David Gates - Preston Falls

"J & B," Howard says.

"Howard is drinking J & B," says Jerry. "Which I have to say is extremely judicious. Nobody's going to figure out what the heU he is."

Jean can see why Anita predicted a long night. "Maybe some white wine too," she says. Now that she's kicked away the chance of forming any other bond.

Jerry's hand shoots into the air and begins waving. "Yo. Garson. Garsonette." A waitress comes their way, tottering in the high heels and short, tight leather skirt they make her wear; you can practically

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hear her net stockings scraping together at the knees. "Uno more-o vino white-o," says Jerry, touching the rim of Anita's glass.

The waitress nods, then gives Jean just the quickest look: Better you than me, honey. She must be about Jean's age, sort of country hard-faced.

"So in your absence," says Jerry, "we've arrived at a decision." He takes a pull at his whiskey. "First we chow down at whatever the hell the name is, some place our friend and colleague Howard here says is acceptable, which we'll see." The waitress sets a glass of wine in front of Jean. "What time again, Howard?"

"Quarter to eight," says Howard.

"Quarter to eight. Sounds plausible," says Jerry. "And then it's on to what we're told is the premier country-music nightspot, which is called the. . Howard?"

"Crystal Chandelier," says Howard.

"The Crystal Chandelier. Thank yuh thank yuh. Where we get to see some poofter in a cowboy hat. Gary Larry or Larry Gary or some such shit."

"You know, it's almost seven, Jer," Howard says. "I should call the car place."

"Well, hell, go to it, son. Got us a phone rot over thur by the pissy-warr."

"Yeah, I know, Jer," says Howard. "I just used it."

Anita glances at Jean and raises her eyes ceilingward. Jean has both hands around her wineglass; she opens, then closes, her fingers; she hopes this will seem like the equivalent of a sympathetic shrug.

"Hell of a town," says Jerry, "Jes' so proud to be here."

"I'll be right back," says Howard.

"Take your tom, son," Jerry says, as Howard heads for the telephone. He takes another gulp of whiskey. "Poor bastard."

Jean says nothing. Shamefully leaving it to Anita, who asks, "Why do you say that?"

Jerry winces. "Bruno," he says. "Please tell me you're just playing dumb. Look, this is a sweet man, you know what I'm saying? Basically a lovely man. They threw him down and raped him in New York. You think even in this godforsaken shithole they can't smell it on him? I mean, with all due respect to Howard." He shrugs. "I give it a year."

"But doesn't anybody know this?" says Anita.

"/ know it; am / anybody?" Jerry says. "I guess not!'

This shuts Anita up.

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"But he's moving his family down," Jean says.

"So let's hope they like the area," says Jerry.

"How can you do this to him?" Jean says.

Jerry shrugs. "He fuckin' begged for it. What am / supposed to do? Out of New York, more relaxed way of life, nice public schools — plus his own little fiefdom away from all the big mean guys. Hey, and Art was only too happy to make it all come true. Because he sees a tax loss at the end of the tunnel and Howard out the door." Howard's heading back to the table; Jean smiles and nods at him to alert Jerry. "You think I'm scary, you should watch old Artie in action — if you can even see what he's doing. Fucker's the master of misdirection."

"Who we talking about?" Howard says, climbing back onto his stool.

''You, babe," says Jerry, who must have seen him coming after all. "So what's the frequency, Kenneth?"

"I asked them to send a car around in about twenty minutes."

"That's the stuff," says Jerry. "Shit, you're going to be right in your element down here."

"Well, I think it's the right move for me. And we'll make that location work, Jerry. I respect what you're saying, but over the long haul?"

"There, see that?" Jerry says to Jean and Anita. "This is the man with the master plan." He raises his glass. "Howie, you fuckin' ace of trumps." He drains the last of his drink. "Now, here's the agenda. If you would escort Ms. Bruno out to the lobby and wait for us, Ms. Karnes and I have about five minutes' worth of highly confidential shit to talk over."

Anita looks at Jean, who turns up a palm.

"Sure," says Howard. "We can do that. If the car shows up, I'll just have him wait."

"Excellent," Jerry says. "Have him wait. That's it. You're in the zone, babe."

Howard touches fingertips to Anita's elbow, and Jerry watches them out of the room. Then he shoots his fingers behind the lenses of his glasses, pushing them up above his forehead, and digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, twisting his head from side to side. He claws the glasses back down into place and says, "Help me, somebody, /^sus." He looks up. "How's your drink holding out?"

"I'm fine," says Jean.

"Sure you are. So what's this secret sorrow, Karnes? Let me guess.

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Prince Hamlet won't take care of his homework. Have I ever told you you're worth ten of this putz? In my opinion?"

"Yes. Repeatedly."

"If you don't mind my calling your husband a putz. How is the King ofRock and Roll?"

"I don't know. I don't even know where he is. He was supposed to be back at work this week, and apparently he just, you know, took off. That or something's happened to him. I have no idea what to do."

"Well," Jerry says, "in my religion we have some very moving prayers of thanksgiving."

"Fuck you, Jerry. I don't need jokes."

"Now, that's the little pepper-pot we know and love. Okay, so what have you tried so far? You called everybody, nobody knows shit, so you did what? Go to the police?"

"Yes, finally. And now — this morning? — they called and said they found his truck on Houston Street."

"Yeah? And?"

"That's it."

"Well, so what the hell are you doing dicking around in Atlanta, Georgia?" says Jerry. "Why didn't you tell me? Dragging you off on this buUshit."

"I don't know. I guess if anything, it was a relief to have something I had to do," she says. "I think I'm sort of sleepwalking."

"Yeah, I would say. Help me, somebody." He raises his hand and windmills for the waitress. "So what did you do with the kids meanwhile? Put out food and water for them?"

"My sister's there—"

"Right, right, I remember you said—"

"— but she has to go back to Seattle. I mean, she should have gone already."

Jerry shuts his eyes, his whole face scrunching up. "If this wasn't the ass end of the universe, Karnes, I'd stick you on a plane right now. Shit, there's got to be something flying back to civilization tonight." The waitress is coming their way; he mimics writing on his palm, and she swivels and makes for the cash register. "Okay, this is the plan. Wherever we can get you to. La Guardia, Newark, fuckin' PhilaJe/phia, we'll have a car waiting—"

"Jerry, no. I can't. I need some sleep. My sister's taking care of the

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kids, they'll be fine, and just this one night, you know, there's that huge bed and it's like it isn't anywhere. It isn't even in the world.''

"Will you be able to sleep?" he says. The waitress puts the check on the table; Jerry lays his credit card on it. "You want a Halcion?"

"God no," says Jean. "What's it like, though? I've never taken it."

"It's like you were never born," he says. "Temporarily."

"Could I really have one?"

"First one's free, kid. So listen. I see absolutely no need for you to come along on the voyage of the Pequod tonight. Howard was probably counting on you to keep me busy, while he tortures himself with the beautified Miss Bruno. But with just the three of us, it'U be all the more piquant."

"Oh, come on," says Jean.

"Don't you start playing dumb." Jerry taps his temple with a forefinger. "It's my little private theater troupe, okay? Starring the beautified Miss Bruno. Another one of life's winners. One-bedroom co-op in the Village that she can't unload, and some putz hanging around who's in film, for Christ's sake. See, Bruno jells me everything. Which is more than I can say for you, Karnes. I think she read some fucking article about mentors."