Marie-Helene Bertino - 2 A.M. at The Cat's Pajamas

Outside the store, bucketed roses grin under heat lamps. The man behind the counter tosses her the cigarettes without looking up from his newspaper.

Two teenagers shuffle up and down the aisles. “It’s my mom’s boyfriend,” one of them says, “and I work for him. But I said, ‘You tell me what to do on-site, you can’t tell me what to do at home.’ ”

“Matches?” says the man behind the counter.

“Please,” Sarina says.

“It’s cold out,” he says. “Do you enjoy the winter?”

“I prefer the hot.” She organizes the coins in her coin purse, the bills in the billfold.

“I did too when I was young.” He goes back to his paper.

“I wish I’d hit him with that pipe,” says the teenager whose mother dates his boss. “But then I’d be in jail, I guess.” They sidle up behind her and their talk ceases. This means they are sizing up her ass. She turns to catch them, but they are engrossed in a comic book. No one is admiring her ass.

Outside, Sarina considers buying a sleeve of roses. She evaluates each bunch then walks to the station.

There is time before the next train, so she has a cigarette on the platform. She can see the brick homes of Olde City. The dumb scratch of moon. When the train heaves and pumps into the station, Sarina realizes she has forgotten her wallet at the store with the roses and teenagers. She runs. Her low heels thwack against the pavement.

Ben, frowning over a pack of Camel Reds, looks at the girl who has entered, a beautiful girl who is flushed from running, she is familiar, it is Sarina: he is still frowning, so Sarina pauses in the doorway thinking he is upset with her until a smile he could not have planned opens on his face.

He raises his hands in mock penance. “I needed a cigarette.”

“I forgot my wallet,” she says.

Ben pays. Sarina wants the store owner to wink or refer to their previous exchange so Ben thinks she has charming conversations throughout the night with whomever, whenever. The store owner does not participate.

Outside, the teenagers read the comic book under a streetlight.

Sarina nods toward them. “Those guys are trouble.”

Ben considers them. He lights her cigarette before his own. “I’ll walk you to the train.”

Sarina wants to walk with Ben to the train more than she wants peaceful old age. “No, thank you,” she says. “It’s only a few blocks.”

“I can either stand here and have this cigarette or walk. It’s all the same.”

“Then walk me,” she says.

They walk.

“Parrots live in this neighborhood,” he says. “I saw one a few weeks ago. Honest-to-God parrots.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Annie didn’t believe me either. But still, they’re there. Someone must be feeding them.”

“Right there?” She points to a tree. As if on command, no parrots appear. Ben takes a drag of his cigarette.

Sarina takes a drag of hers. “Michael’s singing is getting better.”

“Yes, let’s talk about Michael’s singing.”

Is he drunk or just being silly? Sarina plays along. “He reaches notes only dogs can hear.”

“He came over last week and sang at my house,” he says. “When he left, my clocks were two hours slow.”

“His tone sends helicopters off course.”

“But his delivery is perfect.”

“Flawless,” Sarina says. A limo slinks by, the shouts of a bridal party. “I have a special fondness for Michael. He was my only dance at senior prom, you realize.”

Ben winces. “I know.”

They reach the station and extinguish the hope of their cigarettes. Ben collects both and deposits them into a nearby trash can. That was a careless thing to do, she thinks, bringing up the prom. If he wants to talk more, she will talk. Even though that means she will miss the 10:30 and have to wait for the 11:00.

Saying good-bye to Ben is Sarina’s least favorite activity. So sad the number of times she’s had to do it. Ball games, recitals, the homes of friends, rented shore houses, through car windows after dropping off some forgotten camera to Annie. Good-bye. See you later. Nice seeing you . She has mastered it: A dismissive peck on the cheek. A hug like an afterthought. Telling herself, Do not watch him walk away . Watching him walk away. Watching him drive away. Watching him descend the stairs to the subway. How many times have they said good-bye to each other? Already tonight, twice.

He interrupts her before she can get the second good-bye out.

“How would you feel,” he says, “about missing your train?”

Once at the beach, Sarina watched a crane bathing in a gully at dusk. It used its wings to funnel the water over its back, then shook out the excess in a firework of droplets. After several minutes it took off, arcing out over the fretless sea. That felt like this.

Max Cubanista is a liar’s liar and no matter what he tells you he did not invent the radio. He is not “Chuck Berry’s only living pupil.” He’s never waylaid an armed robbery by playing music for the thieves. He was not the inspiration for the song “They Can’t Take That Away from Me.” He does not own a bungalow in Havana. He and the Cubanistas are as Cuban as a pack of hot dogs. On most nights Max sleeps on the floor of Lorca’s back room next to a pile of his own sick.

Now he dozes in a booth at The Courtland Avenue Club. Every so often his chin finds a resting place on his chest, bringing him back to life, hurling insults at the girls standing over him and at Sonny and Lorca, who attempt to rouse him.

One of the dancers covers her naked breasts with her hands. “Tell your friend he’s an asshole.”

“He’s right here.” Lorca hitches his arm under Max’s armpit. “Tell him yourself.”

The girl leans into Max. “You’re an asshole.”

Max’s eyes are closed. “You’re a dear to say so.”

Lorca and Sonny hang Max between them and make slow progress through the room. The topless girl follows them, still yelling, stopping when they reach the door to the lanes, as if cordoned off by an unseen fence. Her friend tosses her a shirt. Cape May , it reads, the most haunted town in America!

They carry Max past Barbara, who waves the fingers of one hand as they go by, and through the doors to the parking lot. When they reach the car, Lorca realizes they are being followed by a girl in yellow heels.

“I’m Daphne.” She points to Max. “He promised me a ride.”

“A ride to where?” Sonny says.

“The Cat’s Pajamas.”

“What a coincidence,” Lorca positions Max unkindly in the backseat. “That’s exactly where we’re going.”

During the ride, Max outlines his thoughts: He wants a sandwich, he is getting the Christ scratched out of him by the seat belt, he doesn’t see what the big deal is.

Lorca smells Barbara on his hands. Desk chair and heavy cream. He went limp on her, so he will go back to his club and get drunk before Mongoose arrives. A flute begins in his gut. Every light on the street turns green.

The tables are filled when they return and Valentine is halfway through her second set. She lifts her eyes from the violin strings to watch them haul Max through the club. They deposit him onto a cot in the back room and Sonny gallops down the hall to join Valentine onstage. Lorca removes a flask from his top drawer. Max pulls a joint out from an unseen place under the cot.

“You go on in twenty minutes,” Lorca reminds him.

Max exhales. “I might be a little late.”

“We close at two tonight. Not one second later. If I have to turn off the electricity and pull you from that stage, I will.”

Max leaps from the cot and growls into a hanging mirror. “You’re scared, brother. But we’ll figure out a way to pay that citation.”