Reality Check (2010) (24 page)

CODY HAD NEVER BEEN
in a bar before. There was plenty of under

age drinking in Little Bend, but not in bars. Everybody knew everybody, and it just didn't happen. He opened the door to Big Len's Sports Bar and walked in.

Cody found himself in a dark place, the exact size and dimensions hard to determine. A bar ran the length of the left side, with tables and chairs on the right. Most of the light shone from three TVs, a big one behind the bar, two smaller ones in the table-side corners.

Big Len's was mostly empty. A few men sat at the far end of the bar, hunched over mugs of beer; an old couple was sharing a pitcher at one of the tables. Cody took a stool at the near end of the bar. No sign of a bartender. SportsCenter was on TV, the commentator going over the spreads for upcoming NFL games. Down at the other end of the bar, one of the men said, "Fuckin' eight and a half points?"

"So?" said another man. "Take the under and stop bitching."
"I'm not bitching."
"You bitch more than my wife."
"No one bitches more than her."
"What'd you say?"
"You brought her up."
"Fuckin' watch your mouth, talkin' about my wife."
"Dudes, chill," said another man. And then, raising his voice: "Len. Customer."
A door opened behind the bar at the far end; Cody glimpsed some sort of storage room, cartons, a cooler against the back wall. A man emerged, first in silhouette, and then, as the storage-room door closed, just dimly lit. Tall, broad shouldered, barrel-chested, with long lank hair and a bandito mustache: Big Len. Big Len wore a tight, long-sleeved T-shirt, a studded leather vest, jeans; had a thick gold chain around his neck. He came forward, eyes on Cody--intelligent, experienced eyes, not friendly. Did Big Len recognize him from that time in the parking lot behind the bar--a distant sighting? No recognition showed on his face, not even for an instant. Cody was just another customer to him, but on the young side. Next would be a request for ID, some fumbling excuse, Cody on his way out.
Big Len gave him a slight nod. "What'll it be?"
"Uh," said Cody. "Maybe, like a beer?"
"Like, any special kind?" said Len.
"Bud Light," Cody said, his mind blanking on all other brands.
Without taking his eyes off Cody, Len reached down for a bottle, snapped off the cap, set the bottle on the bar. "Run a tab?" he said.
Cody's mind blanked again; whatever Len had just said didn't even sound like English.
"I'll run you a tab," he said. "Cash, Visa, MasterCard." Len smiled. He had big white teeth, maybe a little too white to be real. "Cash is always the nicest." At the other end of the bar, one of the men laughed.
Len moved away, wiping off the bar with a not-very-clean rag. Cody took a sip from the Bud Light bottle. It didn't taste like anything. First time in a bar, getting served no problem, and he had no desire to drink. A funny story to tell Junior; Cody wouldn't have minded having Junior beside him at that moment--Junior was one person he could trust, maybe the one person.
Down the bar, Len poured another round. "Eight and a half, Len," said one of the men. "How they come up with that?"
"Don't like it, stay away," Len said. "No law says you have to bet."
The man laughed. "Then where would you be?"
Len gave him that bright white smile. "Right here," said Len. The man stopped laughing.
Cody took another sip. Up on the big screen they were now showing highlights of big hits from last week's games. Not all the kids liked the hitting in football, but Cody did: The hitting was what made the game so special.
Like the way you play football, son. Ever been to Pennsylvania?
Deep down--and this was something Cody would never say aloud, would really not even admit to himself--he had a dream of playing in the NFL, had still not abandoned it. Kind of crazy, since he wasn't even on a team, and had this--maybe not a bad knee, but not as good as the other one. Would it ever be? He looked down at his left knee, straightened it, flexed it.
"Like football?"
Cody glanced up. Big Len was back.
"Yeah," Cody said.
"Got a favorite team?"
"Broncos," Cody said.
"Yeah?" said Len. "Don't get too many Bronco fans around here." He reached down--
snap
--and set another bottle in front of Cody, even though the first one was half full.
"I didn't--"
"On the house," said Len. "Always good to see a new face."
"Um, thanks."
"Name's Len," Len said. He had pale eyes--hard to say the exact color in the weak light of the bar--made all the paler by his black hair. "Len Boudreau."
"Cody," Cody said.
Len stuck out his hand. They shook. Len's hand was big and strong--bigger and stronger than Ike's--and he squeezed pretty hard, but just for a split second before letting go.
"New in town?" he said.
"I . . . no," Cody said. "I've been around."
"Yeah?" said Len. He reached down, snapped open another Bud Light; but this one was for him. He tilted it to his mouth, took a big hit, almost half in one swallow. Len wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. "What the doctor ordered, right, Cody?"
"Yeah."
"But beer sometimes needs a little pal." He reached behind him, took a bottle off the shelf without looking, set it on the bar with two shot glasses. "How's bourbon sound?" Len said.
