Free 2 a.m. at the Cat's Pajamas by Marie-Helene Bertino Page A

down the street. “Later skater,” she calls over her shoulder.
    “You’re just mean!” Jill calls to her retreating figure.
    Madeleine extends her middle finger above her as she and Pedro gallop toward home.

4:00 P.M.
    O utside the Red Lion Diner, a girl wearing an expedition coat and pajama bottoms yells into her cell phone that he’d better be coming to pick her up, not whenever he feels like it, but right the hell now.
    The lobby no longer has arcade games, but it does have a pay phone. Lorca punches in the number. He holds a plastic container of sausage Mrs. Santiago gave him in thanks for returning her dog. The pajama-ed girl paces outside the window where Lorca stands, listening to the line ring. She wants the person on the other end to explain exactly what kind of asshole he thinks she is. She speaks with the matter-of-fact cruelty of a Northeast girl. They’re making young people younger. Or else Lorca is older than he’s ever been.
    Fiinally, a woman picks up. “Mongoose’s.”
    “I’d like to speak with Mongoose.”
    “He’s not here. May I ask who’s calling?”
    “When will he be back?”
    “He went up the street for sandwiches.” The voice inhales sharply. “Lorca? Is that you?”
    “Yeah.” Lorca closes his eyes. “It’s me.”
    Her tone changes to repentant. “Lorca? How are you?”
    “I’ve been better.”
    “He’ll be happy you called,” she says. “I’ll tell him as soon as he’s back. Take care of yourself, Lorca.”
    He hangs up. The sudden, quiet lobby. The walls are bluewith deep yellow flecks. Lorca smells syrup and weak coffee. Inside the glass doors, families sit at plastic booths eating eggs. A waitress borrows a ketchup bottle from one table to give to a family whose food has just arrived.
    There he is five years ago, untattooed, fiddling with the knobs of the booth’s personal jukebox. It is his first date with Louisa Vicino, snake girl at The Courtland Avenue Club, and he had to bring Alex because the kid threw a tantrum. Louisa doesn’t seem to mind. It is going well. In the car ride over, she and Alex discovered they both like Ray Charles and Swiss cheese with no holes.
    “When they say vanilla shake”—Louisa studies the menu—“do they mean French or bean? I like bean but not French.”
    “Me too.” Eleven-year-old Alex readjusts himself on the plastic seat so he can sit higher. Lorca is certain his son doesn’t know the difference between the two kinds of vanilla. Alex detests Lorca because he won’t let him play guitar, but detests being without him even more. Louisa is the first woman his father has allowed him to meet, albeit by force. She is an extension of his father ungoverned by obligatory familial resentment. Alex is free to be fascinated by this full-hipped woman who carries a purse the size of a fist and who declared in the car, “Anyone who doesn’t think Ray Charles is the best is a chump.”
    They order milkshakes. Lorca wants to play Ray Charles on their personal jukebox, but it is broken. Sweat blooms in the fabric of the only button-down he owns.
    The Courtland Avenue Club is a combination strip club/bowling alley, a glowing, neon dome you can see from the highway. Louisa dances three times a night and works shifts at the bar in between. Lorca has never seen her dance, and doesn’t want to. Her mouth is still red from the outside cold. Lorca likes how her chin moves when she is emphatic. “I didn’t finish college,” she says, “but I want to take classes. In what I’m not sure.”
    The milkshakes arrive. She swallows a strawful, then turns to Alex. “How is it?”
    He thinks about it. “Good.”
    “Mine too. If you can flip a spoonful of it over and it doesn’t drip, it’s good.”
    A tray of food arrives for the family next to them. The waitress slides each plate onto the table as the family oohs and aahs.
    “I have to go to the bathroom,” Alex says.
    “Hurry up,” Lorca says. “We have to get back to the