Free Everybody Dies by Lawrence Block Page B

day later but still very much there to be noted. I hadn't wanted a drink then, either.
    And I didn't want Lisa now, but evidently I wanted to be out of the space I was in, not the physical space of our apartment but the mental space, the chamber of self I occupied. That's what she'd always been, more than a source of pleasure, more than a conquest, more than good company. She was a way to get out, and I was a person who would always want to get out. No matter how comfortable my life was, no matter how well suited I was to it and it to me, I would always want to slip away and hide for a while.
    Part of who I am.
    Just seeing her there, just catching her eye, just watching her holding hands with Florian, had served to put her in mind. I wasn't going to see her. I wasn't even going to call her. But it was something I could talk about later with Jim, and something I wasn't going to bother thinking about anymore for now.
    Meanwhile, I'd watch the fellows play golf.
    "You look nice," Elaine said. She reached to touch the front of my windbreaker and felt the gun through it. "Very nice. The way it billows out, the holster's completely hidden. And if you keep it zipped halfway like that, you can get it in a hurry, can't you?"
    I demonstrated, drawing the gun, putting it back.
    "And your red polo shirt," she said, and reached to undo a button. "Oh, I see, you had it buttoned so the vest wouldn't show. But it looks better open, and so what if the vest shows? You can't tell what it is. It could be an undershirt."
    "Under a polo shirt?"
    "Or a tattoo," she said. "You look good. There's just enough contrast between the windbreaker and your khakis so it doesn't look like a uniform."
    "I'm glad," I said, "because I was really concerned about that."
    "Well, you should be. Suppose some dame pulls up and asks you to check her oil? How would you feel?"
    "I don't think I'm going to answer that."
    "You're a wise man," she said. "Gimme a kiss. Mmmm. Have fun. Be careful. Give my love to Jim."
    I went outside. It felt like rain, and we could use it. The air was thick and heavy, and needed the rinsing a good downpour would provide. But my guess was it was going to hold off awhile longer, as it had been holding off for several days now.
    I walked the long crosstown block to Eighth Avenue and a few blocks downtown to the restaurant, which turned out to be the Lucky Panda. There was a panda depicted on the sign, conventionally black and white, and smiling as if he'd just won the lottery.
    Jim Faber was already there, and he was easy to spot in a restaurant that was mostly empty. The table he'd chosen was one I'd have picked myself, against a side wall in the rear. He was reading the magazine section of the Times, and he put it aside at my approach and got to his feet.
    "Ike and Mike," he said.
    We shook hands, and I said, "Come again?"
    He pointed at me, then at himself. "'Ike and Mike, they look alike.' You never heard that expression?"
    "Not recently."
    "I had twin cousins three years older than myself. I ever mention them?"
    "I don't think so. Their names were Ike and Mike?"
    "No, of course not. Their names were Paul and Philip, but everybody called Philip Buzzy. God knows why. But I had this uncle, not the twins' father but another uncle, and every time he saw them he said the same thing."
    "'Hello, boys.'"
    "'Ike and Mike, they look alike.' Every goddamn time, which meant every family event, and there were plenty of those. For a family full of people who didn't much like one another, we got together a lot. 'Ike and Mike, they look alike.' Must have driven them up the fucking wall, but they never complained. But then you didn't complain in my family. You learned not to."
    "'Quit your crying or I'll give you something to cry about.'"
    "Jesus, yes. Your father used to say that?"
    "No, never. But I had an uncle who was always saying that to his kids. And I gather it wasn't just talk."
    "I heard it a lot myself growing up, and it wasn't just talk in our