Cody had tried bourbon only once--a night out with some of Junior's older cousins, all real big like Junior, even the girls-- had ended up totally wasted, and the next morning had sworn off bourbon forever. "Uh, wouldn't really--" he began.
"Take that for a yes," Len said. "Who turns down a free shot of JB? Only the limp-wristed types, right?" Cody didn't answer. Len filled the shot glasses, clicked his against Cody's. "Here's to football," he said, and raised his glass. Cody hesitated. Len made a little glass-raising gesture. Cody raised his glass. Len drained his shot in one swallow. Cody did the same. Len refilled the glasses. "Been around, huh?" He took another big hit of Bud Light, again wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Funny--don't recall seeing you around."
"Well," said Cody, "here I am." Not a bad reply, just popping out at the right moment, perhaps slightly alcohol fueled.
Len laughed, a loud laugh, quickly cut off. "Unless you're a ghost," he said. "Not a ghost, are you, Cody?"
Cody felt a bit like he was in a football game. In football you got pushed and had to push back. "Don't believe in ghosts," he said.
"Me neither," said Len. "Or black cats or four-leaf clovers or any of that shit. You believe in any of that shit, Cody?"
"No."
"Puts us in the minority," Len said. "Tiny minority." He raised his shot glass. "Here's to minority rights." Len downed this second shot just like the first, in one gulp.
Cody did the same. Was there a choice? None that he could see. His throat burned for a second, and a little buzz started up in his head: pleasant, but this was not the time. He heard movement behind him, glanced around, and saw the old couple shuffling toward the door, leaning against each other.
When he turned back, Len was watching him. "Good customers," he said. "But not players. You a player, Cody?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Aw, come on. You're a bright young man. Don't know what a player is? Somebody who likes a little wager from time to time, say on those Broncos of yours--that's a player."
"I'm not into that," Cody said.
"They're giving away three and a half this week," said Len. "Might be a good time to start."
Cody shook his head.
"Maybe you're not as big a fan as you make out," Len said.
Cody shrugged.
Len had another big swallow of Bud Light. "Drink up."
Cody took a sip.
"Know any players?" Len said.
"No."
"Hard to believe," Len said. "Unless you don't get around much."
"I get around."
Len nodded. "Sure you do," he said. "You been around and you get around." He paused; silence, except for a crunching hit on the big screen. "So you must know some of the--don't want to say kids, do I?--young people from around here."
"Yeah." No other answer made sense.
"Like?" said Len.
"Just, you know, ordinary, um, kids."
"For example?"
"You wouldn't know them."
"Try me," Len said. He leaned across the bar, his head above Cody's, only a couple feet away. Their eyes met. Len smiled. "Go on--I don't bite."
"Clea Weston," Cody said.
Big Len's head snapped back. His smile vanished, just like that. He took a long look at Cody. "Some kind of humor on your part?" he said.
"No," said Cody.
Big Len glanced down the bar; the men were bent over their mugs, in silence again. His gaze returned to Cody. Cody could feel Big Len's mind working. He opened his mouth to say something. But at that moment the door opened, and in walked Deirdre, the Irish waitress from the Rev.
She looked around, clutching an envelope in both hands; her face pale, her eyes like two black ovals. Deirdre saw Len and approached, but slowly, as though moving through some thick medium. If she recognized Cody--or even noticed him-- she gave no sign.
Len shifted a few steps away, laid a coaster on the bar. "Deirdre," he said. "A sight for sore eyes. What'll it be?"
"If I could just--" Deirdre began, then stopped and tried again. "A moment of your time, please." Cody saw she wasn't wearing her eyebrow stud; because of that, or some other reason, she looked much younger, not much older than him.
"Phil," Len called down the bar. "Mind the store for a few minutes." One of the men got up, walked around the bar, stood on the other side, opposite his stool. Len came around the other end, faced Deirdre. "My office suit your needs?" he said.
"Yes, I'm sure that's--"
"After you." He touched the small of her back. She moved deeper into the bar, toward a door in the rear wall. Len glanced at Cody, his eyes narrowing. "Phil," he said, "drinks on the house for this gentleman. Make sure he's happy." Phil nodded. Len followed Deirdre, through the door and out of sight.
Phil, a fat guy with watery eyes and the silvery glints of a two- or three-day beard on his face, made his way over. "Get you something?"
"I'm okay for now," Cody said. "Where's the men's?"
Phil pointed at a door in the back corner, near one of the smaller TVs, and returned to his place down the bar. Cody waited for a minute or so, then rose, crossed the floor, and went through the doorway in the back corner.
He found himself in a dark, narrow corridor, lit only by a flickering overhead bulb. Three doors: men's, ladies', and one unmarked. He went into the men's, stood at a urinal, one of those urinals with framed reading material on the wall above it. Cody read:

