Читать книгу The Wishbones - Том Перротта - Страница 9

On the way to Phil Hart's wake, Dave told Buzzy about his engagement.

“That's great,” Buzzy said. He was wearing a black pinstripe suit with a black shirt and a skinny white leather tie, an outfit that made Dave vaguely embarrassed on his behalf. “I'm really happy for you.”

“You mean that?”

“Why wouldn't I?”

“I don't know. I'm not sure it's such a great idea myself.”

“Why?” Buzzy turned to Dave with an expression of dawning comprehension. “Her old man answer the door with a shotgun?”

“Nothing like that.”

A couple of seconds went by. “So how'd it happen? You get down on your knees and all that crap?”

“I don't know.”

“You were there,” Buzzy reminded him. He looked at Dave more closely. “You were there, right?”

“I was,” Dave admitted. “I just didn't mean to do it.”

“Ah,” said Buzzy.

Dave's chest felt constricted, as though he were wrapped from armpit to navel in Ace bandages.

“I'm up the fucking creek,” he said. “She's already reserved the church.”

Buzzy laughed. “Tell her you have a gig that day.” When Dave didn't respond, he rolled his window down and spit a wad of gum into the street. “It was easier for me. Jo Ann was pregnant with Zeke. That kind of made the decision for me.”

Of all the Wishbones, Buzzy had come closest to the big time. In the mid-eighties he'd been part of Flesh Wound, a locally popular speed metal band that had been on the verge of signing with one of the major labels when the guy they were negotiating with got fired and the deal collapsed. Flesh Wound's lead singer and lead guitarist split off to form LasseratoR, which had since become a fixture on the local club circuit, but Buzzy had retired from serious rock ‘n roll in favor of marriage and family.

“Jesus,” said Dave. “Look at this.”

Warneck's Funeral Home looked like the scene of a good party. Cars lined both sides of the street in front of the imposing Victorian mansion; well-dressed people stood in clusters on the porch and lawn, taking advantage of the balmy evening.

Dave parked on a nearby side street. He and Buzzy walked in silence down a sidewalk sprinkled with a confetti of white blossoms already going brown along the edges. There was a greenish fragrance in the air, a soft springtime smell that made him nostalgic for high school, the feeling of endless possibility that stretched out in front of you every time you left your house on a night like this.

“Are you glad you did it?” he asked.

“What? Get married?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm forty-one,” Buzzy replied, after a brief hesitation. “I got a house, a wife and kids, and a job that doesn't make me want to buy a gun and go wreak havoc at the mall. I get to play music on the weekends and drink a couple of beers every once in a while. Things could be worse, Daverino. They could be a helluva lot worse.”

“I hear you,” said Dave.

A couple of teenage girls nearly bumped into them as they rounded the corner to Warneck's. The girls were nothing special, a pair of giggly fifteen-year-olds in baggy jeans and tight cropped shirts that exposed their navels, but Dave and Buzzy parted like the Red Sea to let them pass, then turned to watch them continue down the street, the air still vibrating from the mysterious power of their bodies.

“Damn,” said Dave.

“Sweet Jesus,” said Buzzy.

Just then, for no reason at all, the girls turned in unison and waved. They exploded into a fresh round of giggles when Dave and Buzzy waved back. Buzzy tugged on the sleeve of Dave's sport coat.

“Come on, let's go talk to them.”

“Okay,” said Dave.

Despite their agreement, both men remained motionless as the girls receded into the distance, finally disappearing around a corner. Without further discussion, Dave and Buzzy turned and walked the rest of the way to the funeral home.

Stan knew he was going to be late for the fucking wake, but there was nothing he could do about it. He had to give Susie her goddam birthday present. That was the important thing. If Artie didn't like it, Artie could take his shiny saxophone and ram it up his managerial ass.

He uncapped the bottle of Jack Daniels between his legs and took a long pull, keeping his eyes trained all the while on the door of the handsome white clapboard house with the wraparound porch that doubled as the law offices of Joel Silverblatt, attorney-at-law.

