Lawrence Block - A Ticket To The Boneyard

"I'm sure you were."

When the girl returned Elaine ordered the large garden salad. I had what I generally have there, a Jarlsberg cheeseburger and well-done fries. When the food came I had what felt like déjà vu until I realized I was getting echoes of Tuesday night, when I'd had a late bite at Armstrong's with Toni. The two restaurants weren't that much alike, and neither were the women. Maybe it was the cheeseburgers.

Halfway through mine I thought to ask her if it bothered her that I was eating a cheeseburger. She looked at me as though I were crazy and asked why it should bother her.

"I don't know," I said. "You don't eat meat, and I just wondered."

"You must be kidding. Not eating meat is just a choice I make, that's all. My doctor didn't order me to quit, and it wasn't an addiction I had to struggle with."

"And you don't have to go to the meetings?"

"What meetings?"

"Carnivores Anonymous."

"What a thought," she said, and laughed. Then her eyes narrowed and she looked appraisingly at me. "Is that what you did? AA?"

"Uh-huh."

"I thought that was probably how you did it. Matt, would it have bothered you if I'd ordered a drink?"

"You did."

"Right, a Virgin Mary. Would it have—"

"You know what the British call it? Instead of a Virgin Mary?"

"A Bloody Shame."

"Right. No, it wouldn't have bothered me if you'd ordered a real drink. You can order one now if you want."

"I don't."

"Is that why you ordered a Virgin Mary? Because you thought it might bother me otherwise?"

"It didn't even occur to me, as a matter of fact. I hardly ever drink alcohol these days. I hardly ever did. The only reason I asked was because you asked about the cheeseburger, and while we've been discussing meat and drink I've been sneaking your cottage fries."

"While my attention was diverted elsewhere. We could probably arrange to get you some of your own."

She shook her head. "Stolen sweets are best," she said. "Didn't your mother ever tell you that?"

She wouldn't let me take the check, and then rejected my suggestion that we split it. "I invited you," she said. "Besides, I owe you money."

"How do you figure that?"

"Ray Galindez. I owe you a hundred bucks."

"The hell you do."

"The hell I don't. Some maniac's trying to kill me and you're protecting me. I ought to be paying your regular rate, you know that?"

"I don't have a regular rate."

"Well, I ought to be paying you what a client pays. I certainly ought to be covering the expenses. Speaking of which, you flew to Cleveland and back, you stayed over at a hotel—"

"I can afford it."

"I'm sure you can, but so what?"

"And I'm not just acting on your behalf," I went on. "I'm his target at least as much as you are."

"You think so? He's probably a lot less likely to fuck you in the ass."

"You never know what he learned in prison. I'm serious, Elaine. I'm operating in my own interest here."

"You're also acting in mine. And it's depriving you of income, you already said how you're not working at the detective agency in order to make time for this. If you're contributing your time, the least I can do is cover all the expenses."

"Why don't we split them?"

"Because that's not fair. You're the one running around, you're the one putting your regular work on the shelf for the duration. Besides, I can afford it better than you can. Don't pout, for Christ's sake, it's no reflection on your manhood, it's just a simple statement of fact. I've got a lot of money."

"Well, you earned it."

"Me and Smith Barney, making our money the old-fashioned way. I earned it and I kept it and I invested it, and I'm not rich, honey, but I'll never be poor. I own a lot of property. I own my apartment, I bought right away when the building went co-op, and I own houses and multiple dwellings in Queens Jackson Heights, mostly, and some in Woodside. I get checks every month from the management company, and every now and then my accountant tells me I've got too big a balance in my money-market account and I have to go out and buy another piece of property."

"A woman of independent means."

"You bet your ass."

She paid the check. On the way out we stopped at the bar and I introduced her to Gary. He wanted to know if I was working on a case. "He let me play Watson once," he told Elaine. "Now I live in hope of another opportunity."

"One of these days."

He draped his long body over the bar, dropped his voice low. "He brings suspects here for grilling," he confided. "We grill them over mesquite."

She rolled her eyes and he apologized. We got out of there, and she said, "God, it's glorious out, isn't it? I wonder how long this weather can last."

"As long as it wants, as far as I'm concerned."

"It's hard to believe it's something like six weeks until Christmas. I don't feel like going home. Is there someplace else we can go? That we can walk to?"

I thought for a moment. "There's a bar I like."

"You go to bars?"

"Not usually. The place I'm thinking of is kind of lowlife. The owner — I was going to say he was a friend of mine, but that may not be the right word."

"Now you've got me intrigued," she said.

We walked over to Grogan's. We took a table, and I went over to the bar to get our drinks. They don't have waiters there. You fetch what you want yourself.

The fellow behind the stick was called Burke. If he had a first name, I'd never heard it. Without moving his lips he said, "If you're looking for the big fella, he was just here. I couldn't say if he'll be back or not."

I brought two glasses of club soda back to the table. While we nursed them I told her a couple of stories about Mick Ballou. The most colorful one involved a man named Paddy Farrelly, who'd done something to arouse Ballou's ire. Then one night Ballou went in and out of every Irish saloon on the West Side. He was carrying a bowling bag, so they said, and he kept opening it to show off Paddy Farrelly's disembodied head.

"I heard that story," Elaine said. "Wasn't there something about it in the papers?"

"I think one of the columnists used it. Mick refuses to confirm or deny. In any event, Farrelly's never been seen since."

"Do you think he did it?"

"I think he killed Farrelly. I don't think there's any real question of that. I think he went around showing off a bowling bag. I don't know for sure that he ever opened it, though, or that there was anything in it."

She thought it over. "Interesting friends you have," she said.

Before our club soda ran out, she got a chance to meet him. He came in with two much smaller men in tow, two men dressed alike in jeans and leather flier's jackets. He gave me a slight nod as he led the two the length of the room and through a door at the rear. Some five minutes later the three reappeared. The two smaller men walked on out of the bar and headed south on Tenth Avenue, and Ballou stopped at the bar, then came over to our table with a glass of twelve-year-old Jameson in his hand.

"Matthew," he said. "Good man." I pointed to a chair but he shook his head. "I can't," he said. "I have business. The man who's his own boss always winds up working for a slavedriver."

I said, "Elaine, this is Mick Ballou. Elaine Mardell."

"A pleasure," Ballou said. "Matthew, I've been saying I wished you would come by, and here you are and I have to be off. Come back again, will you?"

"I will."

"We'll tell tales all night and go to mass in the morning. Miss Mardell, I'll hope to see you again as well."

He turned away. Almost as an afterthought he raised his glass and drained it. On his way out he left the glass on an empty table.

After the door closed behind him Elaine said, "I wasn't prepared for the size of him. He's huge, isn't he? He looks like one of those statues on Easter Island."