Calm at Sunset, Calm at Dawn by Paul Watkins

Author:Paul Watkins [Paul Watkins]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781907970245
Publisher: Daunt Books
Published: 2014-12-04T16:00:00+00:00

I put all my money except a hundred dollars in a savings account at a bank near Sabatini’s.

Then I walked across the street to Mary’s, where I knew the crew would be. I peered through a fishing net strung across the window and decorated with plastic lobsters. The door was open. I listened to the talk inside.

Franklin and Gil were trying to buy a pinball machine from the bartender, who had long and greasy grey hair. The barman said it wasn’t his to sell.

‘I want it! I want it and I’m going to get it!’ Gil stamped and sat down at a little table with a red and white checked cover. He ordered a dozen raw oysters with hot sauce.

Franklin fussed around after Gil, pulling the chair out for him to sit down. ‘He means it!’ Franklin cut the air with his palm in the direction of the barman. ‘Gil gets what he wants and it’s a fact!’

Pittsley was talking to a crewman from the Halifax, which pulled up the remains of a small plane off New Bedford the week before. It was a Cessna, and all that remained of the pilot were some bones and bits of rotten clothing in the cockpit. The Halifax crewman showed Pittsley some Polaroids he had taken.

Gil raised his hand, like a pupil in class, and asked to see. A big smile of hot sauce was smeared across his face.

Howard stood on the bar in front of a television bolted up near the ceiling. He turned from channel to channel. He was wearing a new leather jacket zipped to the throat.

I looked up at him. ‘What are you doing?’

‘A New Bedford trawler got caught last night running drugs off the New Jersey shore. I heard about it this morning from one of the Newport police, and now I’m waiting for it to hit the news.’ He gave up turning channels and switched the TV off. ‘What you drinking, Pfeif?’

‘Maybe some mescal.’

He ordered me some. ‘What do you think of my jacket, Pfeif? Cost me damn near two hundred dollars!’ He stood and waved his arms, like a bird with tar on its wings.

‘It makes your legs look thinner than they are.’

The bartender handed me a shot glass full of mescal. I sniffed at the honey-coloured liquid and drank it fast. As it burned in my throat, I began wishing I’d drunk water or something with no kick.

‘I was thinking that too!’ Pittsley tried to fit quarters into the jukebox but kept dropping them on the floor. ‘Your legs look even more twiggy than before!’ Eventually the barman had to help Pittsley with the jukebox, inserting the quarters and asking in a soft voice, ‘Which song do you want?’

Pittsley bent down over the clear screen and pointed to the titles.

The mescal reached me, like being hit over the head with a pillow. ‘Where’s Kelley?’

‘Now tell me the truth!’ Gil rested his forearms on the little table. ‘Did you ever kiss Kelley on the lips?’ I snorted and turned back to the bar and ordered more mescal.

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