“The woman looks half your age, for Christ sake.”
“That young?” Lou asked, his pleasure evident.
“No, but plenty younger than you.”
“Is that a sin?”
No sin, maybe a blessing. I clamped a bit onto my attitude. “I don’t know,” I said, fighting off another wave of fatigue. “She is beautiful,” I admitted.
“What’s so wrong?” Lou asked stepping into the light. “I didn’t run out looking after Martha died. I didn’t look at all. Lauren and I met, we had a pleasant conversation, and one thing led to another.”
“Where did you meet?” I asked.
“Charley’s.”
Charley’s was a breakfast joint owned by Phil, both a friend and an ex-cop who was my conduit to our local police. A break for me since I stayed as far away from cops as I could. A legacy from the seventies, and eighties,, and nineties. I knew why Lou ate there, “great traif,” but Lauren didn’t look like ‘grease and grill.’ Course, I didn’t know what Lauren really was—just that I felt uncomfortable about and around her. But before I could wriggle away from Lou’s hopeful gaze, the doors swung open and she and Paul walked into the night.
“There you are. We looked all through the building.” Lauren was visibly relieved by the doctor’s prognosis and her smile gleamed bright through the darkness. “I’m glad you didn’t leave.”
Paul didn’t appear nearly as happy.
“Don’t be silly,” Lou replied. “I would never leave without you.”
His words hung in the air before Paul, visibly tense, broke the silence. “Look, I didn’t thank you back there,” he said to me. “I appreciate what you did tonight.”
“Enough to replace his shirt?” Lauren bit, her smile gone. “He’s not wearing a bloodstained undershirt for fashion.”
“No problem, Lauren,” I hastily intervened. “It was just an old sweatshirt.”
“That’s not the point.”
He didn’t look pleased but Paul nodded. “Send me the bill. Look, I have to get some sleep. You heard the doctor, it’s senseless to wait around.”
He stepped closer to Lauren. “I’ll take you home. We can pick your car up tomorrow.”
Lauren shook her head and took Lou’s arm. “I’m going to Lou’s house if it’s okay with him.”
Paul didn’t wait for Lou’s answer. He shook his head, shrugged, swiveled, and walked into the night.
Lou just stood beaming. It was better than okay, much better.
More okay by him than by me, I grumbled to myself late the next morning, contorting my body into a car cleaning position. A tough fit. The lingering late summer, early autumn sun scattered through my alley, working its magic on my faint but persistent headache. Faint because I hadn’t allowed the return from Beth Israel to become open season for my Holy Trinity of television, alcohol, and pot. Persistent because we weren’t talking abstinence either. Actually, the real head-banger was about my discomfort with the surprising, unexpected turn in Lou’s life.
“His life, his life,” I reminded Mr. Clean. I rubbed my father-in-law’s proud face from my eyes and stared at the blood on the back seat. My long time campanero and mechanic, Manuel, scored an impeccably restored, black ‘2002ti after my old car caught a slew of bullets. He swore the ancient Bimmer had my name on it, insisting I needed a car to drive, not ride, if I planned to remain a P.I. And Manny said it in English. When we first met we’d agreed to help each other learn the other’s native tongue, but only one of us made it.
I’d come to like the lively little square, but always felt a twinge of class guilt about driving a B.M.W., regardless of its age. Well, no relationship is perfect, I thought, which unfortunately brought me right back to Lou. I twisted onto the rear floor and worked the seat while pecking away at my reaction. Lauren wasn’t that much younger than Lou despite her good looks. Somewhere in her middle fifties, I guessed. We weren’t talking much more than twenty-some years here. Probably sported Spandex at a yoga class a few times a week.
I tasted my disdain and tried to swallow. I felt protective of Lou; but my reaction was more complicated than that, shaded with hints of stronger hurts and fears—stuff to avoid. So I scrubbed up a sweat—better success at something than nothing at all. Eventually, I uncorked my body back into the fresh air, reached into the glove compartment, and retrieved a joint. Before I sat down I took a last look at the damage. Manny was sure to shoot me a soulful look. The rear of the car, while acceptable, was no longer pristine.
Well, neither was I. I sat on the gravel, leaned against the oversized front tire, and welcomed the sun’s rays—another twenty-first century cancer monger but I wasn’t counting. I kept my eyes closed while I toked, letting myself fall into a pleasant swirl until, with a start, I realized I was high.
My eyes snapped open, the dead joint in my hand framed by a jean covered pelvis. I raised my head, my eyes meeting Lauren’s amused face. A strong face that now wore a light shade of lipstick and a hint of rouge. I quickly stood up, caught the whirlies, and carefully slid my ass onto the fender.
“Smells like good dope,” Lauren smiled.
“Pretty good.” My foot had fallen asleep so I pushed further back onto the hood to take off the weight. Somehow I wasn’t surprised by her familiarity with marijuana. “You look pretty good.”
“Thanks, but you don’t have to move away, I don’t bite.”
I grinned, but stayed where I was. “Who you kidding? I watched you nibble last night.”
Lauren returned the smile. “Extenuating circumstance. Paul and I are usually pretty good friends.”
I ignored her casual description of Ian’s suicide attempt. “Isn’t that a little unusual?
“Not really.” Lauren seemed no more eager to pursue last night than I was. “Over the last twenty five years or so there have been more rearrangements than total breakups among our old friends.”
“Rearrangements?” I took my flattened cigarette pack from my pant pocket, tilted them toward Lauren, then lit one for myself after she shook me off.
“Call it what you want. Paul’s been living with Anne Heywood for a long, long time. We were all close friends before the breakups and we still see a lot of each other. I don’t believe in throwing away whole chunks of your life.”
I grunted noncommittally. The idea of a friendship with my first wife, Megan, left me scratching my head. The same feeling I’d had when she fucked her way out of my life.
“Look,” Lauren continued, noting my distrust. “We laughed together, played together, argued together, and raised our children together. There was, is, no reason to reject your entire world because marriages don’t always work.” She moved a couple of steps closer to the Bimmer. “I’ve been happy for Paul and Anne and glad they’re part of my life.”
“You don’t have to explain,” I said, growing uneasily aware of Lauren’s attractiveness and my response. I immediately wanted to talk about anything—including Ian—rather than her personal life. But Lauren was quick to remind me I was part of that life.
“I’m not trying to explain, I’d like you to know who I am.” She held her palms upward, “You don’t seem thrilled about Lou and me. But I want you to know what you’re judging.”
I flipped the cigarette away from the car. “I’m not judging anything.” Disarmed by her directness, for that moment, I wasn’t. But when I thought of the