To Sleep Gently (14 page)

The water arrived.

Sandra entered Dempster's mind. It had seemed, when he saw her earlier in the day, there was no doubt whatsoever that she was going to call. That it was all they would both be thinking about until the time came. "Don't think I won't," she'd told him, and her tone had been sincere. He knew that much. He wondered what might have happened had he not left the cafe when he did. What if he'd stayed, and they
did
sit around all day talking, drinking cup after cup of coffee? Maybe they would have gone for that walk.

But he didn't stay, and she hadn't called. He'd left when he didn't want to and she didn't call him like she said she would. Something had to have come up. She wouldn't have just blown him off. Not Sandra, not just like that. It was clear as day, with the connection they had, that she wasn't going to just drop him.

The fact remained however. She hadn't called him. The fact remained that what he thought was his second chance was possibly gone forever, or maybe had never been a chance at all. Maybe he misunderstood, assumed something he shouldn't have. Maybe he was angry and just trying to avoid it.

He looked at Clark. "I think I know how you feel," he said.

"Never asked for much in life," Clark said, slouching, fishing out a cigarette. "Never had any kind of huge demands." He belched. "Just wanted to live my life, and wanted life to let me live it."

Dempster nodded. "It often seems like that's too much to ask, doesn't it? You know who Isaac Asimov is?"

"He's a science-fiction writer," Jimmy said.

"Was," Dempster corrected, then drank down a third of his water. "Asimov said: 'Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It's the transition that's troublesome'."

"I've noticed you like doing that," Evan said. "Flaunting the fact that you've read a lot of books."

Dempster looked at him. "And what have you done?"

"I've had a lot of sex," Evan told him.

"I could've had a lot of sex," Dempster said, "only I don't much go for the type they had in prison, so I opted to read instead."

"I bet you were an honor student, weren't you?"

Dempster looked down at the table, then at his water, and wished it were another scotch. "I might have been," he said, "had I ever bothered. As it is, I didn't even finish high school." He looked at them looking at him. Clark was sagging more.

"How do you like that?" Evan said. "The legendary Jack Dempster doesn't even have a high school diploma."

"How many people in this field do?" Dempster asked.

"I know I do," Evan said.

"And what good has it done you?"

Evan straightened warily and looked at all three of them, an uncertain smile wavering on his face. "What do you mean, what good has it done me?"

"I mean," Dempster said, "what good has it done you?"

Five seconds went by. Then ten. Fifteen. Then before Evan could conjure up a coherent response, a voice from the next table said, "Hey, gimme a cigarette."

The man was slightly pudgy, though well built, constructed like a large soft brick. His eyes were narrow. His lower lip was slack, displaying brown, crumbling teeth. He was in his late twenties or early thirties from the look of him. He sat with a friend not dissimilar in appearance, and his attention as well as his animosity was directed at Clark.

Drunk as could be, Clark blew a stream of smoke into the air, said, "No," and turned back to the table.

A brief pause. Then:

"What an asshole." The guy rose from his chair. He was taller than expected. He approached the table, stumbling, then stood over Clark like a giant wobbly rock. "What the fuck did you say?"

Clark gave him a reproachful look, and blew a cloud of smoke into his face. "I said no." He reached for his empty beer then thought better of it, and returned his focus to the tall, menacing idiot. "Y'see, if you want a courtesy, a favor from a complete stranger, don't demand it.
Ask.
Demanding anything from someone makes them think you're a rude, spoiled idiot."

Dempster was impressed. It was a side of Clark he hadn't seen before. A drunken side, but a new side nonetheless.

"I'm gonna ask one more time," the man said, gritting his teeth. "Gimme a cigarette."

Clark looked him in the eye, drew in on his cigarette, said, "You didn't
ask,"
and turned away.

In the short moment before the man reached down and grabbed Clark by the shirt and yanked him to his feet, Dempster saw that Clark was looking over at the girl in the blue tank top.

"You smug son of a bitch, I'm gonna smash your fucking head into the floor."

Dempster watched another attitude come over Clark. The cool was gone, as though it had never been.

