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“Hey, you see the game last night?” said Mickey as he walked into the Alibi and grabbed his usual stool.
Kev was already filling a glass for him. “Yeah. Edmonton won five-three.”
“Shit.”
“You have money on it?”
“Yeah.” He took his beer and drank down half as consolation. He’d just set the glass back in its wet ring on the surface of the bar, when he got that itchy feeling that meant someone was watching him.
The only other fully conscious person in the place was a skinny guy with a sad-dog face sitting at the far end of the bar. When he caught Mickey’s glance, the guy nodded jerkily and said, “Hey, Mickey.”
Did he know this fuck? The guy did look sort of familiar. He had long thin hair hanging under his trucker cap, like some kind of trailer park Guns n’ Roses reject. Probably a grease monkey, going by his oil-stained coveralls; worked over at Kowalski’s, maybe. Mickey grunted in a way that could mean “hello” or “fuck you.”
“What you drinking?” said the guy.
“Beer.” Pretty fucking obvious.
“Lemme get the next one for you.” He flashed a nervous smile, showing a broken front tooth, and Mickey had it: Joey Kowalski, who’d fallen face-first off the jungle gym in grade school and hit every bar on the way down. Now he was mostly known for his girlfriend, Maureen Morrigan, who’d once stabbed a woman in the eye with a pencil for stealing her parking spot.
“Sure. Thanks, man,” said Mickey. He glanced at Kev, wondering what the occasion was, but Kev just shrugged and made a “search me” face. Whatever. He wasn’t about to turn down a free beer.
As Kev poured, Kowalski picked up his beer and moved over to the neighboring bar stool, like they were buddies now or something. He still seemed kind of antsy, though. Was he looking for drugs, maybe? Mickey wasn’t averse to hooking him up, if that was the case—for a fee. He eyed him up as he knocked back the rest of his first beer and started on the second.
Kowalski pushed his beer glass around in a circle and said, “So, uh, I heard about your fight with Terry. You know, at the christening.”
Mickey tensed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, that’s rough, man. So, like... is it true? That you’re, uh, you know, gay?”
Mickey could take this punk-ass bitch if he had to. “Yeah,” he said, and waited for the guy to start something. From the corner of his eye he saw Kev throw his towel over his shoulder and lean his hands against the bar.
But all Kowalski said was, “Oh.”
When nothing further followed, Mickey slowly relaxed. It was weird, the way some people were okay with it. Part of him was always waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He was contemplating this and other mysteries of the universe, when Kowalski leaned toward him and mumbled something unintelligible.
“Huh?” said Mickey.
The guy cleared his throat. “So, how about it?” He was looking at the bar as much as at Mickey.
Jesus Christ, Bashful, thought Mickey. Spit it out already. “How about what? You looking for drugs or something?”
Kowalski cut his eyes to the back of the bar. Mickey turned his head and looked: there was nothing to see but two drunks staring at the TV and an old lady nodding off over her drink. Behind her there was just the empty bar and the door to the John. What the hell?
Kowalski did it again, rolling his eyes harder this time. Looked like a fucking epileptic.
“What the fuck is that, semaphore?” said Mickey. “I don't know what the fuck you want.” He looked around for Kev, but Kev was suddenly busy at the other end of the bar doing fuck-knew-what.
Bashful mumbled something in a low voice. All Mickey could make out was “something-something-John-something-blowie.”
Findally, the penny dropped. “Are you fucking hitting on me?”
Kowalski flinched.
Mickey quickly pushed his beer in the guy’s direction. “Here, take it back! Jesus Christ!”
“Lower your voice, man!” pleaded Kowalski. His head looked like it was trying to retreat into his shoulders.
Mickey ignored him. “The fuck makes you think I would be up for that, for chrissakes?”
“Everyone heard what you said when the cops were hauling Terry away,” said Joey plaintively. “About how you love sucking dick and all that.”
“Jesus, was there a fucking court stenographer there? Is everything I said on public fucking record? Listen, dimwit, just because I like cock doesn't mean I want to suck your stringy dick!”
Kowalski was cringing, desperate not to make a scene, but Mickey didn’t give a fuck who heard. “I have a boyfriend! Ian Gallagher? Tall, red hair, built like a Greek fucking statue? What the fuck I want with your scrawny ass?”
Joey sagged on his stool, looking like the saddest dog that ever had its bone taken away. Mickey almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Until he muttered, “I just wanted a blow job.”
“You just…? There's a roomful of whores upstairs! Fifty bucks and you can have any one of them!”
Joey squirmed and said nothing. So, not just any warm mouth would do.
“Well, then, go to Boystown. There's fags down there give that shit away for free.” Probably not to Kowalski, but you never knew.
Joey looked spooked at the very idea of Boystown, not that Mickey could blame him. “Jesus, Kowalski,” he said, shaking his head.
Defeated, Joey drained his glass and pushed himself away from the bar. He hesitated, hands shoved into the pockets of his coveralls. “I could give you a free tune-up at the garage.”
“Get the fuck out of here!”
He scurried out the door with his tail between his legs.
Mickey glared around the bar. Everybody seemed to be looking at their drinks. Kev was facing the till, his shoulders shaking suspiciously.
“Are you laughing? You better not be fucking laughing over there!”
Kev turned, wiping his eyes. His face was red and his smile was broad. “You should be flattered, Mickey. He seemed pretty taken with you.”
“That Polish piece of shit? Please.”
“I don't know, man, I think you're gonna have to get used to it. You're a very attractive guy, Mickey.”
“Fuck off!”