“I'm Joel Shysterblatt,” Stan mumbled, “and if you suffer from hemorrhoids or tooth decay related to an automobile accident, I've got important information that you need to know.”

When she first started working for the guy, Susie had loved it when he did his Joel Shysterblatt imitation.

“That's him,” she'd say, covering her mouth to hold in the laughter. “That's Joel to a T.”

Then, all of the sudden, she didn't find it so funny anymore.

“Joel's a sweet guy,” she'd tell him. “He's not like you think.”

“Come on,” Stan would say. “The guy's a shyster. He gets rich off other people's misery.”

“You know what?” she'd tell him. “You don't know the first thing about the contingency fee system. It works to protect the little guy.”

“The guy's a shyster, Susie.”

“And stop using that word. It's anti-Semitic.”

She was probably already fucking Shysterblatt by the time she started talking like that, but Stan was living in a dreamworld. Susie was his wife. They'd been happily married (at least in Stan's opinion) for eighteen months. It never occurred to him that she might be even the least bit attracted to her boss until he came home from a wedding one Saturday night and found an envelope on the kitchen table with his name on it.

He lifted Susie's unwrapped gift off the passenger seat and studied it in the failing light. It was a framed enlargement of a picture taken on their honeymoon in Cancun. Stan couldn't remember who'd taken the picture, but he knew it couldn't have been him or Susie, since both of them were in it.

The subject is Susie, standing on the beach in a pink bikini, squeezing water out of her hair with both hands. She's smiling, and her evenly tanned skin glistens with tiny droplets of water. Behind her, the ocean glows a rich shade of turquoise. At the left edge of the image, a man's arm reaches into the frame, offering the woman a towel. The arm belongs to Stan.

He thought the picture captured something important about their relationship, something she needed to think about. If it hadn't been for the restraining order, he would've just walked into the office and laid it on her desk.

“Happy Birthday,” he would've said. Nothing else. And then he would've walked out.

He still couldn't believe she'd slapped him with that court order. He hadn't been violent with her except that one time, and even then, he'd only put her in the headlock to try to get her to listen. At the hearing, she'd accused him of stalking her and making death threats. On Joel's advice she'd taped his phone calls and kept a log of the time he spent spying on her from his car. Stan was surprised to learn that he'd called her on fourteen separate occasions on Valentine's Day, each time saying the exact same thing before hanging up: “Till death do us part, Susie. Till death do us part.” (He'd been drinking that day, and could only remember calling her five, maybe six times at the most.)

Stan explained that he'd only been reminding her of her wedding vows, but the judge—probably an old law school chum of Shysterblatt's—had ruled in Susie's favor. So now Stan wasn't allowed within a hundred feet of the woman he'd married and still loved with all his heart. That was the fucking legal system for you.

At five after seven, Joel Silverblatt emerged from his office and walked across the street. He tapped on the driver's-side window of Stan's LeBaron. Stan rolled it down.

“Go home,” Silverblatt told him. “We just called the police.”

“The police can't do anything. I'm more than a hundred feet away.”

“You're drunk. You're sitting in your car with a bottle of whiskey. You want to lose your license on top of everything else?”

“Everything else?” Stan repeated incredulously. “You mean like my wife?”

The evening was breezy; Silverblatt reached up with both hands to protect his hairdo from the elements. He was a rubber-faced guy with a fleshy nose and dark circles under his eyes from trying to keep up with a woman half his age.

“Go home, Stan. Go anywhere. Don't you have someplace else to be?”

Stan thought of the wake. He thought of Artie, and of the cops on their way. He thought of Susie in Mexico, ocean water streaming from her hair. Suddenly he felt tired, too tired for any more trouble.

“I'll go,” he said. “On one condition.”

“What's that?”

Stan poked the picture into Silverblatt's tummy. “Give her this. It's her birthday present.”

With obvious reluctance, Silverblatt accepted the photograph. Stan started his car.

