Don’t be mad, Susan said. She kissed him on the cheek this time and then settled back and looked across to where Nat slumped against the table, held his gaze for a long moment above that surface, over the scratched wood, the furrows running with spilled beer and the wet ash trails of burned cigarettes.
From the jukebox came a power ballad that had been everywhere on the radio, and Susan dragged Rick out onto the dance floor and draped herself upon him under a dim and rotating light that moved slowly from red to green and back to red again. At the table, Billy Carl was still Dave Vollmer but Nat thought Sheila had reappeared to become both Peter Mendy and some girlfriend of his or maybe the girlfriend was Sheila, he could not be sure, and he thought the other guy was named Danny something but he could not remember that either. But then he did not have to because they all began to scatter, slowly floating back to the bar or to other tables, their bodies like flotsam adrift in some current that could be felt but not seen.
The room shifted into some lower speed now, as if a record player had clicked from 33? to 16 revolutions per minute, everything kicking down a full octave, even the beating of his heart, of all their hearts, Rick and Susan tilting on the dance floor under the colored lights and Nat alone at the table, the feeling of it not unlike the silence of those empty homes when they were teenagers in Battle Mountain, a silence that was not empty because it was filled with absence, like finding within that silence a clear tone like the sound of a tiny bell, its ringing flung out beyond the streets and buildings and into the bare sloping hills beyond.
When he looked up, he saw Grady staring back at him, his hands resting on the polished surface of the bar, stained rag over his shoulder. Nat nodded and stood. The room tilted in all directions but he managed to cross it and to slump onto a stool.
Incarceration hasn’t mellowed him any, has it? Grady said when he arrived.
Not by the looks of it.
You want another?
I think I’m pretty well tapped out, Nat said.
You’re looking pretty cross-eyed anyway, champ, Grady said.
Naw. Barely started.
Grady smiled briefly beneath the drooping mustache. Then he tilted his head, his eyes meeting Nat’s. Johnny’s been in here looking for you, he said.
Even at the mention of the name Nat felt his stomach churn. What’d he say?
Just asked if you’d been around.
What’d you tell him?
That I haven’t seen hide nor hair in—what’s it been?—a year, I guess. Or damn close.
I appreciate it, Nat said.
Not like I had to make it up, Grady said.
Nat nodded, leaning into the bar. The sense of drifting immediately slowed into a dull soft wave that lifted and descended like the motion of a swing.
You got a job?
Still at the Ford dealership. I’ve been there two years.
Selling?
I wish, he said. I’m in the shop. Lube and oil.
Well, a man’s gotta work.
So they say. Nat shrugged.
Grady set an ice-filled glass on the bar and filled it with vodka. This one’s on me. Keep your head down and your pecker up.
Thanks for the advice, Nat said.
Someone down the bar called to Grady and he glanced in the man’s direction and nodded but did not move from where he stood in front of Nat. You watch yourself with Johnny Aguirre, he said. That guy isn’t messing around.
I’m taking care of it, Nat said. Even to himself, his voice sounded like a white blur.
I hope so, Grady said. I was a little surprised when he said your name.
Why’s that?
Just don’t seem like the type to get tangled up in all that.
Nat shrugged and after a moment Grady seemed to dissolve, reappearing farther down the bar. Nat sipped at the vodka and then forgot it was there and remembered and sipped again, huddling over his drink as wave upon wave of fatigue flowed through him. He wished that he had Dottie’s number from the front office of the dealership and that she might be willing to sell him a couple black beauties to get him through the rest of the night but he possessed no cash and did not think he could successfully drive anywhere to meet her even if he did.
Natty man, Rick said.
He looked over to where Rick was settling onto the stool beside him, smiling. Beyond his friend, Susan leaned against the bar, a thin sheen of sweat across her face, her skin luminous in the neon glow of a beer sign. From the Land of Sky Blue Waters, the sign read. Nat lifted the vodka and smiled weakly.
Rick waved down the length of the bar. Grady stood at its far end, talking to a woman in a tight black T-shirt. Hey there, you horny old man, Rick called. Grady glanced up and nodded but did not yet move in their direction.
You look terrible, Rick said, his voice slurring the syllables into one long word.
It took Nat a moment to realize that Rick was now speaking to him. The light in the bar had begun to fade, as if the whole room had flooded and they now sat, all of them, underwater.
You do, Susan said to him. You look like a sad sack.
You need to get laid, Rick said. We need to get him laid.
Nat leaned on the bar, bleary-eyed, watching him fade into and out of focus.
My best friend here needs to get laid, Rick said.
A collection of screechy female voices hooted up from the darkness around them.
Jesus Christ, Nat said, laughing. You asshole.
Just helping my buddy, Rick said. No charge.
What’s your name?
The voice came so quickly that it seemed as if the woman had materialized on Rick’s command. And perhaps she had. She might have been forty, although she wore so much makeup it was difficult to tell, eyes wiped with turquoise as thick as paint and hair like a bundle of blond wires. She licked her lips. He had seen animals in nature documentaries perform similar actions while feeding on carcasses in the plains of Africa.
This is my pal, Marlin, Rick said. His voice slurred so profoundly now that he could hardly finish the words before bursting into laughter once more. Marlin Perkins. But he’s not related to that Marlin Perkins.