I’ll hit the brakes and he’ll fly right past me
-Top Gun
Bulstrode peered into the lobby bar of a downtown transient
hotel and watched Karl Rafferty roll a cigarette. Rafferty’s hair was longish and thin and obscured his eyes
as he bent down over his cancerous chore.
He fingered the tobacco into its paper nest, rolled it up tight, and
gripped it at one end between his finger and thumb. He inserted all but the end held into his mouth and pulled
it through his lips to seal.
Cigarettes rolled and sealed, Raff examined it, found it satisfactory,
nestled it between his lips and struck a match. He inhaled deeply, smiled, took a pull off a bottle of Old
Style and said something, leeringly, to the bartender, who rolled her eyes.
Bulstrode was seized with a maddening, toxic nostalgia. This Rafferty sitting at the bar was
exactly the same as he’d been in 1965.
Older, bonier, closer to death. But still, somehow, exactly the
same. He rolled his cigarettes the
same way, pulled off his beer bottle the same way, leered at female bartenders
the same way. He was the exact
same ratlike little man Bulstrode had once thought himself permanently shed
of. But Bulstrode,
goddammit, was not the same man he’d been in 1965.
Tré arrived at the entrance to the lobby bar and greeted
Bulstrode. He was surprised to be
meeting Bulstrode in this seedy place.
But he’d been doing exactly what Bulstrode had told him to lately. If Bulstrode wanted to meet him in this
dump, then Tré would meet him there.
“Hi, Tré,” said Bulstrode. “Look, I need you to know that this man we’re going to meet
is not my friend. He is merely someone I used to know and someone to whom I
feel the obligation of past collegiality.”
Obligation of past
collegiality, thought Tré, what the
fuck does that mean?
But he kept that thought to himself and just nodded briskly
and followed Bulstrode into the bar.
“Bully,” said Rafferty, turning around in his barstool, in
obvious good humor. “Have you
brought me the deed?”
“No, I’ve brought you something else,” said Bulstrode. “Let’s sit at a table and I’ll tell you
what I have in mind.”
“Brought your Gal Friday,” said Raff, grinning at Tré and
laughing loud at his own joke.
“Tré Little,” said Tré, squelching his dislike and holding
out his hand. “I work for Mr.
Bulstrode.”
“I used to work for him,” said Rafferty. “But back then we just called him
Bully.”
“I don’t care what you call me,” said Bulstrode,
wearily. “Let’s just sit down.”
When they sat down, Tré pulled out a file and, at a nod from
Bulstrode, began speaking.
“Bulstrode asked me to scout out some appropriate properties for you
downstate,” he began. “I found a
great place off Rend Lake that…”
“Downstate?” exploded Rafferty. “Fuck that! I
done my time downstate. I’m a
Chicago man. I’m staying here and you’re giving me what I want, Bully. Or else.”
“Just let Tré finish,” said Bulstrode. “You may change your mind.”
“It’s a place called Fishtails,” said Tré. “It’s a great bar. They do a brisk business and have a GM
who’s been there a number of years and seems amenable to hanging out and
running the place. I’ve got some
numbers here…”
“Aw, fuck it, Bully,” said Rafferty. “You know I’m not going downstate. I got no idea why you ever thought I
would. Give me what I want or…”
Bulstrode put a hand up. “Tré,” he said.
“Can you go have a coke or something at the bar and let me talk to
Rafferty alone?”
“Sure,” said Tré.
Tré sat down and ordered a soda. He looked around the place, at the cheap formica finish on
the bar, the bartender who’d definitely seen better days, the cigarette burns
in the ratty carpet. This looked
about as far away from the direction The Lightweight Group was headed as
possible. Tré wiped the lip of his
glass with a napkin before taking a sip.
As Tré sipped his coke, he cast sly glances over at
Bulstrode and Rafferty. They were
whispering intently to each other and Bulstrode’s face was turning red. Raff seemed to be enjoying himself.
Tré wondered what the hell he was doing there and was
beginning to suspect that obligation of
past collegiality meant a little bit more than what Bulstrode
pretended. Tré had come in
thinking that maybe this was some act of Christian charity or something. Bulstrode was, after all, a religious man. But the whole thing seemed so
sleazy. Was Rafferty some kind of
black sheep relation? Did he have
something on Bulstrode?
Rafferty stood up to go to the bathroom and Tré looked back
at the bartender before Bulstrode could catch him staring.
Bulstrode’s eyes darted up to Tré, his irritation with
Rafferty’s intractability visible.
What was the point of having Tré here if he couldn’t sell lazy,
shiftless Rafferty on a life of permanent vacation? Ah, but it wasn’t really the boy’s fault. Rafferty wouldn’t even let him
speak. Maybe they could have
pitched him a place in Wisconsin if Rafferty could have left the state.
Bulstrode knew that Tré was nervous about the situation, but
he wasn’t too worried about Tré suspecting any malfeasance. Tré was in too much debt to him to
interpret anything too broadly. He
would want to remain ignorant of any wrong-doing on the part of his benefactor.
He picked at a hangnail and waited for Rafferty to come out
of the bathroom. Tré looked up as
Rafferty exited, smiling, eyes open strangely wide. Tré recognized the look.
Raff lurched over to Bulstrode, hiking up his pants, seeming
more confident. “Look,” he said.
“I’m heading out of here.
Going over to The March for a drink. You’ve got a week to get the paperwork in order. Now pick up my tab for me, wouldja?”
As he left, Bulstrode walked over to the bar, wallet in
hand, to pay the tab.
“So, Rafferty was in a real good mood when he left the
bathroom, huh,” said Tré carefully.
“Yeah, so what?” said Bulstrode.
“You know what he was doing in that bathroom, right?” said
Tré.
“What?” said Bulstrode.
“Mr. Bulstrode, that guy was wired. I mean it’s none of my business, but he
just went into the bathroom and did a couple of rails of cocaine. It’s obvious.”
“Cocaine?” said Bulstrode, opportunity forming.
“Yeah,” said Tré, feeling uncomfortably like he wasn’t so much
gossiping as paying back a debt with information. “We should probably let the guys at The March know that he’s
coming.”
