We sat in Joe’s. The hair of the dog worked perfectly, except Craig wasn’t looking so hot. He sat with us. Billy smiled at him, “Looking pretty on top of your game, Craig.”

We laughed. He rested his head in his palm, “Got called in at noon. Jasmine pulled a no-show. Last one. Now I have to pull doubles.”

“Didn’t Donna used to work here?” I said, “have her cover it while you find a new bartender.”

“We’re not talking right now.”

“Oh shit,” Billy said, “what happened?”

“Fuckin’ last night, man. At the courtyard. That Rick dude’s girlfriend started talking to me.”

I ate my olive, “So?”

“Right. But after that Donna got all pissed and depressed. She kept telling me look how close you two are, and that I don’t find her attractive anymore, I want to fuck what’s her face, Allison, she can sense it and blah, blah, blah.”

Billy washed down a fry, “That’s when you throw her in the bushes and give it to her.”

Amanda looked across the table, “Never fails.”

“No, she was fishing for a fight. Mind you, she was emotional and nauseous. I shouldn’t be talking about her like this. Just pissed.”

Christine touched his arm, “She’ll barf it out and come to her senses. Both of you seemed agitated last night. In fact, we hardly saw you two.”

“Yeah, we were talking on the steps most of the night. Or she was.”

He looked at us. I read his body language, and Billy read it. It was an understanding of your coterie, new or old—what Vonnegut referred to once as the people in his “karass”—a group of people aware or unaware that they were working together in life.

“How long?” Billy asked.

“Seven weeks.”

“No wonder she’s all aggro and emotional. Her hormones are fucking haywire.”

“I was wondering about her gin and tonics,” I said, “looked awfully club soda to me. Figures.”

Billy looked at him, “So it’s a keeper.”

“Oh, hell yes. She’s 36. She wants a kid. If anyone here repeats any of this, I’ll be really bummed.”

“No one’s saying anything, Craig,” Amanda said, “has she asked you what you wanted?”

“Yeah, I mean, I’d love to have a family with her, but if she’s gonna come unglued like that at this point—look, I don’t want to be one of those pathetic assholes who complains that his wife lost attraction for him once she had the kid. Put a fucking bullet in me first.”

He signaled the barback over. A young kid appeared, maybe 22, dark black gauges in his earlobes that stretched them out into ridiculous hoops, never to be earlobes again. Tattoos neck to knuckles, way too early in life.

Craig looked at him, “Scotty, you want to bartend. Tonight’s your trial. 4 more bloodies, and a Long Island for me.”

The kid punched his palm, “Fuck…YES.” He hurried off. Billy took a drink, “There you go. Drink. Think you’ll promote Lobes?”

We laughed. I looked at him, “You beat me to it.”

Craig made a painful face, “I don’t know, but he’ll do for the next week. Who knows, right now I feel like everything just, I don’t know…sucks.”

Christine grabbed his hand, “Craig, don’t take this the wrong way, but you need to tighten up and get all of this across to her.”

“But have a talk with yourself, first,” Billy said, “an honest one. If you don’t want to be like those pathetic assholes, don’t treat yourself like one. It’s all on your shoulders at this point.”

Amanda looked at him, “Especially if you’re having a kid. This child needs to come in with a clear home, broken or not. Iron it out as soon as possible.”

Craig stared over at me. I shrugged, “What they said. Just be true to your nature, brutha.”

Lobes set the drinks down. He waited for us to drink. They were good. He looked at Craig’s face while he drank the top of his. He looked up at Lobes and nodded. Lobes nodded back, “I set you up with a longer pour, man. And this round’s on me.” He took the empties away. Craig stared into his drink, “Little ass-kisser.”

We looked at him and laughed.

“Craig,” Billy said, “if you want this kid, be happy,  ride out the rough road with shit for awhile. And go easy on yourself in the meantime.”

He had to go take a call from the bar phone. I asked Billy and Amanda why they never had kids. They smiled at each other. Billy looked at me, “Because fuck that. That’s why.”

“Amen,” Amanda said. I laughed. Amanda looked at Christine, “She wants kids.”

Christine’s eyes went wide. She slapped her, “You shut your mouth. I still haven’t decided that.”

Billy laughed, “What about you, John?”

“Right now I don’t. And I’m definitely glad that I don’t have any, or even one.”

Craig came back, “That was Brad. He gave Lobes the green light, but I have to stick around and watch his ass.”

We drank a few more and left. Craig went to his office to nap before the rush. Billy and Amanda stuck around for awhile. Billy stared to the courtyard then looked at me, “You never did say how you shook that cop, John.”

