“Guys,” Malcolm said. “Hey.” He made his way to the center of the knot. But it was too late. A surge of raw energy raced through the air. He could smell it as clear as the coming storm: someone was about to get punched.
Malcolm put his hand on Tripp’s arm to stay him. He was way too old for this nonsense. Tripp used to take a car service straight from work to the bar on Friday afternoons and as soon as he ordered, he’d take off his tie and drape it over his knee. But it had been a while since he’d come in, now that Malcolm thought about it. He was not usually one to pick fights. The worst he ever did when he had a few drinks was go on about how one day he was going to buy fifty acres in Peru and move there, land was cheap and beautiful. He was going to step out of his life and into another. He’d be off the grid and closer to nature. He’d get healthier, more balanced—a state that was impossible to achieve in the New York metro area. He said most of the parcels near the Sacred Valley had mature fruit trees—fig, guava, apple. The melt running off the Andes brought potable water. He’d put up solar panels and get his exercise doing real work, on the earth.
A lot of people had a go-to subject when drinking, a touchstone—an ex-wife, a failed music career—and moving off the grid was Tripp’s.
“If it were that easy, everyone would do it,” Malcolm remembered saying one time, when Tripp had launched into his favorite topic.
“You would do it?”
Malcolm laughed. “No, not me. What am I going to do with fifty acres of guava trees? I’m just saying a lot of people feel exactly like you do.”
He couldn’t remember what Tripp had said in reply. He glanced over at Patrick and Siobhán, to see if they were watching. Just like that, the magical bubble had burst.
The young guy widened his stance, screwed his face into a grimace, and drew his elbow back. “Hang on,” Malcolm said, but then the kid released, and next came the unmistakable sound of meat on meat. The wave of energy surged forward, tickled the back of Malcolm’s neck. Tripp slumped.
Nick, the bouncer, caught the young man’s second punch mid-flight, as Malcolm tried to get Tripp out of there. But Tripp wouldn’t move.
“Roddy,” Malcolm said. “Help.” Nick was dealing with the young people, telling them to gather their things and go.
Together Malcolm and Roddy marched Tripp through the swinging door to the kitchen, where they sat him on a folding chair. André was lowering a fry basket into oil. Scotty was breaking down boxes in the corner. “No way,” André said, taking one look. “Have Nick toss him.”
Malcolm checked his watch. “It’s only nine thirty. I’ll get him a cab but I want him to sober up a bit. God, I hope no one calls the cops.”
“I’m not babysitting,” Scotty said. “I need to get out of here before we’re snowed in.”
“Me too,” André said.
Emma, watching from the door, said nothing.
“Hey, Tripp,” Malcolm said loudly, right near the man’s face. “Where do you live?” He ran his own company, implied he had a lot of money. Malcolm was almost certain he lived in the big Victorian at the end of Acorn Drive, but he wanted Tripp to confirm before he packed him into a cab and sent him there.
But Tripp only pressed his cheek against the cool stainless steel of the walk-in. He closed his eyes.
“Roddy,” Malcolm said, feeling a headache coming on. “You see a guy getting this banged up, you can’t just pour whatever he asks for.”
“I was trying to tell you.”
“Tell me what? That there’s a drunk guy at the bar? Dealing with the drunk people who come in here is the whole job.” Malcolm sighed. “What about his tab?”
“Cash as he went, like always.”
“And the others? That younger group?” He could tell by Roddy’s face that they’d not paid. He looked at Emma and didn’t even need to say anything. She immediately pushed through the swinging door that led back to the bar to catch them before they left.
Roddy was silent for a moment. “I didn’t know you were going to kick them out.”
“Just go,” Malcolm said. “Start busing.”
Out front, the night’s momentum had come to a halt. Some new faces had arrived, but it was as if they could sense they were out of the loop, and they didn’t settle in like the earlier crowd had. People were closing tabs, shrugging on their coats. There’d be no more singing. No more dancing. The night was skewed early. Everything that would have normally happened between 8:00 p.m. and 4:00 a.m. was being compressed into a much shorter period, because of the storm. After another forty-five minutes, the only patrons left were Patrick and Siobhán. Malcolm turned the music way down.
“Hey,” he said as he made his way over to his friends. He saw that they’d already settled their bill.
“That guy almost got his ass kicked,” Patrick said. “He owes you.”
Malcolm sighed. “I’m sure that’ll be his first thought when he wakes up.” He sat down with them. “Haven’t broken up a fight in a while.”
The bell chimed on the door, but Emma called out that they were closed.
“So, Malcolm,” Patrick said, with an expression like he was working up to something.
“What’s with you two tonight?”
Patrick and Siobhán had some sort of silent communication, and then Siobhán turned her whole body toward him. He’d known her since they were fifteen years old, when she started hanging around his group, crushing on Patrick.
“Mal,” she said. “When’s the last time you talked to Jess?”
“Why?”
“We wanted to make sure you knew. Before you hear it around.”
Malcolm waited. He felt the blood coursing through his body slow down. He heard his heartbeat in his ears. Behind him, Emma was tipping everyone out. The new waitress left, shouted goodbye from the door. She’d been there since Christmas, but Malcolm still found her crying in the walk-in every few days. He had to deal with Tripp. He had to clean up. And the snow was coming down harder now. He thought about what would be auto-deducted from his account over the next day or so, what sort of dancing he’d have to do to get through another month. But as he sat there, watching his friends’ faces as they worked out the best way to tell him something difficult, everything happening in the bar at that moment seemed to be taking place at a greater distance, and something blurry in his peripheral vision stepped into clear view. He felt his chest get hot. He felt every inch of his six-foot-three frame, the width of his shoulders. And then, not one second later, he was so exhausted that the idea of stretching out on the sticky floor and going to sleep appealed to him.
“You and Jess,” Siobhán said, “you haven’t been talking, have you?”
He didn’t bother answering, since she clearly knew more than he did. He felt dead limbed, like he’d just sprinted up several flights of stairs.
“You know she’s here? In Gillam?”
“Yeah I heard that,” he said, realizing he’d only assumed she was at her mother’s house. Cobie had never actually said that.
“Meg Whelan saw her driving down Madison yesterday evening. As a passenger, I mean. Not her car.”
“Okay.”
No one spoke for a beat.
“Just say it,” Malcolm said.
Patrick cleared his throat. “You know my friend from college? The one who moved here right around the time you bought this place?”
“Neil,” Malcolm said.
“Yes,” Patrick said.
“Bad divorce,” Malcolm added. The floor beneath him felt less solid than it had a moment before.