Iolene. With some other women, too. These days, he’d come to prefer the ones whose secrets lie only behind a thin layer of nylon, if that.
As he watched Jimmy Love drop a few bills on the bar and walk out without another word, Hop waved over to the bartender.
“Bourbon,” he sighed, pushing his soda aside. “Bourbon.”
“Does that mean bourbon twice or are you playing for emphasis?”
“Do you get extra tips for the Oscar Levant routine?”
“Not from your type.”
Had he even made her any promises? Not that he could recall. He was very careful, his entire life, to avoid making any promises to women at all. He remembered Iolene showing up at the Cinestar office the day after Jean Spangler first went missing, eyes red as grenadine, hands shaking, clattering against the tortoise clasp on her purse. At the time, he was sure the girl—this Jean—would show up. That she’d just gone off on one of these joy rides that these starlets live, breathe, and tramp themselves all over town for.
“Listen, Iolene, what could you tell the cops that would help them find her, really? Stay out of it. You want to end up in cuffs on the cover of tomorrow’s Mirror? Guilt by association, baby. Who needs it? Let me do the talking for us. Fix it real nice.”
And he had. He knew what to do to make it all go away. Drop a few ideas —ideas that were code for “girl of questionable habits.” “Girl running in dangerous circles.” “Girl not long f0r this town.” It wouldn’t take much. He knew that, too. Girls like this turned to smoke every day.
“I guess I’m going home,” Hop told the bartender at the King Cole, pushing the empty glass forward with his two index fingers. His head wobbled and he knew he’d had at least two drinks too many. Fuck me, I’m innocent.
“It’s not even two. King Cole’s booming until four o’clock closing.”
“Maybe so.” Hop threw some bills on the bar, his eyes moving in
and out of focus. “But I got someone waiting.”
“A girl?”
“Sort of. A wife.”
It was only then that, in his bourbon haze, Hop remembered there was no wife. Hadn’t been one for almost a month. The only place to see Midge now was tucked in Jerry’s brown-walled bachelor pad on Bronson. It was the first time he’d forgotten and it made him feel lost, a ship knocking against a dock over and over that no one hears.
That’s the booze talking, he assured himself.
Driving home, he missed a turnoff and ended up heading toward Bronson, anyway. Some small voice in the back of his head whispered, But only if the lights are on. Then he figured, hell, until a few months ago he wouldn’t have thought twice about dropping in on Jerry at this hour. They’d drink brandy, reminisce about the war, talk about Jersey Joe Walcott or anything at all. That was back when Hop would do anything to avoid going home. Kind of like now.
He wasn’t altogether sure what he was going to do when he got there. But that didn’t stop him from leaving his car teetering 0n the curb and running up the drive and the four sets of stairs to Jerry’s door, skidding on the last set of steps so hard he nearly tore a leg off his pants from the knee down. It was something about him wanting to see Jerry, like he always did, but now Midge was there and it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all.
It seemed like he’d only been knocking for a second, but when Jerry’s face appeared he realized his knuckles were already sore.
“Oh boy, you’re soused,” was all his friend said, and before Hop could blurt out whatever it was that was ready to press through from the dark tumult of his head straight out his mouth, he heard that familiar nasal pitch. A voice from behind Jerry, scrambling to make
itself heard.
“Get the hell out of here, Gil. No one wants to see you.”
Midge.
“Oh yeah?” Hop found himself jamming his hand against the door
hard, knocking Jerry back a few feet.
When he heard his own voice, it wasn’t the cool
As he watched Jimmy Love drop a few bills on the bar and walk out without another word, Hop waved over to the bartender.
“Bourbon,” he sighed, pushing his soda aside. “Bourbon.”
“Does that mean bourbon twice or are you playing for emphasis?”
“Do you get extra tips for the Oscar Levant routine?”
“Not from your type.”
Had he even made her any promises? Not that he could recall. He was very careful, his entire life, to avoid making any promises to women at all. He remembered Iolene showing up at the Cinestar office the day after Jean Spangler first went missing, eyes red as grenadine, hands shaking, clattering against the tortoise clasp on her purse. At the time, he was sure the girl—this Jean—would show up. That she’d just gone off on one of these joy rides that these starlets live, breathe, and tramp themselves all over town for.
“Listen, Iolene, what could you tell the cops that would help them find her, really? Stay out of it. You want to end up in cuffs on the cover of tomorrow’s Mirror? Guilt by association, baby. Who needs it? Let me do the talking for us. Fix it real nice.”
And he had. He knew what to do to make it all go away. Drop a few ideas —ideas that were code for “girl of questionable habits.” “Girl running in dangerous circles.” “Girl not long f0r this town.” It wouldn’t take much. He knew that, too. Girls like this turned to smoke every day.
“I guess I’m going home,” Hop told the bartender at the King Cole, pushing the empty glass forward with his two index fingers. His head wobbled and he knew he’d had at least two drinks too many. Fuck me, I’m innocent.
“It’s not even two. King Cole’s booming until four o’clock closing.”
“Maybe so.” Hop threw some bills on the bar, his eyes moving in
and out of focus. “But I got someone waiting.”
“A girl?”
“Sort of. A wife.”
It was only then that, in his bourbon haze, Hop remembered there was no wife. Hadn’t been one for almost a month. The only place to see Midge now was tucked in Jerry’s brown-walled bachelor pad on Bronson. It was the first time he’d forgotten and it made him feel lost, a ship knocking against a dock over and over that no one hears.
That’s the booze talking, he assured himself.
Driving home, he missed a turnoff and ended up heading toward Bronson, anyway. Some small voice in the back of his head whispered, But only if the lights are on. Then he figured, hell, until a few months ago he wouldn’t have thought twice about dropping in on Jerry at this hour. They’d drink brandy, reminisce about the war, talk about Jersey Joe Walcott or anything at all. That was back when Hop would do anything to avoid going home. Kind of like now.
He wasn’t altogether sure what he was going to do when he got there. But that didn’t stop him from leaving his car teetering 0n the curb and running up the drive and the four sets of stairs to Jerry’s door, skidding on the last set of steps so hard he nearly tore a leg off his pants from the knee down. It was something about him wanting to see Jerry, like he always did, but now Midge was there and it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all.
It seemed like he’d only been knocking for a second, but when Jerry’s face appeared he realized his knuckles were already sore.
“Oh boy, you’re soused,” was all his friend said, and before Hop could blurt out whatever it was that was ready to press through from the dark tumult of his head straight out his mouth, he heard that familiar nasal pitch. A voice from behind Jerry, scrambling to make
itself heard.
“Get the hell out of here, Gil. No one wants to see you.”
Midge.
“Oh yeah?” Hop found himself jamming his hand against the door
hard, knocking Jerry back a few feet.
When he heard his own voice, it wasn’t the cool
Similar Books
