26
I returned to the front of McPhee’s feeling low and mad at myself. About Joey, about leaving Sicily’s house in such a chicken-pickin’ hurry. As I dragged myself toward the sizzle of my burger coming from the kitchen, I realized I wasn’t alone. Silent Jim sat on his customary stool at the bar.
I’d left the front doors unlocked.
As I stood there, trying to decide what to do, Primary—Quinappeared at the circular window of the front door. He came in, making that pinched sorry-for-you face I was already starting to recognize.
“Hey, Doll, how’re you doing?” he said. “Kinda surprised to see the place open today, if I’m honest. But not sorry, you know? Can I get a beer?”
I mean, what other plans did I have?
I crossed the room, flicked the lights on for the main room and kitchen, and went to flip my burger. “You guys want any food?” I asked through the pass-through.
“Not me,” Quin said. He looked sideways down the bar at Silent Jim. He’d left the customary number of stools between them, even though they were the only two customers. “You want to order anything, fella?”
“Just a beer,” Silent Jim said.
I hit the power on the stereo system and found something low and mournful to listen to, then came out and pulled beers. One for each of us.
“Pour one out for your guy?” Quin said. “Or… Let’s not waste the beer, and pour it down our throats.” He lifted his pint. “To Joey?”
I raised mine, though I didn’t think my voice would hold steady enough to say anything. Even Silent Jim acknowledged us, lifting his pint glass a few inches before taking a long drink. I watched, wondering. He was usually a sipper.
Quin surveyed the room. “Wereyou open?” he said. “Where’s the boss man?”
“Not sure,” I said. “He gave the kitchen guys the day off, but I’d rather… I don’t know. I’d rather be doing something.”
“That good old American work ethic,” Quin said.
Jim made a sound, a cough or snort.
Was he laughing at me? Because my so-called job wasn’t sitting penned in an office somewhere?
The guy had no idea how hard I worked. Forget all the hours I’d killed at the music shop or the shifts here, helping out Alex. Just for the band, I was always putting in the time, working through chords and learning lyrics and, with the girls, running long practice sessions getting our sound layered and our rhythms tight. In off hours, I worked to keep my voice limber, protecting it. It was a lot of invisible work, not just the three sweaty hours we did on the stage.
And just so you remember, all of it paidjack.
I didn’t do it for the filthy lucre, obviously. There was no 401(k). I did it and kept doing it because—
If I stopped, the gong inside me would never sound again.
Quin put his glass down and leaned his elbows conversationally on the bar. “Did I say something funny, buddy?”
“Sitting side by side at a bar doesn’t make us friends,” Jim said. “Buddy.”
There’s a tone men get when they’re itching to kick off. I’d heard it plenty, but usually Alex was there to reach in and quash a fight or escort someone out. I didn’t have much confidence that I could do anything about it if a scuffle broke out between Jims.
“Guys?” I said.
“Okay, we’re not friends,” Quin said easily. “I can live with it. But you seem to have something you wanted to have entered into the record. A perspective? Go ahead.”
The loose tone Quin had taken seemed to deflate whatever steam had been building up between Silent Jim’s ears. He turned his attention to his glass, which was already almost empty. He shook his head. “Never mind. Sorry.”
Quin’s eyes flicked over to me. He nodded his head toward Jim’s glass, and hitched a thumb at himself, the universal signal for buying a round. I poured another beer and set it near Jim’s hand.
“What’s that for?” he said gruffly.
“My treat,” Quin said. “Maybe we’ll be friends by the time you reach the bottom.”
