Fucking mimes.
Then his face is obscured in the darkness of a shadow I know by heart.
“Hey, Herk,” I say. “Where you been? I’ve been calling you all night.”
“Sorry. Had a date with a Goldfish.47 Phone was off. But the date went bad and I decided that I needed some Trace time.” Herk whistles at Tracey but she is still mad at him from the last time he was here and she just keeps on slicing those lemons. “Besides, I wanted to see how you did today. I mean, I know you always boot glute on the tests, but you know—”
“I’ve been off lately, you mean.”
“Trace! Jesus! Come on!” he calls out. The mimes all crane at Herkimer, their painted faces doughnut-mouthed at the outburst. The alpha mime makes wailing expressions and prostrates himself on the bar, begging for a drink from Tracey. But Herk acts like he doesn’t see Alpha. Even the little muscles around his eyes don’t flinch. His Taoist calm is absolute.
“Yeah,” he says to me. “Basically.”
“Well, not today,” I say tonelessly. “I rocked it.”
“Yeah?”
I shrug.
“You get confirmation, then? They already release scores?”
“Anytime now. Waiting on the text.”
“Trace!” Herk again waves at Tracey, who is now ignoring him by breaking up clots of ice with the scooper like her life depended on it. He produces his new camera from his pocket and zooms in on her with smirky, prehensile interest. “God, that woman’s a pain but I love watching her bend over those bottles. Look at those tits. You could breast-feed China with those tits.”
“She’s got to be sixty years old, Herk.”
“But she’s still beautiful, man.”
He shakes his head as if witnessing a sublime revelation of the universe.
“She’s married,” I tell him.
“Six foot. At least. Maybe six-one. And look at that grip strength. I bet she could crack coconuts with those hands. Aloha, right? I mean, aloha, baby.”
“She doesn’t even like you.”
“And look at that ass. I’d like to chew on that like a plus-sized piece of ass jerky.” He makes a squinty expression that is a mixture of frustration at his drinklessness and carnal admiration for her stature.
“Well, that’s great about the comps,” he says after he snaps a pic and gets it out of his system. “That’s the first step in catching the fucker.”
“Sure. Next stop for the Rat Burglar: Rikers Island.”
“You don’t sound too thrilled about it.”
“No, I am. I’ve just got some... personal shit going on right now.”
“All this time you’ve had a personal life and you haven’t told me?”
I’m about to spill it to Herk but am foiled by the intercession of a former Goldfish whose name neither of us remembers. She attaches to his arm and ingratiates herself by offering her drink, which he downs. That buys her the ticket for entry, all right; she nuzzles his shoulder with her breasts and it’s open sesame. He puts his arm around her. She says something she thinks is too quiet for me to hear, puts on her best Olan Mills smile, and offers her bosom for the camera.