“Yeah,” Christine said, “I was wondering about that, too.”

“It’s no big deal. I was talking to one of them, and he’s known Dave awhile. He recognized me from Pizza Guy. He said no more weed, no more problem.”

It somehow sounded credible, and it was true. We talked about the party, the hole in Shell and the next five days of work. They walked home and we went to bed. Dave was right about the getting laid remark. I wondered if it carried over to Billy.    

We were on our backs in the dark, catching our breath. Christine rested her head on my chest. Her sweat ran off my ribs into the sheets. Satin. Hers from her old room at the house.

“What’s on your mind, Papi?”

“Do you think Amanda still has the hots for Billy?”

She giggled, “You’re thinking about our future. I knew it.”

“So humor me.”

I felt her heart race against my side, her leg draped over mine, her bare foot caressing my shin. It was beautiful. She rubbed my ear between her finger and thumb, “I think they bit off more than they could chew. I think a lot of people do. One of the things I love and like about you is your sense of awareness, your appreciation of reality and being fair. A lot of people don’t have that. You’re lucky. And you’re not too bad in bed, either.”

“Good answer.”

“Your turn. What’s great about me?”

A loud knocking arose from the front door. It was well after two in the morning. I put my pants on and hit the lights. I grabbed the baseball bat from under the bed. I looked at her, “Stay here.”

Lucy was barking at the door. A figure’s head I didn’t recognize stood dark on the other side of the door’s window. I crept up and flipped the light on. Lobes stood there, nervous. I hushed Lucy and opened the door, “Get your ass in here.” I hit the inside lights. He walked in and looked around. He eyed the bat. I’d forgotten about it. I threw it on the couch, “Knocking like you’re the goddamned police.”

Christine came out, crazy hair, dressed quickly. She stared at Lobes, “What’s the matter?”

“Craig’s in jail. DUI.”

I pointed to the couch. He sat. Christine went into the kitchen and poured us three cokes. She walked in and handed them out, “Might as well get jacked up on caffeine now. I know where this is going.”

I sipped, “Thanks, baby.” I looked at Lobes, “What’s the bail?”

“$1,500.”

“What?”

“It’s his second one.”

I downed the coke. Lobes said that Craig used his phone call to phone the bar, and told him where we lived. He didn’t want Donna to wake up to that, and he told Lobes to relay a message to me that if I helped him out of it, then Joe’s Place was infinitely picking any tab I accumulated. I rubbed my eyes, “He’s down in county?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have the number?”

He pushed call on his phone and handed it to me. Christine handed me my shirt. I talked to a lady about a third party release. I asked her to start the process, and told her I was on my way. I closed the phone and handed it back to him, “Alright. Thanks.” He finished his coke and left. I grabbed some socks and my shoes and sat on the couch. Christine was fishing for her boots. I called to her, “Babe, you should sleep.”

“No, fuck that. I’m going with you.”

I leaned back on the couch, “Maybe I’m just not supposed to rest.”  

I gave the lady my debit card, signed the forms and waited. She told me I was lucky to have him processed so quickly. She said it was a slow night. I looked at the clock, a quarter to three. The lobby was cold and sterile feeling, boring and fluorescently lit. We sat there and watched the other people. Christine leaned her head on my arm. An hour passed. We saw hookers and pimps and vagrants, a few addicts and the occasional student. A series of locks were sprung, they produced an open metal door and Craig walking out.

“Holy shit, John,” he hugged me, “dude, thank you.”

“Let’s go, Craig. This place is depressing.”

We walked. Christine rubbed his head, “Hard night, buddy?”

I laughed. She squeezed my arm. Craig was a mess.  

I looked at him in the rearview, the lights of downtown streaked his face with yellow and red and silver.

“You’ll be fine, man. Maybe this was your last hurrah, a final warning.”

His cell phone rang. He looked at it, “Fuck.”

I stared back to the road, “Better answer.”

“Want me to?” Christine said. He thought about it. He handed the phone to her.

“Donna? Hi, Christine. He’s alright. Listen, I’m going to call you from my phone because his battery’s almost dead. Give me ten minutes to get home, sweetie. Bye.” She reached the phone back.

“Thanks,” he said, and held it in his lap, “the battery really is dying.”

“Looks like you’re on our couch tonight, Craig.” I said, “Sorry about your DUI.”

“I’m an idiot.”

“Just taking your turn, pal. Every one of us has rolled those dice.”

