Hard Case Crime: Fake I.D. (7 page)

Debbie stopped in the middle of the room and looked around, staring at people the way drunks do. Her skin was dark brown and leathery. Finally, still wobbling, she said, “Where the hell is my husband?”

Normally, I tried not to talk too much to Debbie, especially when she was loaded. I knew she was just looking to start trouble and that if I just ignored her she’d go bother somebody else. But nobody else in the bar answered her so I said, “He’s not here.”

“Really?”
She smiled, like I’d meant it as a joke. “Well where is he then?”

“Gil said he’d be in soon,” I said.

“I guess my brilliant stepson isn’t here either.”

“Nah,” I said.

“What was that?”

“He’s not here,” I said louder. I was still looking down at the newspaper.

“I’m sure he’s out job-hunting,” she said. She waited a second then said, “That was a joke—you can laugh, you know. Give me
some
hint that you’re alive.”

I didn’t say anything.

“You’re in a peachy mood tonight, aren’t you?” she said. I was hoping she’d leave or go bother somebody else. Instead, she came up to the bar and sat down across from me. It smelled like she’d put on a whole bottle of perfume. She put her hand on top of mine and said, “Gimme something stiff.”

Debbie was always coming on to me, just like she came on to practically any other guy with a pulse when she was drunk.

But, for some reason, I didn’t move my hand away.

I said, “You really think you should be drinking any more?”

“What are you talking about?” she said. “I haven’t had a drink all day.”

“Yeah right. If you weren’t wearing all that perfume I bet I’d be able to smell the booze on your breath.”

“You know,” she said in a quieter, sexier voice, “if you want to get a closer whiff you can.”

Now I moved my hand.

“If you want something make it yourself,” I said. I took my newspaper and walked to the other end of the bar.

“That’s no way to treat your boss’s wife,” she said. “You realize your job could be on the line for this kind of behavior.”

I asked the two girls if they were okay with their screwdrivers. One of them asked for a refill. I made the drink, got her change, thanked her for the buck tip, then went back to reading the newspaper. Debbie stood there for a while, staring at me, then she sat down on the stool next to the blonde. The Meat Loaf song ended and now The Romantics were singing, “What I Like About You.”

“I’m still waiting for my drink,” Debbie said.

“The bar’s all yours,” I said. “Want a drink, make one.”

“All right,” Debbie said. “I think I will.”

She came behind the bar and made herself a drink. I wasn’t watching, but I knew she was making her usual Scotch and soda. I started talking to the two girls. Then Debbie came and brushed up against me. She interlocked her arm around mine and said to the two girls, “Sorry, he’s coming home with me tonight.”

“Don’t pay any attention to her,” I said.

“What?” Debbie said. “You forgot about our date tonight? Shame on you.”

Usually, I didn’t care what Debbie said to me, figuring she was just a drunk who didn’t know any better, but with the girls there I felt like I had to say something.

“Why don’t you just get the hell out of here?”

“I will,” she said, “if you come with me.” She pinched my ass.

“I’m serious,” I said, wanting to hit her. “Just get the hell out of here.”

“I love angry men.”

She tried to pinch me again. This time I grabbed her wrist before she could squeeze.

“Let go of me.”

“I told you to leave me alone.”

“Let go!”

“You gonna leave me alone?”

“Just let go!”

Her face was turning red. I let go.

Rubbing her arm, she said, “If I tell Frank about this you know what’ll happen, don’t you? You’ll get fired. You’ll be out on the street.”

I tried not to look at her. The whole thing was so stupid—she was out-of-her-mind drunk and even if she did tell Frank on me I knew he wouldn’t care. He’d probably done the same thing to her hundreds of times, or at least he’d thought about doing it.

Debbie stood facing me for a few seconds, shifting her eyes with the dark blue eye shadow all around them, back and forth, then she stormed away, taking her drink with her, of course. She sat down in her original seat at the other end of the bar. I apologized to the two girls for the “disturbance,” but they seemed freaked out about the whole thing.