“It's our honeymoon,” he explained. “That's me holding the towel.”

“I'm sick of this bullshit.” Artie pushed up the sleeve of his double-breasted Armani-style suit to consult his nearly authentic Rolex. He held up his thumb and forefinger, spaced about an inch apart. “Stan's about this fucking close to being an ex-fucking Wishbone.”

“Come on,” said Dave. “It's a wake. What's the difference if he's here or not?”

“What's the difference?” Artie asked. “I'll tell you what's the difference. A band's only as strong as its weakest member. If one guy is a fuck-up, the whole group's in trouble.”

“Did you see Sid and Nancy?” Ian cut in. He was dressed like a professor on TV, tweed jacket over a black turtleneck. The jacket even had patches on the elbows. “It's just like what you're talking about.”

“Didn't see it,” said Artie.

“I did,” said Dave.

“Sid and Nancy?” Buzzy seemed distressed. “The one about the waitress?”

“Waitress?” Ian went cross-eyed and stuck out his tongue. “What planet are you from?”

“Sid Vicious,” Dave explained. “The guy in the Sex Pistols.”

“Good flick?” asked Buzzy.

“Excellent,” said Ian. “You should rent it sometime.”

“I liked The Doors,” Buzzy told him. “You were right about that one.”

“Oliver Stone.” Ian nodded as though the director were a friend of his.

“You liked that?” Artie said. “How could you like that crap?”

“I liked the scene in the elevator,” Buzzy said, grinning at the memory. “The one where he gets the blow job.”

“The guy was a poet,” said Ian. “An honest-to-God fucking poet.”

“Big deal.” Artie shook his head in disgust. “He writes a few good songs, shows the world his dick, gets fat as a pig, and drinks himself to death. That's the whole movie.”

“He was trying to make a point,” Ian countered.

“Oh yeah?” said Artie. “What point is that?”

Ian thought it over for a few seconds, then shrugged.

“Beats me,” he said. “I still think it was a pretty cool movie.”

Nobody said anything for a while. Artie checked his watch again and muttered something about Stan being a total fucking zero. Ian knelt down and rubbed a spot of dirt off his cowboy boot. Dave watched a teenage boy help a frail old woman up the steps of the funeral home and wondered why a grown man would make himself miserable over something as simple as marrying the woman he loved. Buzzy slapped himself in the forehead.

“Frankie and Johnny.” he said, his face lighting up with relief. “That's the movie I was thinking of.”

Phil Hart was laid out in the clothes he'd died in, the satin-lapeled, powder blue uniform of the Heartstring Orchestra. On a nearby table, surrounded by elaborate bouquets and floral wreaths, a boom box played a tape of Phil singing “Summer Wind,” accompanied by a piano.

Dave had never been to a wake with music before, and he thought it made a real difference. Instead of the grim focus on the casket he'd encountered in the past, there was a relaxed, almost cheerful atmosphere in the viewing room. People were mingling; a low hum of conversation filled the void between the living and the dead. If you closed your eyes, you might have thought you'd wandered into a cocktail party by mistake.

The Wishbones joined the line of people waiting to file past the coffin and offer their condolences to Phil's family, who were gathered along the opposite wall in a wedding-style receiving line. Dave was surprised to see the surviving members of the Heartstring Orchestra, also in uniform, standing shoulder to shoulder with Phil's wife and grown children, as though all of them—not just Joey Franco, but Walter and Mel as well—were blood relatives of the dead man, instead of guys he'd played in a band with.

“Candy Man” followed “Summer Wind.” Dave thought it was a peculiar song to be playing at someone's wake—he remembered hearing somewhere that it was actually about a drug dealer— but it seemed to have some sort of special meaning for the people in the receiving line. As soon as it began, the attention in the room shifted to Phil's widow, a tiny, white-haired woman with delicate features and a dazed expression on her face. She dabbed at her eyes with a pale green Kleenex, then whispered something to the overweight man standing next to her. The man, who must have been her son, smiled like he was going to cry and said something in response that sent a ripple of amusement down the line. Ian poked Dave in the ribs.

