men.
Mickey pointed a gnawed rib bone at him, and he leaned back away from it. “This is food. So yeah, I do eat like this all the time. What do you eat, tofu?”
“Occasionally,” Lincoln confessed. “Pasta. Vegetables.”
“Hey, I eat vegetables. Just this morning I ate a stalk of celery with my Bloody Mary. You want my coleslaw? Because that I probably won’t eat.”
“Of course not. It’s the one mostly healthy thing on the plate.”
Mickey considered this, his eyes narrowing. “Why mostly?”
“Well, I assume it’s dressed with mayonnaise.”
“I should fucking hope so,” an indignant Mickey said before turning his attention to Teddy. “How about you, Teduski? What are you ingesting these days?”
Having anticipated this question, Teddy was prepared. “Lately, I’m really into crudo,” he said.
“Crudo,” Mickey repeated, glancing at Lincoln for enlightenment. When Lincoln shrugged, he fixed Teddy suspiciously. “The fuck is crudo.”
“Raw fish,” Teddy explained. “Tuna. Salmon. Scallops.”
The look of outrage on his friend’s face was deeply satisfying. “That’s bait.”
Teddy nodded. “Yum.”
“See?” Mickey said, this time pointing the rib bone at him. “This is what comes of listening to fucking Belle and Sebastian. You’re not going to finish those?”
Teddy handed over what remained of his half rack. At least a quarter.
Ever since they’d arrived at Rockers, he’d been studying his friend, trying to imagine whatever could’ve possessed Troyer to suggest it was Mickey they should be talking to if they wanted to find out what happened to Jacy. Probably he’d meant only to divert attention from himself. When Teddy pointed out that Mickey had been in love with her, Troyer had scoffed, but why? Was he just projecting his own hatred of women onto someone against whom he already held a grudge, or did he actually have a reason to believe Mickey might be one of those men capable of harming a woman he loved? That afternoon they all spent drinking beer on the deck, had Mickey said or done anything Troyer could have misinterpreted? Teddy racked his brain but came up empty.
“Also,” Mickey was saying, “I’m guessing you guys eat three meals a day, right? While I have one.”
“Seriously?” Lincoln frowned.
“Hey, musicians are nocturnal. When I was younger I’d still be up at dawn, which meant I could eat breakfast before heading home. Double stack of pancakes, side of greasy sausage, pile of home fries, toast. Kill the hangover before it starts. These days I’m home by three at the latest, which means I’m down to a single meal.”
“Well”—Lincoln shook his head—“this one’s a doozy.”
“Tedmarek,” Mickey said, shifting gears. “Why the hell are you rushing back to the Rust Belt tomorrow? Come hang out with me on the Cape for a few days. I’ve got a pullout sofa.”
Okay, Teddy thought, so who is Delia? The conversation he’d overheard part of earlier had sounded intimate, but whoever she was, this Delia person must not be living with Mickey, or he wouldn’t have extended the invitation so cavalierly.
“My dog won’t like you sleeping on it,” Mickey conceded, “but his affection and forgiveness can usually be bought with chocolate.”
“You have a dog?” Lincoln said, surprised.
Mickey nodded. “Clapton.”
“Clapton?”
Mickey turned to Teddy. “Again,” he said, “can you tell when he’s joking?” When Teddy shrugged, he continued, “He wandered in one day. He’s old now. Blind. Arthritic. Occasionally incontinent.”
“You make staying with you sound really attractive,” Teddy told him.
“Hey, don’t turn your nose up. By the end of the week I’ll have you eating real food again. I bet I could cure you of that Mumford and Sons disorder, too.”
“Hey, what was the upshot with that guitar?” Teddy asked.
Mickey blinked at him. “What guitar?”
“You said some guy had a Rickenbacker for sale.”
“Oh, right,” Mickey said, pushing his plate toward the center of the table and stifling a well-earned belch. “He wants too much, so I’m letting him sweat a bit. I may call him again before heading home.”
It was still fifteen minutes until the first set, but Rockers, nearly empty when they got there, was starting to fill up. Having drunk two pints of beer, Teddy was, too. On his way to the men’s room, he passed the stage and marveled again at how crammed it was with sound equipment. Back at Minerva all Mickey’s band had required was a couple amps and a small, portable PA system. How much did all this extra stuff cost? he wondered. There were two bass drums, their facings covered with drop cloths for some reason (had the drummer recently quit a band with another name to