The girls stood up and put on their coats. As they were leaving, Frank walked in. Wearing a long beige trench coat and carrying two shopping bags, he looked like a tired old man. He was old, I guess, but not very old. He’d celebrated his sixty-fifth birthday last year, but he looked more like seventy. He was short, stocky, and he combed long gray hairs from the back and sides of his head to cover a big bald spot in the middle.

“There he is,” Debbie said, “my handsome, hardworking, sexy, irresistible, loser of a husband.”

Debbie continued to insult Frank and then she asked him for money—a hundred dollars. Frank said, “I’m not giving you any more money to get drunk with,” and then Debbie started yelling at him—cursing and calling him all kinds of names. As usual, Frank just took the abuse like a wimp. With everybody else, Frank was a take-charge guy, but he could never stand up to his wife. It was like Debbie had some weird power over him—he was Superman and she was made out of kryptonite. Whenever she was clawing over some guy or making a drunken fool out of herself he’d just ignore it, like it didn’t mean anything to him. Whenever I tried to talk to him about it—figuring the guy always helped me out, the least I could do was try and help him—he’d always just say “Forget about it” or “Who cares?” I never pushed him, figuring there are some things guys just need to keep to themselves.

“You’re a fucking asshole!” Debbie yelled. “You’re pathetic! Look at those clothes you’re wearing, like it’s 1972! When was the last time you went shopping? Face it, you’re an antique, a dinosaur, a pathetic time capsule of a man. I’m ashamed to be your wife!”

A few more customers—a group of guys in hockey jerseys, probably here to watch the Devil game later on—came into the bar. I asked them what they wanted, but when they saw Debbie yelling at Frank like a lunatic they put their coats back on and left.

Debbie had cost Frank a ton of business over the past few years.

Finally, Debbie put her own coat on, getting ready to leave.

“Maybe you’d like to know the name of the guy I’m fucking tonight,” she yelled at Frank’s back as he walked away toward the kitchen. “His name’s Jean-Claude. He’s French or Canadian or French-Canadian—whatever. Anyway, from what I understand he has a very big cock. Much bigger than yours anyway, although a five-year-old boy has a bigger cock than you!”

A couple of guys standing near Debbie started to laugh. I wanted to laugh too, because it was kind of funny, but out of respect for Frank I held back. Frank just shook his head, continuing to the back of the bar.

Debbie came over to me and said, “I’m sorry. It was wrong of me to grab you like that.”

“Forget about it,” I said.

“I was watching you,” she said, slurring her words, “talking to those two girls. You know my offer still stands.”

I knew what her “offer” was. She was always inviting me to “stop by” at her apartment some afternoon when Frank wasn’t around for “a good time.” She was smiling, running her tongue across her upper lip. I noticed the way some of her lipstick had come off on her shiny capped teeth. I could also see some of her fake cleavage popping out of her black-and-gold blouse. I had to admit, for an old lady there was definitely something sexy about her. If she wasn’t Frank’s wife, I might’ve even thought about taking her up on her offer.

“You better get going,” I said. “You don’t wanna keep your French boy waiting.”

At seven-thirty, Gary finally showed up and took over for me at the bar. I ate a burger and some fries in the kitchen, then I knocked on the door to Frank’s office.

“Come in,” he said.

He was sitting at his desk, looking up at me over his reading glasses.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said. “I thought it might be my delightful wife.”

“You got a second?”

“Sure. Sit down.”

I sat in a chair across from him. The office was a mess with file folders, newspapers and magazines piled up everywhere. Frank put down the papers he’d been reading and said, “What am I gonna do with her, Tommy?”

“That’s up to you,” I said. “You already know what I think.”

“It’s never been as bad as it is now,” he said. “Every night she’s like this. I try to reason with her—get her to go to A. A. or see a shrink—but she just doesn’t think she has a problem.”

“That’s because she
is
the problem.”

“You’re right—I know you’re right—believe me. You know she’s placing ads in newspapers now? I heard her on the phone calling one of the neighborhood papers, I think it was
Our Town
. She was reading the ad to them over the phone: ‘Lonely married woman looking for a good time and more.’ Then, last week, I come home early from work and she has a guy over at the apartment—
our
apartment. I can hear them going at it from the living room, so I go bang on the bedroom door, thinking I’m gonna kill whoever she’s in there with. Then the bedroom door opens and this big black guy—seven feet tall, like a basketball player—comes out.”

