He won’t deny that he’s getting off on the fact that he’s dry, has been for almost two years and, like Chape and Buck and everybody else here, Stitch is getting loaded.
Stitch downs his double. ‘Did I tell you I lost a million bucks?’
‘Shit,’ Bobby says. ‘At least you can cover it.’
Stitch grunts. ‘Not any more. Gonna have to go Chapter Eleven soon.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘Don’t be thinking it happened overnight.’ He pats his empty pocket – he used to smoke. ‘It was the alligators. Supposed to make our fucking fortune.’
‘Alligators.’ In high school they drove out to the reptile ranch at three a.m. Brad made them wake up Earl Havens so they could make Earl wrestle the alligator, which he did for tourists on weekends to help his dad. Earl was humiliated. He didn’t want anyone at school to know. Bobby and Stitch made Brad back off before Earl lost it and broke down in front of the girls. Just remembering makes him sad.
‘Alligator backpacks. Alligator boots, bags, alligator skin wallets. Do you know how much people pay for these things?’
‘High-end,’ Bobby offers. Vicious bastard, Brad.
‘They’re worth thousands,’ Stitch says mournfully. ‘You get a fortune for the hides. I went to Louisiana to see the ranch.’ He lights up like an inflatable Santa. ‘Bobby, I held that egg while my alligator hatched! It came to life in my hands!’
‘Oh, great.’ Oh God.
‘I was in deep by the time we were done. Breeding, monthly charges, herd of vicuñas, feed ’em with the meat, sell the fleece for coats. It was a win-win, the ranch took care of everything, it would amortize when my gators grew up. We were close to the big payday when the lady called from the ranch. Thermostat busted in my sector. Do you believe my little fuckers all boiled to death?’
‘That’s terrible.’
Stitch brightens. ‘Shit, Katrina. I would’ve lost ’em anyway.’
‘Yeah well, we all have our losses,’ Bobby says.
Then Stitch’s grin splits wide open. ‘Fuck, it was a scam.’
Bobby turns, distracted by laughter – clear, a little too loud. Nenna is spinning on the dance floor. Her face hasn’t gone to hell and her body hasn’t either – the girl he could have had in high school, he realizes, if he hadn’t been wrecked in love with Lucy Carteret. Lovely Nenna, out there whirling on her own.
Buck sidles close enough to mutter in his ear. ‘Trouble in the marriage.’ He hocks and swallows. ‘Husband’s two-timing her with his sister or some damn thing.’
If there’s a moment, Chaplin, this is it. The way things are for her, the way she is tonight, he could probably start the conversation and she’d be his, but miserable as she looks, abandoned on the dance floor, he can’t.
Buck says, ‘’Nother drink?’
‘Not right now.’
He just can’t.
God he hates this. It will end the way these parties always do: personal disasters interwoven with thank-yous and reproaches, somebody crying in the coat room, everybody saying what a good time they had, an orgy of regret. God he wants to leave. Soon, he promises himself. When the band comes back from break I’ll go out front and have Marco get me a cab.
He would have, too, but a human infernal machine slams into the bandstand before he can give it a name. The fast-moving, flailing tangle scatters chairs and music stands, toppling the microphone in a rush of static and clashing metal with one man howling like a vocalist straight from hell, and Bobby shouts in relief. ‘Finally!’
It’s . . . It’s . . .
It looks like two bears grappling, like a baggy, snarling grizzly locked to a swift, lean black bear, the two bodies tangled and bucking so violently that the racket clears the floor. Men back away and their wives shrink behind them with little shrieks, leaving Bobby alone at the base of the bandstand as the struggle ends. The lean gladiator tries to haul the fat one to his feet and right the microphone at the same time, but it’s a losing battle.
Glaring, he lets go and his burden drops, wallowing and gargling spit. As he does so, Bobby recognizes that fierce, handsome head and his heart turns over. You look the same. After all this time.
Blind to him, Walker Pike turns the body over with his foot and the room comes to life in a communal Oh, no! It’s one of their own.
‘The father of the bride.’ Walker’s rasp reaches even the clueless eddying at the fringes, laughing and talking as though nothing else