Read Online Joe Pitt 2 - No Dominion by Charlie Huston - Free Book Online
Authors: Charlie Huston
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and closes the door from 4 a.m. to 10 a.m. and
tells people to keep it down and not to curse. Think he'd like his job a little more.
I catch Phil at the bar.
--So, Phil.
--Oh, Joe, hey. Decided to stay? Sure that's a good idea? Like I say, getting light soon.
Know how you hate to be going home when the sun's up and all.
--Yeah, thanks for the concern. I'll stick around a little longer.
The bartender comes over. I order another round for myself. Phil stands there and waits,
but I don't order one for him and he finally gives in and asks for a cup of water. Two
bucks, the cheapest thing you can get here. The bartender takes a plastic cup over to the
Igloo and pulls the little drain plug at the bottom of the ice chest, filling the cup with
melted icewater. Philip looks at it.
--That sanitary?
The bartender plucks the dollar bill and four quarters from Phil's palm and tosses them in
the cashbox.
--Like you care.
Phil picks a flake of something black out of the water.
--Jeez, what the fuck's his problem?
Blackie looks at him and clears his throat.
I lead Phil to the table I was occupying.
--Watch your mouth.
--Yeah, yeah, I know. Language, language.
We sit.
He stares into his cup, making sure there are no other contaminants floating around.
--Two bucks for some water, you'd think they'd at least give you a bottle or something.
--Phil.
He looks up.
--Yeah?
--Where's my guy?
He finds another particle in the water and chases it around with his finger.
--Your guy?
--The one you were supposed to hook me up with.
He shows me a speck stuck to the tip of his index finger.
--What's that look like to you?
I grab his finger.
--Phil, where's The Count?
He pulls his finger free and points it over my shoulder.
--He's right there, man. The Count's right there.
I look at the guys playing pool.
--The one taking his shot.
I look at the one taking his shot: twenty to twenty-five, skinny, mop of blond hair,
little fringe of blond goatee, and a faded brown Count Chocula T-shirt.
Philip wipes the speck from his finger onto the thigh of his jeans.
--I mean, jeez, how'd you miss the guy? Told you he's called The Count.
Philip makes the introductions.
--Hey, hey, Count. This is my man Joe. Joe, this is The Count.
The Count flips his fingers at me, not offering to shake.
--Hey, Joe. 'S up?
--Wanted to have a word.
He looks over his shoulder at the guy racking the balls on the pool table.
--I got another game.
--I can wait.
He smiles, points at my watch.
--But not too long, right?
--No, not too long.
He twirls his pool cue.
--Yeah, got the same condition. Let me knock this guy off and we'll go someplace.
I watch him play. He's sharp on the table. Smooth. Keeps up a patter with a couple girls
sitting on one of the couches. Between shots he takes a clove cigarette from one of their
mouths without asking. He drags on it and passes it back, steps to the table and casually
sinks the eight. The loser comes over to shake and The Count passes him his cue.
--Take the table, man. I got to go.
He looks over at me, flashes a finger, asking for another second, and chats up the girls
as he puts on his fake furÐlined cord jacket, plaid scarf and furry Russian hat. Before he
comes over to me he's flipped open his phone and entered both girls' numbers into it.
--Thanks for waiting, man.
I get up. Phil gets up.
--So cool, where to, guys?
I put a hand on Philip's shoulder and press him back into his chair.
--Stay, Phil.
He starts to rise again.
--But.
I point a finger.
--Stay.
He stays. We go.
--Hey, girlie. No, I'm up. Yeah, right, as if. I don't know, just heading for my crib.
Right now? Girlie, you know I want to, but I got a thing I got to do. That ain't right.
That ain't right. Girlie, you know I don't rock like that. No doubt. There was any way,
I'd be there. Yeah? Yeah? You are such a bad girlie. You know you are. Yeah. Sure. That's
it. Later.
The Count
tells people to keep it down and not to curse. Think he'd like his job a little more.
I catch Phil at the bar.
--So, Phil.
--Oh, Joe, hey. Decided to stay? Sure that's a good idea? Like I say, getting light soon.
Know how you hate to be going home when the sun's up and all.
--Yeah, thanks for the concern. I'll stick around a little longer.
The bartender comes over. I order another round for myself. Phil stands there and waits,
but I don't order one for him and he finally gives in and asks for a cup of water. Two
bucks, the cheapest thing you can get here. The bartender takes a plastic cup over to the
Igloo and pulls the little drain plug at the bottom of the ice chest, filling the cup with
melted icewater. Philip looks at it.
--That sanitary?
The bartender plucks the dollar bill and four quarters from Phil's palm and tosses them in
the cashbox.
--Like you care.
Phil picks a flake of something black out of the water.
--Jeez, what the fuck's his problem?
Blackie looks at him and clears his throat.
I lead Phil to the table I was occupying.
--Watch your mouth.
--Yeah, yeah, I know. Language, language.
We sit.
He stares into his cup, making sure there are no other contaminants floating around.
--Two bucks for some water, you'd think they'd at least give you a bottle or something.
--Phil.
He looks up.
--Yeah?
--Where's my guy?
He finds another particle in the water and chases it around with his finger.
--Your guy?
--The one you were supposed to hook me up with.
He shows me a speck stuck to the tip of his index finger.
--What's that look like to you?
I grab his finger.
--Phil, where's The Count?
He pulls his finger free and points it over my shoulder.
--He's right there, man. The Count's right there.
I look at the guys playing pool.
--The one taking his shot.
I look at the one taking his shot: twenty to twenty-five, skinny, mop of blond hair,
little fringe of blond goatee, and a faded brown Count Chocula T-shirt.
Philip wipes the speck from his finger onto the thigh of his jeans.
--I mean, jeez, how'd you miss the guy? Told you he's called The Count.
Philip makes the introductions.
--Hey, hey, Count. This is my man Joe. Joe, this is The Count.
The Count flips his fingers at me, not offering to shake.
--Hey, Joe. 'S up?
--Wanted to have a word.
He looks over his shoulder at the guy racking the balls on the pool table.
--I got another game.
--I can wait.
He smiles, points at my watch.
--But not too long, right?
--No, not too long.
He twirls his pool cue.
--Yeah, got the same condition. Let me knock this guy off and we'll go someplace.
I watch him play. He's sharp on the table. Smooth. Keeps up a patter with a couple girls
sitting on one of the couches. Between shots he takes a clove cigarette from one of their
mouths without asking. He drags on it and passes it back, steps to the table and casually
sinks the eight. The loser comes over to shake and The Count passes him his cue.
--Take the table, man. I got to go.
He looks over at me, flashes a finger, asking for another second, and chats up the girls
as he puts on his fake furÐlined cord jacket, plaid scarf and furry Russian hat. Before he
comes over to me he's flipped open his phone and entered both girls' numbers into it.
--Thanks for waiting, man.
I get up. Phil gets up.
--So cool, where to, guys?
I put a hand on Philip's shoulder and press him back into his chair.
--Stay, Phil.
He starts to rise again.
--But.
I point a finger.
--Stay.
He stays. We go.
--Hey, girlie. No, I'm up. Yeah, right, as if. I don't know, just heading for my crib.
Right now? Girlie, you know I want to, but I got a thing I got to do. That ain't right.
That ain't right. Girlie, you know I don't rock like that. No doubt. There was any way,
I'd be there. Yeah? Yeah? You are such a bad girlie. You know you are. Yeah. Sure. That's
it. Later.
The Count
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