“Daryl Dragon,” he said.

“What?”

“Daryl Dragon.” Ian looked smug. “I'll be amazed if you get this one.”

Dave was in no mood for trivia, but he didn't want to hurt Ian's feelings. He pretended to think about Daryl Dragon while watching the activity on the other side of the room. Phil's widow began to sob quietly, as did Mel, the sax player in the Heartstring Orchestra. He buried his face in his hands while Joey Franco patted him awkwardly on the arm. Walter, the piano player, reached into his inside coat pocket with one trembling hand and pulled out a crumpled handkerchief. An obscure synapse fired in Dave's brain; two lost faces spiraled up at him from the dark swamp of oblivion.

“The Captain,” he said.

Ian's mouth dropped open. Despite his best efforts, Dave felt a smile spreading across his face. Mel blew his nose into Walter's handkerchief; the sound of it was audible across the room.

“Daryl Dragon was the Captain in the Captain and Tennille.”

“Son of a bitch.” Ian ran his fingers through his hair in a way that expressed his total amazement. “They should put you on Jeopardy.”

The first thing Dave noticed when he stepped up to the coffin was the microphone someone had tucked between Phil's crossed hands and white shirt, as though he'd been booked for a couple of gigs in heaven and wanted to arrive prepared. The unexpected sight of it—black, sleek, technological—made him wonder if, centuries from now, long after Phil himself had returned to dust, archaeologists from another civilization might dig up his grave and discover a pair of artificial hips and a microphone.

Dave never knew how to behave when confronted with the bodily presence of the dead. He didn't believe in God—at least not in a God who had nothing better to do than eavesdrop—so prayer seemed like a hollow gesture. Touching the corpse didn't strike him as an appealing option, either. So he just stood there, looking down at Phil, listening to his disembodied voice singing “You've Got a Friend,” and wondering why it was that the people in charge of these things had decided to use such a thick coating of powder on his face.

It seemed to him that Phil had a lot to be grateful for. He had lived a relatively long, relatively healthy life, and had remained active and clearheaded right up to the end. He had lasted long enough to make music with his grandson, and had died doing the thing he loved best. Everyone should be so lucky.

An image took hold of Dave's mind, a vision so vivid it was almost an out-of-body experience. He saw himself standing by his own coffin, gazing down at his own peaceful face. Julie stood nearby, a brave, still-attractive old woman surrounded by supportive children and the remaining Wishbones. There was music in the room, and a sadness muffled by soft music and conversation.

Ian cleared his throat, signaling Dave to move on, but he didn't feel like moving. If Ian hadn't kicked him in the ankle with the toe of his cowboy boot, he might have lingered there indefinitely, basking in the promise Phil seemed to offer of a long, satisfying life and a sudden, painless death.

Stan could only think of one thing sadder than a car with the keys locked inside, and that was a car with the keys locked inside and the engine still running.

A car like his own.

At least this time it was parked in front of his own house in the early evening, instead of after midnight in a godforsaken rest area somewhere north of Passaic. That was something to be grateful for.

He put his hands on the hood of the LeBaron and felt the living throb of the engine vibrate up his arms. It was time to pull himself together. Time to stop drinking, stop losing things, stop showing up late all the time.

Mostly, though, it was time to stop obsessing about Susie. Her nice round ass in his hands. Her sweet little tits. The way she clenched her teeth and whimpered like a puppy when she was about to come. The tattoo of a strawberry on her shoulder blade. Her habit, when the mood was right, of calling him “Garbanzo Bean.”

Hey, Garbanzo Bean, what's for supper? Gimme a kiss, Garbanzo Man. Don't be such a Garbanzo.

Garbanzo Bean. No wonder he locked his keys in the car and forgot what day it was.

He didn't have to walk far to find a decent rock, one that felt cool and substantial in his hand. He aligned himself with the target, wound up, and let fly. The rear driver's-side window exploded with a soft crumpling sound, showering the interior with broken glass.

