Out on the Cutting Edge

The check came to a fairly impressive sum. She wanted to split it and I didn't work too hard trying to talk her out of it. "Actually," she said, checking the waitress's arithmetic, "I should be paying about two-thirds of this. More than that. I had a million drinks and you had a cup of coffee."

"Cut it out."

"And my entrée was more than yours."

I told her to stop it, and we halved the check and the tip. Outside, she wanted to walk a little to clear her head. It was a little late for panhandlers, but some of them were still hard at it. I passed out a few dollars.

The wild-eyed woman in the shawl got one of them. She had her baby in her arms, but I didn't see her other child, and I tried not to wonder where it had gone to.

We walked downtown a few blocks and I asked Willa if she'd mind stopping at Paris Green. She looked at me, amused. "For a guy who doesn't drink," she said, "you sure do a lot of barhopping."

"Somebody I want to talk to."

We cut across to Ninth, walked down to Paris Green and took seats at the bar. My friend with the bird's-nest beard wasn't working, and the fellow on duty was no one I'd seen before. He was very young, with a lot of curly hair and a sort of vague and unfocused look about him. He didn't know how I could get hold of the other bartender. I went over and talked to the manager, describing the bartender I was looking for.

"That's Gary," he said. "He's not working tonight. Come around tomorrow, I think he's working tomorrow."

I asked if he had a number for him. He said he couldn't give that out. I asked if he'd call Gary for me and see if he'd be willing to take the call.

"I really don't have time for that," he said. "I'm trying to run a restaurant here."

If I still carried a badge he'd have given me the number with no argument. If I'd been Mickey Ballou I'd have come back with a couple of friends and let him watch while we threw all his chairs and tables out into the street. There was another way, I could give him five or ten dollars for his time, but somehow that went against the grain.

I said, "Make the phone call."

"I just told you—"

"I know what you told me. Either make the phone call for me or give me the fucking number."

I don't know what the hell I could have done if he'd refused, but something in my voice or face must have gotten through to him. He said,

"Just a moment," and disappeared into the back. I went and stood next to Willa, who was working on a brandy. She wanted to know if everything was all right. I told her everything was fine.

When the manager reappeared I walked over to meet him. "There's no answer," he said. "Here's the number, if you don't believe me you can try it yourself."

I took the slip of paper he handed me. I said, "Why shouldn't I believe you? Of course I believe you."

He looked at me, his eyes wary.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I was out of line there, and I apologize. It's been a rough couple of days."

He wavered, then went with the flow. "Hey, that's cool," he said.

"Don't worry about it."

"This city," I said, as if that explained everything, and he nodded, as if indeed it did.

He wound up buying us a drink. We had survived a tense moment together, and that seemed to carry more weight than the fact that we had created the tension ourselves. I didn't really want another Perrier, but Willa managed to find room for another brandy.

When we stepped outside, the fresh air sucker-punched her and almost knocked her down. She grabbed my arm, caught her balance. "I can feel that last brandy," she announced.

"No kidding."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

She drew away from me, her nostrils flaring, her face dark. "I'm quite all right," she said. "I can get home under my own power."

"Take it easy, Willa."

"Don't tell me to take it easy. Mr. Holier-than-thou. Mr.

Soberer-than-thou."

She stalked off down the street. I walked alongside her and didn't say anything.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Forget it."

"You're not mad?"

"No, of course not."

She didn't say much the rest of the way home. When we got into her apartment she swept up the faded flowers from the kitchen table and started dancing around the floor with them. She was humming something but I couldn't recognize the tune. After a few turns she stopped and began to cry. I took the flowers from her and put them on the table. I held her and she sobbed. When the tears stopped I let go of her and she stepped back. She began undressing, dropping her clothes on the floor as she removed them. She took off everything and walked straight back to the bedroom and got into the bed.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"It's all right."

"Stay with me."

I stayed until I was sure she was sleeping soundly. Then I let myself out and went home.