David Corbett - The Devil’s Redhead

The bartender was a tall and rangy man with large, strong hands. He stood alone with his arms crossed by the ice bin, nursing a tonic water. A twelve-stepper, Abatangelo guessed. Ordering a dark rum neat with a soda back, he paid with a twenty and let his change sit. This is exactly the kind of joint, he thought, we used to avoid. Shel was sending him a message, no doubt. Don’t expect much. Or, more to the point: Go home.

From long habit he began to view the room one-eyed, appraising shadows, framing possible angles and assessing depth of field. The decor called to mind a dozen interchangeable cities- Des Moines, Ft. Wayne, Columbus, Tulsa- cities in which he’d once grabbed a quick drink in an off-ramp motel bar. No one looked at home. The women were mouthy and overdressed. The men were scrubbed blue-collar types, recent entrants to the service sector, he supposed. Here and there a few souses loomed, hunched over beers, eyeing one and all with horny menace. Ready to fuck or fight. They lent the place its only character, them and the ax handle the bartender had tucked beside the ice bin to keep them in line.

Abatangelo sipped his rum. So what’s the plan, Dan? First, he surmised, don’t let on that you know her situation. She’ll read that as charity and spit everything else you say right back at you. Don’t try too hard to charm her, either. She’s got built-in equipment for sniffing through charm, and besides, your mechanism there is rusty.

Judging from her eyes, Shel hadn’t enjoyed much in the way of charm lately. It was odd, seeing in the flesh what he’d detected in her letters. He didn’t want to pin a word like “depression” on it- words were particularly cheap at that end of the psychological spectrum- but she looked like it was all she could do just to function.

He checked his watch, sipped his soda, felt his pulse skip around. Two made-up vamps strutted from the ladies’ room, braying at the boys. Shel didn’t follow. What was taking her?

He pictured her scrambling out through a propped-open transom, jogging to her car and fleeing. That would be exotic, he thought. Then he pictured the two of them lying side by side, an impulsive stroke of tenderness, a motel room, naked. She would hike the sheet up around her chest, head propped on one hand. The lamp behind would cast a warming glow along her body. How many centuries had passed since he’d touched her? She would pluck gray hairs from his chest. She would crack unseemly jokes about his prison muscle.

Shel emerged from the ladies’ room with a tentative stride. Abatangelo, watching her, felt every step break his heart. You’re here for the same reason I’m here, he thought. Admit it.

Shunning eye contact, she crossed the room and slid a bill across the bar, nodding with her head toward the jukebox. The bartender palmed the bill, leaned down, reached for the throw switch, then turned around and flipped on the radio as the jukebox grew dark and the music faded into dissonance then silence. A roar of disapproval erupted from the crowd, to which the bartender turned his back. He adjusted the radio volume to a level compatible with talk.

“What was the fee?” Abatangelo asked.

Shel hiked herself onto the stool next to his. “Enough, apparently,” she said.

“Doubt it made you any friends.”

“Pete’s my friend here,” she replied, nodding toward the bartender. As an afterthought, she added: “We used to work together. Long ago.”

She said this without sentiment. Down the bar, Pete the bartender set about mixing a double Stoli Bloody Mary. A dab of Worcestershire, several shakes of celery salt.

“I fear,” Abatangelo said, “Pete finds me unworthy.”

“Pete thinks everybody’s unworthy,” Shel responded. “It’s his curse.”

Pete concluded his preparations and carried Shel’s drink toward her like a chalice. He spun a napkin down and pinned it with the glass stem. Abatangelo nudged a five from his change but Pete lifted a nay-saying hand.

“Thank you,” Shel said to both of them.

Pete smiled toward her, eyed Abatangelo, then retreated. Shortly he resumed his position at the ice bin, far enough away to imply discretion, close enough to overhear if voices were raised.

Shel regarded with relief the cocktail before her- fuss of celery, lime squeeze, peppery ice. The first taste went down with a delicious greedy snap and she promptly considered draining the glass, ordering a second. Instead, she took the celery stalk in her fingers and used it to stir.

A long silence followed. Sensing Abatangelo about to break it, she launched in first, saying, “Who are you?” Listening to her own voice, she decided the words did not sound coy or malicious. She meant to sound curious, as though they were strangers. A bit of make-believe, to lighten things up, give them a little emotional leeway. “If you don’t mind my asking,” she added.

Abatangelo stared back at her with a look of bafflement. He picked up his glass and rolled the rum around, sniffing it, sipping.

“I am,” he said at length, “a photographer. I work in the city.”

“You’re a long way from home.”

“I came out to see an old friend. Lost touch over the years. I’m hoping she’ll turn up soon.”

He smiled gamely. She felt herself grow sad. She wanted a kiss from him.

“How did you lose touch,” she said, “you and this old friend of yours?”

“I’ve been away,” he said. “The desert.”

“Studying with a guru?”

This provoked a helpless cackle. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Me and all my hermit pals. We were studying with our guru. We were paving the road to enlightenment.”

“You sound bitter.”

“Well, it got a little dull.”

“Maybe your guru was messing with your head.”

“That’s all part of the process.”

“Then who needs it?”

“Me,” Abatangelo said. “Wicked me. The wise ones decided: Send the sorry motherfucker to the desert, that’ll straighten him out. Let him learn the ancient secrets of boredom and humiliation.”

“Listen…”

“That’s enlightenment in the desert, my dear. That and an inkling, that, back in civilization, the people you used to know quite easily abide your absence. They, how does one put it, move on.”

He looked at her inquiringly. She felt her throat tighten.

She said, “But hey, now you’re back.”

“Waiting,” he said.

She reached for her drink. “What did you do before this bit in the desert?”

“I was in import/export. Exotic greenery. My turn now: Who are you?”

She felt stung by his tone and yet oddly relieved. He was getting pissed. “I used to work in property management,” she said. “Beachfront homes. But the partnership dissolved.”

“How sad,” Abatangelo said. “I mean, I suppose. Was it?”

“Yeah,” she said. “It was sad.”

He stared at a spot two inches inside her skull. “Tough luck,” he said. “Hard to find good partners. And now?”

Shel puffed her cheeks and winced. “I run a day-care center,” she said, “for hard-to-discipline children.”

She offered him a knowing smile. Once upon a time, she thought, we did this in Vegas. We were young and crazy with hope and brand-new to each other. Every word crackled. It seemed a thousand years ago.

He turned toward her and said, “Let’s drop this, all right?”

“I’m sorry, it was stupid, I just thought- ”

“Forget it.”

They lifted their glasses in unison and drank. Shel tried hard not to think of Frank, or Felix, or the twins.

After a moment, staring straight ahead, he told her, “I got your letter.”

Shel let loose with a long and windy sigh. “Then there’s not much point talking about it,” she said, “is there?”