Richard Russo - Nobody's Fool

“You smell good, anyway,” Ruth said, finally sliding into the booth.

“So do you,” Sully said, grinning at her. “I’ve always liked the smell of pizza.”

Ruth just sat there, nodding and smiling at him, that rather knowing, unpleasant smile she had, the one that never boded well. Still, she looked good to Sully, and he found himself hoping they’d quarrel sooner rather than later, get it over with quickly, because he had missed her company.

“Youth,” she told him now, “is what you like the smell of.”

This was a strange remark, even by Ruth’s standards, and Sully found himself squinting at it, trying to get a handle. True, Ruth was twelve years younger than Sully, but he had a pretty good idea from her tone of voice that Ruth was not referring to herself.

“So,” she continued after a moment’s awkward silence. “How was work?”

“Hard.”

“It got hard today, did it?” Ruth’s knowing smile had become a malicious grin now. She was enjoying herself, watching him squirm and squint at her.

“Is there any way I can get in on this conversation?” Sully asked. “The one you’re having without me?”

“Hey,” Ruth said. “I just wondered how your day went. I thought maybe you struck up an old acquaintance. I take that back. A young acquaintance.”

Now it all fell into place. Someone had seen Toby Roebuck give him a lift downtown and reported it to Ruth, who, just before he’d quit working for Carl in August and enrolled at the college, had accused him of having a crush on Carl’s wife. It had been true, of course, but that hadn’t made the accusation any less surprising, and Sully had wondered, as he sometimes did, if Ruth might be gifted with ESP. He’d even accused her of prescience once or twice, though Ruth had replied that nobody needed any extra senses to figure Sully out.

“Do you realize,” Sully said, “that you and I have been together so long the town gossips treat us like we’re married. They used to talk about you and me to Zack. Now they report my activities to you. Just out of curiosity, what were you told?”

“It’s a kinky relationship, apparently,” she went on. “Involving mud wrestling by way of foreplay.”

Sully smiled at her. “I’m too goddamned tired even for foreplay, Ruth.”

“I’m glad,” Ruth said seriously. “I don’t think I’d take it very well if you threw me over for a cheerleader. You want something to eat?”

“Linguine,” Vince’s voice sang out from the kitchen. Vince’s hearing was legend. He’d been known to come out of the steamy kitchen, stalk across the floor of his raucous restaurant, elbowing among his clientele of screaming teens, and break up a fight before the first punch was thrown, explaining afterward that he’d been listening to the conversation. “He wants linguine and clams. I throw away two goddamn dozen cherrystones a week so he can have linguine the once a month he comes in.”

“Did it ever occur to you that I might want something else once?” Sully shouted at the kitchen door. “Just because I let you sell me half a dozen spoiled clams five years ago doesn’t mean I have to keep ordering linguine forever.”

“Wasn’t for you, I’d never have to order a single goddamn clam, you ingrate,” Vince bellowed. “Order whatever you want. Less work for me. I was going to have to pick through the trash for the clams anyhow.”

“Then that’s what I’ll have,” Sully said. “If it’ll cause you extra work, I’ll eat poison.”

“The life of Don Sullivan in a nutshell. Don’t run off when you finish,” Ruth said, looking serious again.

“Everything all right?”

“Not really.” Ruth nodded in the direction of the closed kitchen door, which meant that whatever this was about, she didn’t want to discuss it in the field of Vince’s radar. Which worried Sully, since there wasn’t much Ruth wouldn’t discuss in front of Vince.

Sully’d eaten about half his linguine when Wirf came in, stood in the center of the room, pivoted on his prosthetic limb, and was about to leave when he spotted Sully off by himself in the dark, closed section of the restaurant. “What the hell are you doing back here?” he wanted to know as he slid uncertainly onto the bench, red-eyed. Wirf was about half in the bag, from the look of him.

“Trying to eat my dinner in peace for once,” Sully said.

Wirf nodded sympathetically, secure in his apparent belief that Sully’s observation in no way pertained to himself. He took off his gloves and scarf, put them next to the rubber plant on the ledge. “I saw you peek in at The Horse, but then you disappeared. I bet I been up and down this street half a dozen times trying to figure where you went.”

Sully twirled a forkful of linguine. “You should have given up, Wirf.”

“I was afraid you might be thinking black thoughts, after yesterday,” Wirf said. He was watching like an expectant dog as Sully raised the pasta to his mouth. Wirf, his brain permanently fogged by alcohol, forgot all sorts of things. Often he forgot to eat. Food seldom appealed to him except when he saw it actually being consumed. Then longing entered his expression, as if he’d suddenly recollected a lost love.

“Help me eat some of this,” Sully told him. The booth was set up for two and Ruth hadn’t bothered to clear away the other silver, so all Wirf needed was a plate. Since Sully had finished his salad, he pushed the bowl toward Wirf, who emptied the dregs of the oil and vinegar into the nearby rubber plant. With fork and spoon he transferred exactly half the remaining linguine into the bowl. “You ate all the clams?” he said, peering at the stack Sully’d made of the empty shells.

“I wasn’t expecting you, Wirf, ” Sully said.

“All I wanted was one,” Wirf said. “I hate the slimy bastards, but I keep thinking I’ll be surprised someday and like them.”

“I’m glad there aren’t any left then. I like them every time I eat them,” Sully said, pushing the breadbasket toward Wirf.

“Don’t be stingy,” Wirf said, pointing his fork at Sully. “Don’t go through life stingy.”

“Okay,” Sully said.

“A clam’s a small thing,” Wirf explained. “But there’s a principle.”

“I could order you some clams,” Sully offered. He had no intention of doing that, but Wirf was easy to shame with gestures.

“This goddamn kitchen is closed!” Vince bellowed.

“Old radar ears,” Wirf said. “The government should put him on top of a mountain and make him listen to sounds from deep space.”

“That would be the place for him, all right,” Sully agreed.

Nothing from the kitchen. In a minute Ruth came by and set a clam in front of Wirf. It was uncooked and clamped tight.

“How can you put up with this untrustworthy son of a bitch?” Wirf asked her.

“Easy,” Ruth said. “I never see him.”

“So,” Wirf said when she was gone, “I’m hearing you went back to work.”

Sully pushed his plate toward the center of the table. “I didn’t do too bad either, you’ll be pleased to know. I enjoy it more than talking to judges.”

Wirf made a face. “Yesterday was no good,” he admitted, in reference to their most recent day in court, “but we’ll wear the bastards down. There’s a zillion things we haven’t even tried yet, and one of these days we’re going to get a judge who’s actually done an honest day’s work at some point in his worthless life. Then we’re home free.”

“By then I’ll be seventy and already dead for five years.”

“See,” Wirf pointed the fork again. “These are black thoughts. I thought we’d agreed you’d stay in school and wait this out. Be smart for once. Bide your time. They ever find out you’re working, and we’re really fucked.”