The concierge paused, and when he spoke again his voice was low and conspiratorial. “Well, Mr. Hunt, I do sympathize because my sister has found herself in very much the same situation.”
“No shit.”
“No, I’m serious, and her husband’s an orthodontist, for God’s sake.”
“It takes all kinds.”
“Exactly my point, Mr. Hunt. Now, while it’s entirely against policy here at the Hilton to divulge information of a personal nature about our guests, I can tell you that I was the one who checked Mr. Buckley out, and, like I said, he paid his bill, I had a valet bring his car around, and all I can really add is that his departure was, well, I guess you could say abrupt. I asked him if he wanted to leave a forwarding address, and he said no. He said he was lighting out. That was the expression he used. Lighting out. It’s a cowboy expression, isn’t it?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
“Oh, well, I believe it is, but anyway, I asked him where he was lighting out to. I just kind of enjoyed using the expression myself. And he said he was lighting out for greener pastures.”
Young phoned Wheeler. He was several sheets to the wind, as he always was when he made these late-night calls, which he did once or twice a month. “Wheeler,” he said when she picked up, “I got one for you.”
“Sarge, it’s eleven-thirty.”
“Come on, Wheeler, it’s a good one.”
She sighed. “Fine, all right. Wait till I get my drink.”
He was encouraged. “What are you drinking?”
“Warm milk.”
“Get the fuck out of here. Warm milk! It’s June, for fucksake.”
But she had put the phone down. When she came back, she said, “All right, so let’s hear it.”
“Okay, in the final scene of All Quiet on the Western Front, what’s the German kid reaching for when he gets shot?”
“A butterfly. I thought you said it was going to be a good one.”
“I thought it was a good one.”
“Anybody who knows anything about movies knows it was a butterfly. What was the kid’s name?”
“What, the German kid?”
“Yes, the German kid.”
“Lew Ayres.”
“No, Sarge, that’s the actor’s name. What’s the character’s name?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
“Paul.”
“Okay, that’s one for you.” There was a brief silence, then Young said, “Did you know they’ve started showing commercials when you go to the movies? I went to see a John Goodman movie last week, and the bastards made me sit through ten minutes of commercials. And what’s worse is, I’d seen most of them on TV, except these ones were longer. Jeez, Wheeler, I thought the reason we pay to go to the movies is so we don’t have to watch commercials.”
“You should have stood up and booed.”
“I did.”
She laughed. “You did not.”
“I did! I stood right up and booed. Fucking right I did. But it didn’t do me any good.”
“Nobody paid any attention?”
“Oh yeah, everybody yelled at me to shut up and sit down.”
There was another silence. Then Wheeler said, “Okay, so what’s on your mind, Sarge? You’re not going to ask me to marry you again, are you?”
“No, I’m not going to ask you to marry me again”—Young belched softly—“and do you know why?”
“Why?”
“Because it hurts too much when you say no, but I would do it, you know, I would marry you.”
“As soon as I come to my senses and realize I’m not really a lesbian.”
“That’s right. It’s only a matter of time.”
“So why did you phone?”
“Just wanted to hear your voice.”
“Goodnight, Sarge.”
“Goodnight? It’s Saturday night, it’s early, don’t go yet.”
“I’m tired.”
“You gotta get up early?”
“Maybe I do.”
“What for, church? They got a church for dykes?”
She was silent.
“Sorry.”
She said nothing.
“I just wanted to talk some more.”
“About what?”
“About ... I don’t know. John Goodman in Barton Fink.”
“What about it?”
“I didn’t get it. It was too intellectual. I thought maybe you could explain it to me.”
“Goodnight, Sarge.”
Sunday, June 4
“Idon’t know what the world’s coming to,” Young announced.
“Oh boy,” Debi said, “now we’re in for it.” She turned to Trick. “Remember, Uncle Artie, last week it was how they’re making TV shows with shaky cameras. ‘I have to close my eyes, I can’t watch, it gives me a headache behind my eyes,’” she said, imitating her father.
Last week they had been sitting at the same table as they were now, in the clubhouse dining room at Caledonia Downs. Every Sunday Young picked Trick up at his high-rise at 11:30 in the morning. They would drive the fifteen miles out to the racetrack and meet Debi by 12:15. By 12:30 they would have returned from the roast beef buffet with their first plates of food in front of them.
“And the week before that,” Trick said, “he was going on and on about the price of gas, and how the Arabs, or somebody—your father thinks everybody from the Middle East is an Arab—were holding back the oil shipments to jack up the price internationally. Which is true, but it ain’t the Arabs.”
Young ignored him. “I’m serious, I don’t know what the world’s coming to. I went to the barbershop yesterday to get a shave, and they wouldn’t give me one. I’ve been getting my hair cut for twenty years at the same place, and whether it’s Albert or Connie, whoever’s chair I’m in, all I’ve ever asked them for was a haircut. I’ve always shaved myself. But yesterday I thought, What the hell, I’ll treat myself to a shave.” Young shook the saltcellar over his meat. “But Albert said they could-n’t give me one.”
“Why not?” asked Debi.
“At first I just laughed at him. I thought he was joking. ‘You’re joking, right?’ I said. He said—he talks like this—he said, ‘I’ma so sorry, Meesta Young, no canna geeva shave.’ Then he pointed to the list of prices on the wall. ‘See. Eesa not even onna de board.’ ‘Why not?’ I asked.” Young looked first at Debi, then at Trick. “What do you think his reason was?”
Debi shrugged her shoulders.
Trick said, “AIDS. He’s afraid of getting AIDS. If he nicks you with the razor and if he’s got an open cut on his finger, it’s game over.”