Evan couldn't help laughing a little bit. Jimmy was entranced by the whole thing.

Dempster stepped out of his chair. "All right," he said. "You're a big man, we can all see that. We're very impressed. Now let's each drop the issue and get on with our night. Someone else will give you a cigarette."

The man laughed. He reached out and lightly hooked his hand around Dempster's neck. "Pussy," he said, "you wanna stay out of this, I promise you."

Dempster allowed his head to be pulled in close to the man. He brought his lips to the man's ear and whispered, "Bitch, you never wanna call a man a pussy until you can prove it."

The man let go of Clark and shoved Dempster. Then he brought up his fists. The crowd took notice and backed away. "To hell with your little fuck buddy. Let's see how
you
bounce, faggot."

"You curious how I bounce, or how I bang?"

The man's inebriated face raged. He advanced, swiped at Dempster, who pivoted and swung a left, making contact with the goon's head.

The man staggered, brought a hand up and rubbed behind his ear. He threw a wild glare at Dempster. "Don't piss me off," he said. "I don't have time to be pulled aside and questioned for murder."

"You'd be afraid to raise your hand if you were thrown back into the first grade and asked your name."

The man moved in and swung again, first a left then a right. Dempster ducked both and struck a short shot into the man's belly, then cracked a right into his ear.

The man went down to one knee. Suddenly, there was no sound other than the bad pop music, which was worse than Dempster had thought.

From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the idiot's friend, who still sat in his chair but had backed it a few feet away.

The man rose from his knee quickly. He rushed in and swung a clumsy left, missing by about a foot and spinning himself halfway around. Dempster took advantage of the opening and threw a right. It cracked against the man's cheekbone but he didn't go down. Instead, from out of nowhere, his right came up and hit Dempster in the stomach. Without thinking of the pain flaring up inside him, Dempster shot a left uppercut and followed it with a right that crunched against the man's nose, which spurted blood as he flew backwards and landed flat on his back, eyes wobbling in his sockets.

That was it. Dempster held his stomach with one hand, drew deep breaths, grabbed a gentleman's untouched bourbon, drained it, and sat back down. He finished off his water and regarded Clark, Jimmy, and Evan.

The crowd resumed its social activity. A couple people helped the bloody-faced idiot to his feet. The guy didn't seem to know where he was.

"I'm out of here," Dempster said. He tossed some money onto the table and got up again. His stomach was already feeling better. "Looks like you're probably out of here too." He gestured to the bartender coming in their direction.

"Dammit," Clark said.

"I want you out of here," the bartender said. "All of you."

"What about Ace over there?" Evan asked, indicating the dazed goon.

"He'll be gone soon enough."

Everyone tossed money in for the bill. On top of the already generous tip, Dempster handed the man an additional twenty. "Sorry about that. I didn't have any choice."

"I know," the bartender said, "but please leave."

They made their way out of the bar.

When they got outside, Dempster realized Clark wasn't with them.

"That girl in the tank top stopped him on our way out," Jimmy said. "My guess is that he might be in there a while."

"Yeah, if he isn't thrown out in the next thirty seconds."

"Well, maybe they'll go somewhere else."

Dempster looked at the bar, then out to the night sky. "Good for him," he said. Then to Evan and Jimmy: "I'm heading home."

"All right, see ya. Nice fight, by the way."

"Thanks."

He walked slowly down the block and turned left on Don Gaspar Avenue, where he'd parked another two blocks away, next to another bar that appeared to be hustling and bustling. As he walked—realizing the alcohol was hitting him harder than he'd thought—he looked up through the streetlights to the cold light of the stars beyond. Little sparkling drops speckled throughout the darkness like so many distant lights at the end of one enormous tunnel. He arrived at his car, and as he reached for his keys, he saw a small blazing sphere shoot across the sky. It flared from yellow to orange to red, then faded to a twinkle, and died away to nothing. He remembered the song he'd loved as a kid, the one sung by Jiminy Cricket about wishing upon a star. He closed his eyes for a brief second and made a wish; and as he opened them he heard someone call his name.