Stan leaned into the car, reaching around the steering wheel to turn off the engine. Better me than some fucking car thief, he thought, shoving the keys into his pocket and glancing uneasily at the cloudless sky.

Warm water. He held his face in the pulsing stream, remembering the pleasure he'd felt as the rock erased the window. It was the kind of thing he could imagine doing again and again and again.

Climbing out of the shower, he felt alive again, nearly refreshed. The idea of spending his wife's twenty-seventh birthday at an old man's wake no longer seemed like a cruel joke. He thought about asking Dave and Buzzy to go out with him afterward, maybe to a club with music, or to one of those restaurant bars where the pretty secretaries went, hoping to meet a nice guy.

Why not? he thought. I'm a nice guy.

He opened the closet door and looked inside. It seemed so empty in there without Susie's clothes, the multicolored jumble of skirts and blouses, some of them sheathed in filmy plastic from the cleaners. After she left, he tried to rearrange his stuff to fill the available space, but the effect was vaguely disturbing, like a smile full of missing teeth.

He couldn't remember if he was supposed to dress like a Wishbone for the wake or not. Artie had mentioned something about it on the phone, but Stan hadn't really been listening.

Just to be on the safe side, he decided to go for the tux. Reaching for the hanger, he looked down by reflex and saw his missing dress shoes gleaming on the closet floor, right where they were supposed to be. The sight of them made his mouth taste funny.

Freshly dressed and mostly sober, he swept the glass off the front seat, climbed into his car, and set off into the night. The DJ on K-rock said it was the beginning of a commercial-free hour, one of those everyday events you couldn't help thinking of as a good omen.

He was coming down Central Avenue in West Plains, singing along with Melissa Etheridge, when it occurred to him that he didn't know where he was going. He had a clear memory of Artie saying, “We'll meet at the funeral home around seven,” but nothing beyond that. Not a word about which funeral home on what street, or even what town.

An unpleasant chill spread up the back of Stan's neck. He saw himself at that moment—a man in a tuxedo, driving nowhere in a car with a broken window—and was overcome by a feeling worse than simple embarrassment. For a few seconds he toyed with the idea that he was losing his mind.

In his heart, though, he didn't really believe it. He was just going through a bad patch, the kind of situation that took a toll on your day-to-day functioning. What he needed was some understanding, a little encouragement, a few kind words. Most of the guys in the band were sympathetic, especially Buzzy and Dave. Ian was okay too, though Stan hadn't been able to take him seriously for a long time now, ever since he'd learned that his real name was Frank. “Ian” was a stage name, borrowed from the lead singer in Jethro Tull. It was the kind of thing you didn't want to know about a grown man you thought of as a friend.

The problem was Artie. A decent manager would have patted him on the back and tried to help him through the mess. But Artie wasn't like that—Stan understood that now. Artie was a shark, the kind of guy who'd risk his life crossing a busy highway just for the chance to kick you while you were down.

Phil's widow had stopped crying by the time Dave shook her hand and told her how sorry he was. She introduced herself as Rose Cardini.

“Cardini?” he said. “Phil's last name was Cardini?” She looked amused. “What did you think it was?” “Hart,” he replied, feeling foolish as soon as he said it. “Back when he started out, most of the Italian performers changed their names to sound more American. That's how you got Dean Martin, Tony Bennett, people like that.” “Not Sinatra, though.”

“That's true,” she said. “Sinatra was the exception.” On the boom box, “You've Got a Friend” segued into “Danny Boy,” and Mrs. Cardini seemed to lose track of the conversation. Her blue eyes clouded over; she craned her neck as though looking past Dave to a taller person standing behind him. Softly at first, but then with more confidence, she began humming along with her husband's voice, effortlessly harmonizing. After just a few bars, though, she stopped. The alertness returned to her face. “We were married for fifty-two years,” she said, gazing in wonder at her own hands. “Can you imagine that?”

