Lost Echoes

21

As Tad got out of his car, a light rain was falling, pushed about by a chill, brisk wind.

He stood a moment by the car and lifted his face into it. The air smelled fresh, and he knew when the rain passed the world would smell like a crisp starched shirt. Somewhere a police car made with a whoop-whoop sound.

Tad looked at the stairs to Harry’s apartment, noticed that since he had been here last the railing on the right side of the stairway had been broken, a couple of slats knocked asunder.

He went up the stairs and knocked on the door, lightly at first, then, when no one answered, harder.

Still nothing.

He took a notepad from his shirt pocket, a pen, wrote: Got your note. Come see me. Tad

As he started down the stairs, through the gap in the railing, in the shrubs that surrounded the stairs on that side, lying there like a big bird that had fallen, he saw Harry, his shirt ripped, one shoe missing. His pants were torn and there were blood spots on his face.

Tad went down quickly and pushed into the shrubs, squatted, and held Harry’s head up.

“Kid, you all right?”

Harry made a strained noise that sounded a bit like someone trying to pass a stubborn fart.

“Hey, kid. It’s me, Tad.”

Harry opened one sticky, bloodshot eye; the other eyelid quivered, but the curtain did not go up. It was black under the bloodshot eye. Harry had taken quite a lick there.

Tad tried again. “It’s Tad. You know, the drunk you helped?”

Harry smacked his lips, said, “I had some beer.”

“Yeah, I can smell it. Think you had something besides beer, maybe some whiskey, some hair tonic, maybe an ass whippin’. You’re lookin’ rough, Harry.”

“I fell.”

“Figured as much, part of the reason you look rough.”

Harry contemplated this, finally got his other eye open.

“Think it’s rough out there on the surface, ought to see inside my head.”

“I’m only a few hours and two pots of coffee ahead of you, kid.”

“Coffee. My kingdom for a pot.”

“Come on, kid, let me help you up.”

“You got a car?” Harry said. “Told me you walked everywhere.”

Tad leaned over and fastened Harry’s seat belt for him.

“Said I walked when I drank. Tonight I’m coffee’d up after a drunk, and I’m your designated driver.”

“Cool. What kind of car is this?”

“Mercedes,” Tad said, buckling himself in.

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“I’ll be damned.”

“If there actually was a hell, we all would be.”

“That’s the goddamn truth. Hey. Karate guy. Ain’t you supposed to be monklike or something? Got this car, that house. That ain’t no fuckin’ monk stuff.”

“Actually, what I do is not, strictly speaking, karate. Or jujitsu. It’s a cousin. And, to make another fine point that will most likely go in one drunk ear and out the other, I’m a capitalist who is too often too drunk to work. Thank goodness for all my money. If the Republicans knew I broke ranks and voted Democrat, they’d probably take away my tax cuts. But if it makes you feel any better, the car is not new, the house is inherited, and me, I’m too lazy to work.”

“Damn right it makes me feel better. That’s more monkish.”

Harry laid his head against the door as Tad pulled away from the curb, and was asleep and snoring before they had gone twenty feet.

When they were almost to Tad’s place, Harry suddenly awoke, sat up straight in his seat, said as if in midconversation, “I ran me a tab. Problem was, I didn’t have enough to cover it. Offered an IOU, signed and everything. Bartender offered me a fist in the eye, then took a hammer handle to my head. I got more bumps on it than bubble wrap. Tried to do what you did, you know, that loose fighting. Just made me fall down.”

“It’ll happen, kid.”

“And some guy, he poked me for saying something about Jesus. I don’t remember if it was good or bad, what I said. Tell you this though, that fucking place isn’t getting any more of my business.”

“Just lean back and be quiet, kid.”

Harry leaned back and closed his eyes. “Where we going?”

“My place.”

“What for?”

“To start over.”