“Take care of yourself, Telegram Sam.” He started to turn around, then changed his mind, planted his feet. “What did you see back there?”
What did you see? What do you remember?
“In The Leaf. You were looking at me like I was Satan or something.”
Sam smiled, seizing an opportunity. Telling him he might be crazy hadn’t worked earlier but might now. Christ, he never should have engaged. It had only encouraged him. Stupid. “I have hallucinations sometimes, Rolf. Kind of like premonitions. One came true this morning—I’m not sure what to think about that.”
“What kind of premonitions?” he asked, undeterred.
“How people will die.”
Rolf’s eyes expanded until they were so laughably disproportionate in his lank face, he looked like an owl. “No … no way.”
“It was just a hallucination. It doesn’t mean anything. Necessarily,” he said, bending the word for maximum impact. “Just a coincidence, if you believe in them. Or a projection, maybe a neurological condition. Crazy, if you believe in that.”
His troubled brow furrowed. “You’re shitting me.”
“I wish I was.”
“So you saw something when you were looking at me?”
“I saw the word ‘overdose’ on your forehead.”
His jaw went slack, then his big eyes jittered down to his arms involuntarily. It was the first time Sam noticed the scars there. Track marks. Or maybe his subconscious had picked them up earlier and that, combined with the Sid Vicious tattoo, is where his hallucination had germinated.
Rolf was finally speechless.
“Finish your film, Rolf Hesse. Do something good. Live to tell about it. I’ll be really fucking pissed off if I see your name in the obituaries, and if you’re there I’ll see it. I read them every morning and I won’t forget your name.”
Rolf started backing away, then it was his turn to bolt, but to the safety of his AMG and his student film and possibly his room or wing in Daddy’s mansion. Unless he really hit rock bottom, he wouldn’t be standing by a dumpster losing his marbles tonight.
Sam watched him roar away in his beautiful piece of automotive glory. Mission accomplished. He’d gotten rid of Rolf. And maybe he’d think twice before he stuck another needle in his arm, although he doubted it.
When his phone rang and he saw his mother’s number on the caller ID, he thought about ignoring it because her parental radar could pick up the faintest shift in tone or timbre in his voice and she would obsess over it. But a dose of Mom right now might be good medicine. She had plenty of idiosyncrasies, but she was the closest thing to normal in his life at the moment. “Hey, Mom.”
“Sam. You sound out of breath, are you all right?”
“I’m just finishing up a run.” Maybe a minor misrepresentation but definitely not a lie.
“Oh. Well, I’m calling to tell you how happy I am you’re coming to dinner Sunday. Four o’clock sharp.”
“Thanks for the invite. Who’s the mystery guest? The neighbor’s Shih Tzu?”
“Pfft, you’re ridiculous, but I’m glad to hear you’re in good spirits.”
If she only knew.
“Are you sure you don’t want to be surprised, dear?”
“I definitely don’t want to be surprised. You remember what happened at my tenth birthday party.”
“You are just full of spit and vinegar today.” Her voice was full of mirth and it made Sam inordinately happy.
“Cough it up, Mom.”
“Sam, you won’t believe it,” she gushed. “Lee Varney came for coffee this morning. He’s in town for some meetings. He’ll be joining us, and possibly Captain Greer, too!”
A lot of military memories came flooding back—actually, it was more like a memory tsunami washing over him—but it was all positive for a change. “Lee and Andy?”
“Their paths crossed on the West Coast and they both want to see you.”
“You just made my night.”
“I thought I might,” she said, purring with satisfaction. “See you Sunday, dear. Call if you need anything.”
When he hung up, he pondered the dumpster. It suddenly felt ridiculous to be communing with a trash receptacle, whereas a few minutes ago it had seemed appropriate. He was always reluctant to acknowledge affirmative feelings, as if that would instantly dispel them, but he welcomed this buoyancy of spirit without reservation. It wouldn’t last long, but he’d enjoy it while he could.
He dry-swallowed two aspirin to preemptively fend off the headache that was making a sinuous creep into his brain, ignored the tranqs, then finally took the plunge and stepped into the boisterous Pearl Club kitchen. It was the only world that seemed to make any sense to him these days.
Chapter Twenty-one
LANGDON, THE NIGHT MANAGER OF PEARL Club, was chewing out a new, largely disliked waiter while the line cooks snickered softly at their stations. Luis, a sous chef and former Marine, gave Sam a salute, then went back to the octopus he was charring on the plancha. Ashley, who ran the front of the house, was at the computer in the adjacent office, checking reservations for the night and documenting shift changes while she sneaked puffs off an e-cig and sipped coffee. White coffee, code for white wine disguised in a coffee cup. Langdon didn’t know about it, but everybody else did.
Sam relaxed. This felt like home, every bit as dysfunctional as his own. He didn’t know if that was good or bad, but it was comfortable. He poked his head into the office and said hi to Ashley.
“Hi, Sam!” She shoved the coffee cup behind the computer monitor. “Busy night on the books, are you ready?”
“I was born ready.”
She tittered. “You’re clocked in, so you’d best get your ass into work before I have to fire you.”
“I could really use a drink of your coffee first.”
She regarded him shrewdly.
“Everybody knows about the white coffee except Langdon. And we’ll all keep it that way.”
Ashley nodded and passed him the cup. “Whatever it takes to get through the night, right?”
“Right. Next time, let’s do whiskey.”
“Not a bad idea. It looks more like coffee, too. But it reeks to high heaven. Maybe vodka.”
“Clear coffee, the next big thing. Our little secret.” The wine felt good on his palate, felt even better once it started to enter his bloodstream. Maybe the day wasn’t a total loss, although his hope for dry dock wasn’t shaping up so well.
Tomorrow. The classic mantra of a drinker uncommitted to sobriety. He wondered if Rolf was confronting a similar existential crisis right now.
When he made his way to the lounge area, Melody was already behind the bar, chatting up a handful of lingering, late-afternoon customers. They were finishing their tapas and drinks before they headed somewhere else and made room for the next shift of happy hour drinkers and diners. She engaged them effortlessly as she prepped her bartender’s mise en place as meticulously as any chef would before service, but there was something off-kilter about her manner tonight. She seemed disjointed, distracted, like she was just going through the motions instead of genuinely enjoying her role.