Free Double Take by Abby Bardi

said. In fact, I had slept through most of the movie, waking up every so often when Joey nudged me in the ribs to rhapsodize about Charles Bronson. I could hear pummeling in my dreams.
    We were rounding the S curve on the Outer Drive. The downtown skyscrapers stood like shadows against the blue-black sky, lights twinkling from them. This was the skyline so dear to our mayor’s heart. He was a sentimental fellow who had ordered the police to “shoot to maim or cripple” looters during the 1968 riots. On the other side of the highway was the vast darkness of the lake.
    I took a deep breath and let it out. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about Bando.”
    â€œIt don’t pay to think about it, Cookie. I just wanted you to know so you wouldn’t feel . . .”
    â€œFeel what?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œGuilty?”
    â€œSomething like that.”
    â€œBut maybe it does pay to think about it.”
    â€œHow’s that?”
    â€œMaybe we can find out who did it.”
    â€œWhat would we want to do that for?” He turned and looked at me.
    â€œHey, keep your eyes on the road.”
    â€œYou worry too much.”
    I didn’t say anything for a minute. Then I said, “I want to know what happened.”
    He shook his head. “What difference would it make if you knew?”
    I took fifty cents out of my pocket—I was still wearing my waitress uniform—and put it in the jukebox. A flirtatious plumber had tipped me two quarters, though he had only ordered a ten-cent cup of coffee. I played “Miles Runs The Voodoo Down.” I, too, planned to run down some voodoo.
    We sat at the same small dark table in the back room we had sat at last time.
    â€œSo,” I said. I had noticed that people always said “so” when they didn’t know what else to say. I had noticed I was saying this a lot lately. Sometimes I modified it to “how so?” and sometimes “so what?” It seemed to me upon reflection that meaningful communication had not always been so difficult, but I could not remember when that might have been. I still remembered staying up all night with Michael, lying in bed and talking, but I couldn’t imagine what we could possibly have been talking about.
    I made a stab at a topic. “Okay, Joey, here’s the question. You ready? Okay. What’s your favorite bar?”
    â€œIn the world?”
    â€œNo. The world’s too big. Just the hood.”
    â€œWell, Cookie, I have been known to frequent the Tiki, the Eagle, the Cove, and occasionally even the Sundial. But the only real contender is Bert’s.”
    â€œWhich room?”
    â€œWow, tough one. I may have to get back to you on this.”
    â€œI can’t wait. I need to know now.”
    â€œAll right. I’d have to say that it depends on my mood.” He took a sip of Scotch and leaned back. “When I feel like seeing people and hearing a lot of noise, I go to the front room. The middle room is for when I don’t feel like talking to anyone. When I feel like having an intense conversation with a friend, the back room is the place to go.”
    â€œYou feeling intense tonight?”
    â€œI’m always intense, baby.”
    â€œLet’s have a conversation.”
    We smiled at each other like bar chums. “What do you want to talk about?” he asked.
    â€œBando. Tell me what you know.”
    â€œWhat I know.” He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he jumped up, saying, “I’ll be right back.” He came back with another Scotch and another Old Style, then poured beer into my glass. “Okay, Cookie, I’ll give you the little bit of information I have. I guess I owe you that.”
    â€œSomebody owes me that. I don’t know if it’s you. All Chad told me was that Bando jumped out of a window. The 27th floor, he said, the party room in his