My phone rang, and with surprise, I saw it was Kane.
“What the hell?”
“I’m sick of this shit.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We should have stayed in jail.”
“What’s your real problem, Kane? It’s not your abiding love of incarceration.”
“She won’t fucking see me.”
“That was the deal.”
“But I didn’t think shemeantit.”
“She meant it.”
“I bet she’s seeing lawyer man.”
“She’s not.”
“How do you know?”
“He’s sitting right here drinking with me.”
“Hello, Kane,” called out Marshall. He tipped his glass toward me as if Kane could see it.
“How the hell? I thought that we were supposed to stay apart.”
“You, me and Holmes aren’t to see each other. He doesn’t have that restriction.”
“What the hell?”
“You keep saying that.”
“What are you doing?”
“I told you, drinking.”
“That stupid cinnamon crap you like, no doubt.”
“Yeah.”
“I wish I had some.”
“Go bother someone else, Kane.”
“Dude. I’ve been a royal ass.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I sent her flowers. She sent them back.” His voice is bitterness and despair, an even worse combination than Fire Jack and coke. But what the hell can I do? I have the same problem.
I raked the top of my head with one hand. I don’t need this. It’s hard enough for me sitting here, knowing she’s in the same city and I can’t do a goddamn thing about it. The day in the hospital on that conference room table uncorked the genie. I tasted her and couldn’t get that sweet taste out of my mouth.
There wasn’t enough whiskey in the world to do that.
