The World Played Chess (33)

“Vincent . . . ,” William said, drawing out my name as he chuckled.

“One’s visiting from New York. She attends Fordham law school and is starting an internship at a law firm in Manhattan.”

William’s eyes went wide. “Do you know how much money lawyers make at Manhattan law firms?”

I didn’t. But I could tell from his facial expression and the tone of his question it was significant. “The other goes to UC Davis.”

“Yes, but did you ask out the one from New York who’s going to be making a lot of money?” William said, laughing.

I shrugged. “I told them we have a game tomorrow night and they should stop by Village Host.”

“You should have asked her out tonight,” William said.

I looked at Todd, who wore his ever-pensive smile that pierced right through my facade. I decided to quit while I was ahead. “Didn’t think about it,” I said.

“Let me give you some advice,” William said with his impish grin. “It’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich girl, Vincent.”

Todd dropped his cigarette butt, crushed it under the toe of his boot, and walked into the bar with his “I’m the baddest man on the planet” saunter.

Narrow, the bar had dark wood, paper shamrocks, and green-and-white décor. A crowd of young men and women filled the barstools and tables up front, drinking and talking above music playing from a jukebox. I hoped the crowd meant the waitress would be too busy to take the time to ask for my ID.

We walked to an empty table at the rear where the bar widened a bit and the sound didn’t echo. Guys played darts. On the wall, near a pay phone, hung a white sign with green lettering.

BAR PHONE FEES

$1 NOT HERE

$2 ON HIS WAY OUT

$3 JUST LEFT

$4 HAVEN’T SEEN HIM ALL DAY

$5 WHO??

A waitress approached our table and I prepared to reach for my wallet, but William put out his hand beneath the table to stop me and leaned across it. He raised his voice over the music and cacophony of other sounds. “Hey, Brenda.”

“Hey, William. Hey, Todd.”

“Hey,” Todd said.

The woman leaned in. “You meeting Monica?” she asked William.

William cupped his ear against the music and the din of the crowd. I had bad hearing also, my father’s hearing. I learned this when a bicycle tire I filled at a gas station on Broadway and El Camino exploded and my mother took me in to be tested. Brenda raised her voice and repeated her question.

“She’s working late,” William said. “We framed a job today and worked late also.”

I looked around, nonchalant, as if relaxing after a tough workday, and realized William had just set me up to get a drink.

“What can I get you?” Brenda flipped three coasters onto the table, each depicting a leprechaun in knickers. I was in.

“Jameson’s, rocks,” Todd said.

William ordered the same.

I didn’t know Jameson’s. My only criterion for hard alcohol was cheap. “I’ll have a Guinness,” I said and waited for the inevitable question. It didn’t come.

Minutes later, Brenda returned with our drinks and held out menus. “Are you eating?” she asked.

Todd shook his head. He had to meet his wife, but William nodded, so I did also. Brenda handed us menus and promised to return to take our food orders. We shot the shit and William kept on me for not asking out the New Yorker, but in a funny manner. Todd just smiled.

When Brenda returned, William ordered a club sandwich and a second Jameson’s. I ordered a hamburger and a second Guinness. Todd bugged out.

“Springsteen,” William shouted as the music changed songs. He rapped on the table edge like a drummer. “A good New Jersey boy.”

Mike had turned me on to Bruce Springsteen’s music. The prior Christmas he had bought me the eight-tracks Greetings from Asbury Park and The Wild, the Innocent & the E Street Shuffle.

“We used to sneak into the bars on the Jersey Shore to hear Springsteen when he was a teenager with long hair and a shitty guitar,” William said. He smiled like he’d gone back to those carefree days.

I wasn’t a big music guy, I didn’t have money to spend on albums or eight-tracks, but I had installed an eight-track cartridge player in my Pinto; I’d even cut in the speakers in the back and run the wiring under the carpet. My tape selection was limited. The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and the two Springsteen eight-tracks from Mike. Mif and I also liked Elvis, though I didn’t have a tape and wouldn’t admit it out loud. Billy called Elvis “a fat has-been” and said Springsteen was a yodeler. “Uh-uh-uh-uh-oh.” It wasn’t flattering.

I worried William and I would not have much to say to one another; this wasn’t just sitting around after work with a beer. After Brenda returned with our food and drinks, I said, “You have bad hearing?”

William nodded.

“I do, too. I got my dad’s hearing.”

William grinned. “I have Vietnam hearing.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Blew out an eardrum during a shelling my first night in the bush.” He shrugged like it was not a big deal. “You know Vietnam?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Not really.”

William grabbed his napkin and pulled out a pen from his pants pocket and drew what looked like the mirror image of a longer and thinner version of California.