Dave shook his head; he couldn't.

“On long car trips, we used to sing to pass the time. ‘Danny Boy’ was one of our favorites.”

“It's a great song.”

“He seemed so healthy,” she said. “I thought we had a few more years.”

At the Other end of the line, Dave held out his hand to Joey Franco. They'd known each other since they were kids without ever really being friends. Joey had gone to Catholic grammar school and was already deep into drugs by the time he arrived at Harding High.

“I'm sorry,” said Dave.

Before the words were out of his mouth, Joey's arms were around him, squeezing hard. Dave grunted in surprise, surrendering to the embrace.

“Dave,” said Joey.

“Joey,” said Dave.

Dave had always tried to keep his distance from Joey—it was as much his bad skin as the fact that he'd been a junkie— but it felt okay to hug him inside the funeral home. Joey was sobbing now, the muscles in his back jumping beneath the fabric of his suit.

“Dave,” he said again.

“Joey.”

“Believe me,” Artie said, when the Wishbones had reassembled on the lawn outside the funeral home, “the Heartstring Orchestra is history.”

“Not necessarily,” said Ian. “All they need is a new front man.”

“Where they gonna find another seventy-year-old front man?”

“Why does he have to be seventy?” Buzzy inquired.

“Because they're a concept band.”

“Concept?” said Ian. “What concept is that?”

Artie stared at him like he was an idiot. “Whaddaya mean, what concept?”

“Whaddaya mean, what do I mean?” Ian shot back. “I asked what concept.”

“They're a bunch of old guys,” Artie explained. “That's the fucking concept.”

“What about Joey?” Dave asked.

“What about him?”

“He's our age.”

“That's right,” said Artie. “And if Stan doesn't get his shit together, maybe Joey wouldn't mind a chance to play with some guys who don't belong to the American Association of Fucking Retired People.”

“That's a good organization,” Buzzy told him. “Don't knock the AARP.”

“Mel's a pretty hot sax player,” Ian pointed out. “Maybe we could use him too.”

“Eat me,” said Artie.

They were Still standing on the lawn ten minutes later when Alan Zelack pulled up in front of the funeral home in his red Mitsubishi Eclipse, which Artie liked to mock as a “poor man's Porsche.” In a soft voice, Ian began singing “Stairway to Heaven” as Zelack climbed out of the car, pausing in the street to straighten his tie and run his fingers through his expensive haircut. Dave remembered him breathing into Phil's mouth, pressing on his chest.

“Hey, guys.” Zelack seemed delighted by the opportunity to stop and chat. “It's a shame about Phil, huh?”

“You did a good thing the other night,” Dave told him. “The mouth-to-mouth and all.”

Zelack shrugged. “My father died of a heart attack a couple years ago. Shoveling snow. He died right there on the sidewalk. Nobody in the whole neighborhood knew CPR.”

“Shit,” said Buzzy.

“What can you do?” said Zelack.

The conversation dropped off a cliff. Zelack's glance strayed to the front door of the funeral home. He didn't look all that eager to go inside.

“Hey, Alan,” Artie said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Who was that fox you were with the other night?”

“Oh.” Zelack grinned like a guy who'd just hit the lottery. “That's Monica. I met her at a gig a couple weeks ago. She was the maid of honor.”

“Monica.” Artie shook his head at the injustice of it all. “Figures she'd have a name like that.”

Zelack rubbed his chin with the tip of his thumb. “I'm in love, man. I'm so fucking in love I can't believe it.”

Dave looked at the ground. He felt a hollowness in his abdomen, a sensation something like a hunger pang. He forgot about it when Buzzy slapped him on the back.

“Speaking of the L-word,” he said, “our man Dave here has an important announcement.”

“No way,” said Ian.

“No fucking way,” said Artie.

“It's true,” Buzzy insisted. “Little Daverino's getting married.”

Dave nodded to confirm this information, a little uncomfortable about suddenly being made the center of attention. Smiling as graciously as he could, he stood on the plush lawn of the funeral home and accepted the congratulations of his friends and colleagues.

