Richard Russo - Nobody's Fool

“Try to get over to Hattie’s by six,” Sully advised. “You know how to fry an egg, don’t you?”

“Better than you.”

“There’s not very much to breakfast,” Sully assured him, though this was untrue. Short-order cooks were skilled jugglers and masters of timing. But Cass would keep an eye out and help him. Either that or she’d cook and let him work the register and the tables. Which reminded him of the promise he’d made to her and which he would now be unable to keep unless Wirf could spring him before New Year’s. “Tell her I’ll do that favor for her as soon as I get out,” he added.

“Okay,” Peter repeated.

“Let Miles Anderson go until you get the floor in at the camp.”

“Oooo-kay.”

“You know how to work a circular saw?”

Peter grinned drunkenly. “Better than you.”

Sully nodded. Smart-ass kid. “How long do you figure it’ll take you?”

“By myself, three days, maybe four.”

“You won’t be by yourself.”

“Oh, yeah,” Peter said, remembering his father’s injunction: get Rub to help.

“He’ll be fine by tomorrow,” Sully insisted. “Buy him breakfast. Loan him a dollar to bet his double.”

“Okay,” Peter said.

Wirf, who had been taking in this conversation, shook his head. “You make me zig, you know that?”

Sully rotated on his stool. “I make you sick?”

“No,” Wirf said. “You make me zig. I zig in response to the craziness of existence. If it weren’t for you, I’d live a virtuous life.”

“You should be thankful I’m around, then,” Sully said, then turned back to his son. “You think you can figure out how to hitch that plow blade to the truck if it snows?”

“If you can do it, I can do it.”

“Tell Harold to rig it for you,” Sully decided on further reflection. “Tell him you’re my son.”

“Right,” Wirf agreed. “You run into problems, drop your old man’s name. Watch all the doors fly open.”

Sully rotated on his stool again. “I can’t believe it’s going to take you a week to get me out,” Sully said.

“I’m a Jew. These aren’t my holidays,” he said. “Besides. How can I start getting you out when you won’t even go in?”

“You’re the one who keeps buying beer,” Sully pointed out. “How can I give myself up with you buying another round every time I get halfway through the beer I’m drinking?”

“That’s Zen Buddhist philosophy,” Wirf remarked. “If there were no beer there’d be no drunks. Or is it the other way around? If there were no drunks there’d be no beer. If I weren’t so drunk I could tell you.”

Sully shook his head. “A zillion lawyers in the state of New York, and I end up with a drunk, one-legged, Buddhist Jew.”

“Hand me one of those eggs,” Wirf said, pointing to the big jar on the bar in front of Peter.

“No,” Sully said. “I don’t think I could stand that.”

Peter, who had been nearly asleep, unscrewed the top, reached into the brine and withdrew an egg.

“Toss it,” Wirf said.

Peter flipped him the egg, which missed Wirf’s hand, continued over his shoulder and onto the floor.

Wirf looked at his empty hand. “I’m going to need another egg.”

Peter reached around his father with this one, placing the egg in Wirf’s hand. “Ah,” Wirf said.

“How much do you want to bet that prick charges you for both eggs?” Sully said softly, indicating, at the other end of the bar, Tiny, who’d been watching but so far had made no move to get off his stool and adjust Wirf’s tab.

“Oh God, here we go,” Wirf said. “You’ve never seen this, have you?” he asked Peter.

Sully took out all the money he had and put it onto the bar. “I got forty-two dollars says he puts two eggs on your tab.”

Wirf sighed. “Why shouldn’t he charge me for eggs?”

“How much money have you dropped in here tonight?” Sully wanted to know.

“Not a dime yet.”

“What do you figure? What was your tab last night?”

“I don’t remember.”

“I do,” Sully said. “It was over forty dollars. Tonight will be more.”

“I’ve done more zigging,” Wirf pointed out. “And had more company. This has been team zigging. Synchronized team zigging.”

“Here he goes,” Sully whispered, nudging Peter, who was again at sleep’s door.

Tiny had slid off his stool, come halfway up the bar to where the tabs were kept next to the register, where he casually turned one over and made a notation.

“Hey!” Sully thundered, causing Tiny to leap.

“Goddamn you, Sully,” the big man said guiltily. “What?”

“Bring that down here a minute,” Sully said.

“What?” Tiny said, looking around.

“I want to see what you just wrote on that tab.” “It wasn’t even your tab I was writing on,” Tiny said. “So take a hike.”

“I know it wasn’t my tab. Bring it down here. I want to see what you wrote.”

Tiny grabbed a tab and came down the bar with it. “You know what, Sully? You’re an asshole. Your father was an asshole. Your brother was an asshole. And you’re an asshole.”

He slapped the tab on the bar in front of Sully. “Go to jail,” he said. “Do us all a favor.”

Sully turned the tab over, saw that it was his own, and flicked it back at the bartender. The tab caught an air current and dropped straight to the floor like a stone. “That’s not the one you wrote on,” Sully said.

Tiny grunted, bent at the knees and picked it up and put it back on the bar. “It’s your tab, Sully. And that’s the only one you got any business looking at.”

“I want to know what you wrote on his,” Sully said, then turned to Wirf. “Tell him you want to see your tab.”

“But I don’t want to see my tab,” Wirf said. “Ever.”

“Show him his tab,” Sully said.

“Fuck off, Sully,” Tiny said, turning and heading back down the bar.

Sully watched him go, vaguely aware that Wirf had taken out a pen and was scribbling on a cocktail napkin. “Why do you let him piss on your shoes?” Sully said.

Wirf grinned, handed him the napkin. Sully opened it. “Why do you let him piss on your shoes?” was what it said. “Tell me you aren’t the most predictable man in Bath.”

“Yeah, okay, so what,” Sully said. “You still haven’t answered the question.”

“Let’s go home,” Wirf suggested. “Your kid’s asleep.”

They turned and studied Peter, whose head lay on the bar. When he exhaled from his nose, he made ripples in the puddle of condensation on the bar.

“Kids are cute when they’re asleep, aren’t they?” Wirf observed. Sully nudged his son, who started awake and said, “Okay.” “It’s your round,” Sully said, “and don’t pretend to be asleep either.”

“God,” Peter moaned. “Let’s go home.”

“Hey,” Sully called down the bar to Tiny. “Let’s settle up. Bring Wirf’s tab.”

“Here we go again,” Wirf said.

Tiny brought Wirf’s tab. Sully’s was already in front of him. They had not allowed Peter to buy a round. When Sully reached for Wirf’s tab, Tiny slapped a big paw on top of it. “That’s your tab,” he said, indicating Sully’s.

“I tell you what,” Sully said to Wirf, pushing all the money he had on the bar at Wirf. “I bet you all of it that this greedy cocksucker charged you for both eggs. The one you ate and the one on the floor.”

Wirf took the tab from Tiny, glanced at it, handed the bartender three twenties. Tiny took them and the tab and retreated to the register. “Let’s go home,” Wirf said.

“No,” Sully said. “Well, how about it? If he didn’t charge you for both eggs, I’ll not only give you the money, I’ll eat the egg on the floor.”