“Maybe it
was
a basketball player,” I said. “I hear those guys get around.”

Frank shot a look at me.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I said. “I was just trying—”

“I know,” Frank said. “If I were you I’d think I was a pathetic joke too.”

“I don’t think
that
.”

“I know it’s hard for you to believe,” he said, “because you didn’t know her until a couple years ago, but she used to be so much different. She was a warm, friendly, outgoing, generous woman. Then she started hitting the bottle and—well, you’ve seen her. I keep telling myself that it can’t possibly get any worse, she’s definitely hit rock-bottom this time, then she’s putting ads in the paper and sleeping with men right under my nose.”

“You must like it,” I said

“What do you mean? I hate it!”

“That’s what you
say
—but if you really hated it you would’ve kicked her out the first time she cheated on you, like any normal guy would’ve. But since you’re staying with her, hoping that she’ll change, you obviously like the abuse.”

“Never mind.”

“See—that’s what you always say when you know I’m right, ‘Never mind.’ Well, if you really knew I was right you wouldn’t just sit there. You’d do something about it.”

“What about you?” Frank said, trying to change the subject.

“What about me?”

“How’s everything in your life going?”

“Not bad,” I said.

“Yeah? How’s the acting coming along?”

“Pretty good.”

“Really? I haven’t heard you talking about it for a long time. I hope you’re still taking it seriously.”

“I am.”

“Good. I’m glad. You know how much confidence I have in you, Tommy. I’m still waiting for you to come in here one day and tell me that you’re quitting your job—that you’re going out to Hollywood. Remember—all I want is a front-row seat at the premiere of your first movie.”

“You never know,” I said, remembering how I was thrown out of the audition this afternoon.

“So did you come in here to talk about anything else?” Frank asked. “I have to finish looking over these books and then I have to go out and take care of a few things.”

“Actually, I was having a little problem and I thought you could help me out.”

“Help you out with what?” Frank said, like he knew what was coming.

“I know I’m a few weeks ahead on my salary already, but I was hoping you could, you know—shoot me a little advance.”

Frank was glaring at me.

“Are you gambling again?”

I was ready to say no—make up some story—but I couldn’t bullshit Frank. The guy had been like a father to me—the father I’d always wished I’d had.

“A little bit,” I said.

“How much is a little bit?”

“I just need a few hundred bucks,” I said, “for rent and bills and—”

“What are you trying to do,” Frank said, “screw up your life? Why are you wasting your time gambling? You’re how old now, thirty-two, thirty-three? This is the time you should be going all-out, trying to make it with your acting.”

“Look, I don’t need the speech, all right—”

“Then what will it take to get through to you? You always tell me you’re through gambling, you’re gonna give it up—”

“I have it under control.”

“Under control? Meanwhile, you keep blowing your money at the track, coming to me for advances, and you think you have it under control? How much money are you into me for? A thousand, two thousand? You’re a compulsive gambler, Tommy. You have a sickness—like drinking, like anything else.”

I stood up and said, “Look, if you don’t want to give me the money you don’t have to.”

“You have to learn your lesson eventually. Maybe this’ll be your wake-up call. Maybe you’ll start going to G.A. like you should’ve months ago. I’m sorry, but I’m not going to bail you out this time.”

“Fine,” I said.

“I’m doing this for your own good Tommy. You know how much I care about you. Maybe now you won’t throw your life away.”

I left Frank’s office and went to the bar. I poured myself a pint of Sam Adams. I was pissed off at Frank for being so tough on me when he was so soft on his wife, but I knew he was right about one thing—gambling wasn’t the answer. Whenever I was at the track or the OTB, around all those degenerates, I always felt like the world’s biggest loser.

But the only way to make money fast was to win it and I knew I could win ten grand. I just needed a stake to bet with and then I had to get on a little hot streak. My only problem was getting the stake.

It was a slow night at the door which gave me a lot of time to think.

At midnight, Janene showed up. Until I saw her walk into the bar I’d completely forgotten about our date tonight.