The first funeral home Stan visited was full of grief-stricken uniformed cops. In the second one, all the mourners spoke Spanish. The third happened to be located just a few blocks from Feeney's, a corner bar in Cranwood with one of the best jukeboxes around.

It was early, and the place was nearly empty. He dropped a couple dollars’ worth of quarters on Merle Haggard and George Jones, then pulled up a stool and called for a Jim Beam on the rocks. He could only tolerate country music under certain circumstances, and this was one of them.

Since joining the Wishbones, Stan had grown accustomed to drawing stares in public places. This time they came from an older gentleman a few stools down, a dapper, pickled-looking guy in a mustard-colored suit.

“What happened?” he asked, eyeing Stan's tux with sympathetic curiosity. “She leave you at the altar?”

Stan wanted to laugh, but the sound never quite made it out of his throat.

“She should've,” he said, tossing back his drink in a single gulp. “It would've saved a shitload of time.”

He pulled Up in front of Warneck's Funeral Home at a few minutes past nine. Except for a lone figure sitting on the front steps, the place looked empty, closed for the night.

Squinting into the darkness, he recognized the guy on the steps as one of the old farts from Phil Hart's band. Walter, the piano player, the one he privately thought of as “Shaky.”

He got out of the car and headed up the front walk. The old man watched him from the steps, a shock of white hair framing the vague outline of his face.

“Hey,” said Stan. “Am I late?”

“Depends for what.”

“The wake.”

“You missed it. Viewing hours are from six to eight.”

“Were the Wishbones here?”

The old man cleared his throat with a violence that made Stan cringe. “The who?”

“The Wishbones. The band that plays after you at the showcase. I'm the drummer.”

“You guys really call yourselves the Wishbones?”

“Yeah.”

Walter whistled through his teeth, as though a pretty girl had just walked by. “Where'd you find a stupid name like that?”

Stan didn't answer. He'd always thought the Wishbones was a perfectly good name for a band. Walter reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. It was painful to watch him extract one and guide it to his lips. Stan had to look away when Walter brought out his lighter. He didn't turn back until he smelled the smoke.

“Your friends left about an hour ago,” Walter reported.

“Figures.” Stan shook his head. “I'm having one of those days, I'd forget my dick if it wasn't screwed on.”

Walter coughed out a dry chuckle. “My age, I'd be grateful for a day like that.”

A sudden image struck Stan like a wave of nausea. Susie drinking champagne in a fancy restaurant. Black dress, bare shoulders. Happy Birthday. He made a noise.

“You okay?” Walter asked.

“Not really. Mind if I sit down?”

He felt a little better once he unhooked his cummerbund. He hated the frigging thing, the way it squeezed all the air out of him. Walter sat beside him, thoughtfully gumming his cigarette.

“This must be a tough time for you,” Stan observed.

“How so?”

“You know.” He pulled the cummerbund out from under his jacket and laid it on the steps. “This thing with Phil. It must have been awful for you.”

Walter worked his cigarette like a baby sucking a bottle. “Phil was an old man. Everybody's got to go sometime.”

“Still, watching a friend die in front of you like that …”

“We had our differences,” Walter said curtly.

“What kind of differences?”

“Creative.” Walter ejected the cigarette from between his lips. It landed on the sidewalk in a small shower of sparks. “I thought the band was starting to get a little stale.”

“How long were you together?”

“Too fucking long. Thirty-three years I took orders from that sonofabitch. I finally feel like I can breathe again.”

Stan didn't bother to pretend he was shocked. He'd been a musician long enough to know how it could come to this. There were nights when he'd lain awake writing Artie's obituary in loving detail, nights when he'd imagined committing murder.

“Can you do me a favor?” Walter asked.

“What's that?”

“Help me find my car.”

“Whaddaya mean, find your car?”

Walter gestured at the world spread out in front of them. His voice was small now, a little bit frightened.

“It's around here somewhere,” he said.