It was pushing 4:30 by the time we got back. I made us sandwiches and slices of cantaloupe. Christine sat in the office and talked to Donna. I set him up with a blanket and pillow, my old ones before Christine’s satin mandates spoiled me. It was around 6 when she crawled into bed. She slipped out of her clothes and laid on top of me. I rested my hands on her bare ass. She kissed my bottom lip and raised her head over mine. I felt the ends of her hair on my neck and I kissed her throat. She talked lowly, “What a fucked up conversation.”

“Save the day?”

She rolled off and curled over my side, “She has issues with him. Big time.”

“The last two days have played out in full. Maybe Joe’s is like an omen, a portal for drama.”

She laughed, “But it’s our Paris.”    

I woke up at noon to hit the can, then I let Lucy out. Craig was gone. There was a note on the coffee table. He thanked us and wrote that he’d be in touch tonight or tomorrow, that he was heading home to face up. He wrote that I was a true friend, and that he never forgets and so on and so forth. I let Lucy in and crawled back into bed. I spooned Christine and kissed the back of her neck, “Morning, Mama.”

“Papa.”

“You’re late for work. Busted.”

She laughed, “It’ll be alright.”

I didn’t have to work until 4:30. When I walked in it felt like I’d been gone for a week, though I’d seen the two of them the day before. I stared back at them, “Gentlemen.”

Dave looked up from his cards, “Back on track?”

“Thank the fuck Christ. Deal me in.” I sat down and looked over, “Hey, Mikey.”

His broad back faced me in silence. Dave rolled his eyes, “He’s watching Gladiator.”

“Got it.” I fanned my hand. Six and a possible, “Six and a pop.”

Dave went 5, Tom went board, and I led with a jack. Tom looked at his cards, “You look good, John. If good means like shit.”

I took his lower jack, “Must be this full head of hair.”

“Yeah. Bullshit brown.”

I told them about the last two days, in their entirety. Tom laughed. Dave exhaled a large breath, “God, I’m old.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Tom slapped a card on mine. Dave took the book, “I’ve been there and further, my sexless friend.” I smiled at the ashtray where Tom’s cigarette burned. He picked it up, “How would you know? Maybe I’m just not as open as Norman Mailer here.”

The phone rang. Dave grabbed it, “Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.” He answered and walked in the back. Tom shook his head, “I hate it when he buttons down a conversation like that, eating off my comeback.” I laughed. Sometimes it was hard to believe they were dangerous men.  

But the truth always comes out, whether it’s far down the road, in court, over too many beers, or a phone call from a mob boss who runs the town you grew up bleeding for. And the truth can sever bone, quick-like. Dave came out of his office, “Mikey, go home.” Mikey left. Dave grabbed a chair from another table and sat next to me, close. He scooted his chair even closer, “What does Billy and his wife or Christine know about this place?”

“Nothing. Why?”

He looked into my eyes, scanned them. He leaned back, “Good. Real fast, John, there’s a rat on the Wop side. He’s rolled over on everyone. He’s PC’d up in county. Listen, you’re fired. No record of you here, nothing, except you delivered food. I can’t hide that. Pizza Guy is closed to you for awhile. I don’t know whether or not we’ve been mentioned, but if we have, it’s going to get bad around here. Regardless, we’re ceasing all priorities until we hear word from up top. Eric can help fly pies with Tom. Don’t take this personally, John. It’s protocol. All, and forgive me for this, new blood has to be cut for posterity. In case something happens and they nab you, it won’t be anything but bad,” he reached into his pocket, and then stuffed a fist of Franklins in my hand, “you came in, requested two weeks off, and you went, regardless. Do you have a good reason to take off for two weeks on the fly?”

“I do.”

I told them about it. Dave stared at me. His face was stone, “We have some cleaning to do. Make tracks, call us from wherever via The Alley landline.”

I stared at Tom. He looked pissed about the rat, but he looked focused. Dave tapped my hand, “Look at me. I want your ass gone by tomorrow. Don’t worry about The Alley. I give you my word they’re in no danger, no matter what. But we just can’t have you here, and by here I mean the city. Trust me and listen to me right now. It’s for our own good, and yours.”

He scooted back. I stood and looked at them. We nodded, and I walked out.  

This will be my 400th post on Prose. So I'd like to motion a toast to the soul of this whole platform and community that transforms our ability to read and write, challenge and create, gain insight from each atom, each page, inspiring us writers to feel like a mage and imagine that magic is no different from imagination itself, immortal like the elves from Middle Earth, or even more like Ramana Maharshi's capital-S "Self." Well...perhaps this verbal spell is over. Time to get #400 in squarelike order!