Jim Sader 01 Sleep with Strangers by Dolores Hitchens

Author:Dolores Hitchens [Hitchens, Dolores]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Library of America
Published: 2015-10-04T21:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

IN THE office Sader opened a drawer of Dan’s desk and looked long at the rum bottle. Then he shut the drawer, went around to his own desk, and got a box of aspirin. He stepped into the outer office to draw a cup of water. He tossed two tablets into his mouth, washed them down, tasted the bitterness on the back of his tongue. The office was dark, the light almost gone, though it was scarcely five yet.

Dimly, his own reflection danced in the side of the water bottle. “What a clunk,” he said to his distorted image. “Who do you think you’re kidding? Dan’s wise now.” He wanted to jeer at himself, to poke fun; but something inside him was as heavy and cold and dead as a chunk of ice.

He went back into the other room where lights burned, sat down, typed up everything that had happened at the field office and later at the Ajoukians’. “We ought to invest in a tape recorder, a portable one,” he said half aloud, imagining himself talking into one as he had driven toward Long Beach, saving all this work.

When he shut the office and went down to the street, the chimes of the big church on Pacific Avenue were ringing the half hour. It was half past six. He went over to Pine, turned left toward the beach. At the foot of Pine Avenue he walked down the incline to the beach, turned into the alley of garish light. The rain had stopped, though the skies had not cleared. There were knots of people, sailors mostly, strolling along the midway.

Milton’s booth was lit and his pigs peered at Sader inquisitively from behind their wire netting. But Milton wasn’t behind the counter urging the public to buy baseballs.

The man in the next concession, putting change into his change box, said, “Looking for Milt? He’s in the bar yonder.” He jerked a thumb at a flashing blue sign across the way.

A six-year-old kid with a wet taffy apple bumped into Sader. He was rubbing the stickiness with a handkerchief as he went into the bar. There were about a half dozen people on stools, a few more at tables. The light was poor and the jukebox thunderous. He picked out Milton Wanderley at a table in the back of the room, Tina Griffin with him, drinks on the table before them. They were watching him. Milton’s sagging face was split in a smile. Tina’s exotic, oriental eyes held a wary hurt as if she hoped Sader might go on out again.

He walked back. Milton half rose, brushing at his temple in the awkward gesture which was habitual. Sader said, “Mind if I join you for a minute?”

Milton beckoned the waitress. “What’ll you have?”

“Coke,” Sader told the girl. “Cold but no ice.”

“Still on the wagon?” Tina bantered softly.

“Still on, but I don’t know for how long,” Sader said heavily. “A reformed drunk walks a tightrope every waking minute of his life.”

“You used to drink, huh?” Milton asked.

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