To: Len Boudreau
From: North Dover Christmas Parade Committee Dear Len,

Many, many thanks for your generous support of this year's parade, the best ever in the opinion of just about everyone who participated--to say nothing about the numerous spectators! The committee is very grateful. An official charitable contribution receipt made out to your corporation will be sent under separate cover.

Sincerely, [Illegible Signature]

All at once Cody got the idea there was something important in that letter, important to him. He read it again; the important thing, if there at all, remained hidden. There was no glass on the frame, making removal of the letter a snap. Cody removed it and put it in his pocket.

He left the men's room, moved into the narrow corridor. Voices came through the wall, the low rumbling sound of a man, high vibrations of a woman, maybe a scared woman. Cody went silently to the unmarked door, put his ear to it, heard nothing. He turned the knob--slow and careful, not making a sound--and pushed the door open.

The corridor continued on the other side. Cody followed it, past a door with an exit sign over it--a door with a round window, looking out to the parking lot--and to another door, closed and windowless. A thin door: Len's voice came through, very clear.

"Counted this money twice, sweetheart," he said, "and I'm still coming up two grand short. And the thing is, math was always my best subject."

"Mi--Mick needs another week," Deirdre said, her voice high, the words coming too fast. "Just seven days, maybe less. He's just waiting for--"

Len cut her off. "Know what pisses me off the most? He doesn't even have the balls to come himself, hides behind a woman. What kind of man does that?"

"He's a good man," Deirdre said. "It's just that the other chef's sick and--"

There was a loud thump, maybe Len pounding his fist on a desk. "Don't want to hear it," Len said. "He's a fag, period." Then came a long silence. "Maybe if I count one more time, it'll end up different. What are the odds on that?" Deirdre said nothing. Len counted, in no hurry, "One hundred, two, three, four . . ." stopping at four thousand five hundred. "Nope," he said. "Comes out the exact same. Damn." Cody heard him take a deep breath, the exaggerated, regretful kind. "Know what happens now?"

"Oh, please not," said Deirdre.

"Sorry, sweetheart. Got to follow through--that's just good business."
"Please don't hurt him."
"Only hurts till they get him on the pain meds," Len said. "From what I hear, anyway--the leg breaking, all that shit, I contract out."
"Just a week, Len. I'm begging you."
"Hey," said Len. "Believe that's the first time I've heard you say my name. Do it again."
A long silence. Cody backed away, opened the exit door, went into the parking lot. His hands were balled into fists, so hard and tight they hurt.