Peril

Abe usually poured the house brand, a cheap blended scotch that wasn’t all that bad. But Mortimer looked so hangdog, he decided on a better one, grabbed a smooth single malt and poured a shot.

Mortimer knocked it back quickly, with no sign that he tasted any difference.

“Another?” Abe asked.

“Yeah,” Mortimer said.

Abe poured a second round.

Mortimer knocked that back, then placed the shot glass on the bar and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Abe tried to lighten the atmosphere. “You don’t sing by any chance, do you, Morty?”

“Shit,” Mortimer said glumly.

Abe poured another round. “Sip this one,” he said. “You might enjoy the taste.”

Mortimer did as he was told.

“What do you think?”

“Good,” Mortimer said.

“You look a little . . . I don’t know . . .”

“Fucked,” Mortimer said.

“Yeah, that’s the word,” Abe said. “What’s the trouble?”

Mortimer’s eyes suddenly lifted from the glass, and Abe could see just how deep the trouble was.

“I got these fucking tests back.” Mortimer looked surprised that the information had flown from his mouth so suddenly. “A death sentence. Three months on the outside.” He rolled the glass slowly between his hands. “Liver’s shot.”

Abe had no idea what to say, and so he said, “Shit.”

“Yeah.” Mortimer shrugged. “No hope. Couple months, on the outside.”

For a moment the two men sat silently. Then Abe said, “I’m really sorry to hear it, Morty.” He poured a fourth round. “On the house. From now on,” he said.

“From now on,” Mortimer repeated, his voice oddly filled with emotion. “You’re a real friend, Abe. Always there for me.”

Abe stared at him, astonished that Mortimer could regard him in such a way. Before now he could remember no conversation that hadn’t included the weather.

Mortimer put out his hand. “My best friend.”

Abe shook Mortimer’s hand lightly.

Mortimer smiled at him warmly, then finished off the drink. “I didn’t tell Dottie yet.”

“Dottie?”

“My wife.” Mortimer ran his finger around the rim of the empty glass. “I ain’t told nobody but you, Abe.”

“You should tell your wife,” Abe said, now suddenly aware that this was Mortimer’s best friend talking.

“The trouble is, I got nothing to leave her.” Mortimer shook his head despondently. “Horses, you know?”

Abe realized that for Mortimer this amounted to a heartfelt confidence. “So, what are you going to do?” he asked. “I mean . . . about . . . what was your wife’s name?”

“Dottie.”

“Yeah, Dottie.”

Mortimer considered Abe’s question briefly, his eyes gazing into the empty glass as if it were a crystal ball. Then he sat back and lightly slapped the bar with both hands. “I better get going.” He grabbed Abe’s hand and squeezed. “Thanks, Abe,” he said as he eased himself off the stool.

Abe came around the end of the bar and followed him out onto the street. It seemed the minimum he could do. Briefly, they stood together, watching the breeze riffle through the trees that lined the street.

“Let me know if there’s anything you need,” Abe said finally.

Mortimer snatched a pack of cigarettes from his jacket, thumped one out and lit it. “You got a safe, Abe?”

“Yeah.”

Mortimer lifted the match and stared at the small, guttering flame. “Maybe you could do something for me.”

“Sure.”

Mortimer drew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Abe. “Fifteen thousand. It’s for Dottie. If something happens to me, make sure she gets it.”

“That’s a lot of cash,” Abe said warily.

“I do a cash business,” Mortimer replied. “And the thing is, if I keep it, it’ll ride off on some fucking nag at the track.” He dropped the cigarette and crushed it with the toe of his shoe. “You don’t see me around, look me up in the book. Mortimer Dodge. Eighty-sixth Street. That’s where Dottie is.”

“Okay,” Abe said. He put the envelope in his pocket. “But, hey, maybe you’ll beat this thing.”

Mortimer shook his head. “If it was a light switch, I’d flip it off right now.”

“If what were a light switch?”

“Life,” Mortimer said, turned, and trudged wearily down the street, head bowed, shoulders hunched, as if headed for that place where the firing squad stood waiting for him, talking idly and smoking cigarettes.

CARUSO

From behind the limited concealment of a tree, Caruso watched Mortimer trudge up the street. He’d seen him pass an envelope, but the guy he’d passed it to didn’t remotely resemble the sort of guy he’d have taken for Batman. But that didn’t matter, Caruso said to himself. If this fuck was Batman, and the Big Assignment came his way, then it didn’t matter if the guy looked the part or didn’t look the part. Either way, the guy was history.

Now, as he fell in behind Mortimer, following him at a distance, he wondered just how many guys Mortimer would see during the night, how long the list he’d have to whittle down, eliminating one guy at a time, until he knew which one Batman really was.