know?”
Jack snorts. “Anthony had a spiritual awakening. Turned over a new leaf. I knew Anthony back in New York. Made a fair penny together back in the day.”
“Long time ago,” says Anthony and he drops his eyes.
“Aw, don’t get all remorseful,” says Jack, punching him in the shoulder. “That was then. Now we’re just three guys in Paris, right? No pasts.”
“At least not in here,” says Anthony. “Think that’s why I took to this place, the first time Jack brought me.”
“I’ll drink to that,” says Matthew.
Suzi passes their table on the way to the toilet and ruffles Jack’s hair.
“Jack’s got a girlfriend,” Anthony says.
“Grow the fuck up,” says Jack.
“Suzi’s all right,” says Matthew.
“Hell, yes. No problem there,” says Jack. “I wouldn’t mind a piece of that.”
“Yours for the asking, I’d say.” Matthew takes a long pull of his beer.
“Mine for the paying, actually. And I don’t pay.”
“I