3

Carly Whittaker was already approaching when he saw her. She had clearly just come from out of the bar. She wore black leather boots and a black skirt that went to her knees. Her white short-sleeved blouse was open, beneath it a tight red tank top that matched her hair. She had a quiet smirk on her face.

"I see you go places other than Essentials." She stopped two feet away from him. Dempster tried not to meet her eyes but found himself drawn into them. They sparkled like the stars.

"I have my own life," he told her, not knowing what way he meant it.

She smiled. "Beats being dead."

"Not always."

"I think that's why I'm drawn to you," she said. "Your optimistic outlook on things."

His hands fidgeted with his keys. They served as a distraction, and he was able to bring his gaze down to them. He blinked, and when he did he got a lightning-quick image of Sandra.

"Let's go get a drink," she said.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Jesus, what is it with you?"

"I like you."

"Well, I don't like you."

"Yes, you do." She stepped closer. "I know you do."

That was his problem. Had he wanted to, he could have just unlocked the car, climbed in and driven away. But he was still standing there, holding his keys in a hand that seemed to be inching back towards his pocket. He thought again about Sandra, the hours he sat waiting for a call that never came.

"C'mon, one drink won't kill you." It was clear she'd already had a couple. "We'll talk. We can get to know each other. Please, at least give me a chance. I'm actually a very good person."

Maybe it was the scotch and bourbon
he'd
had, but he looked her up and down, unable to deny liking what he saw. He looked up past the streetlights again to the stars, and sighed.

"Fuck it," he said. "All right."

He followed her back over to the bar she'd come out of. The place was smaller and darker than the previous bar, with scantily dressed women in their early twenties frolicking around, and hotshot young men in baseball caps lusting after every one of them. The music was considerably louder, as was the crowd. There were three TVs behind the bar, each showing something different.

Carly led him over to one of two available tables. When they sat down, Dempster said to himself,
You're making a big mistake,
but before he could consider the voice in his head, a waitress with a thick Minnesota accent stopped at their table and said to Carly, "Back already, eh?"

"Yeah. Ran into a friend." She indicated Dempster, who flashed a brief smile and averted his eyes.

"Hi, friend. What'cha drinking?"

"Scotch and soda," he told her.

"Another Tom Collins," Carly said, then turned to Dempster. "So what've you been doing since you forced me to abandon you on that hilltop?"

Dempster looked into her mesmerizing eyes.

"Nothing worth mentioning," he said.

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, really."

"I bet it's more interesting than you're making it sound."

Dempster shrugged.

"Why are you so hesitant to talk to me?"

"Why are you so anxious to talk to
me?"

"Because I like you."

"You don't know me," he told her.

"You're interesting," she said. "From where I sit, you're an enigma wrapped in a puzzle wrapped in a mystery." She reached for her drink, realized it hadn't arrived yet, and laced her fingers together. "There's something about you that's different."

He immediately cursed himself when he said, "There's something different about you, too."

Carly's eyes narrowed a bit. Her lips made a tiny side-of-the-mouth smile. "Good different?"

If he hadn't wished upon that falling star, would he be here right now, or would he be on his way home feeling sorry for himself? This certainly wasn't what he'd wished for.

The waitress arrived just in time with their drinks, saving him.

"So I'm bummed," she said, setting the drinks on the table. "The Dodgers beat the Twins."

"That's too bad," Dempster told her, not giving a damn. "I assume the Twins are your team?"

"You got it," she said. "Choi had struck out twice, but then Radke hung a curve ball and Choi knocked it over the right-field wall. Game went to shit from there."

"Sorry to hear it," Dempster said, and made it clear through facial expression and mannerism that she could leave now, which she did, taking the hint.

Dempster picked up his scotch and drew a long, slow sip. When he set it down, he was shocked to find a third of it gone. He glanced over at Carly, who was in the midst of sipping her own drink, eyes fixated on him. She set it down in an odd, dainty way, and then ran her fingers through her fiery hair.