“Reallllllly.” Moose sat forward, too, his bulk turning the sizable six-top into a Post-it note. “Amy wants her?”
“I don’t know. Whatever.”
“Come on, man. Tell me.”
“I don’t know nothing.” Danny made a point of nodding toward the pool tables. “We’re up next on number three.”
“Yeah, after those Brads. Did they buy everything at the Polo outlet before they came here?”
Danny measured the loafers. The watches. Those haircuts. “Moose, buddy, those boys do not shop at outlets.”
The set of four matching preppies, aged twenty-one to twenty-five, had sauntered into Timeout about twenty minutes before, and he was guessing they had boated to the New Brunswick Yacht Club under sail, parked in a private berth, and were slumming it here after having dined on lobster thermidor and baked Alaska with Mumsey and Dads. No doubt they were hoping for some hot, raw townie sex before they went back to their oceanfront mansions and their two-entry-only Daughters of the American Revolution fiancées.
He’d seen the type before. And they’d come here again because these Brads were like the social equivalent of the rhinovirus. Bound to show up from time to time, but nothing that was terminal, and by reducing exposure, you had less a chance of catching one.
So yeah, he was going to give ’em plenty of time at that pool table. Until they moved on on their own.
“You drive me batshit.”
He refocused on Moose. “Usually I just try to piss people off. I’m over-succeeding with you without meaning to.”
“If you know something about Amy, why aren’t you tell me?”
“Go talk to Chavez directly.”
“He never goes into his personal life.”
“So guess you’re screwed.”
A whistle broke through the argument, and both he and Moose looked toward the pool table.
“More beers,” one of the frat boys said over the din. “Now, not later, chiquita.”
Danny frowned and sized the kid up with the mouth up. He looked like law school material. Or med school—i.e., more forehead than jawline. With that gold watch and those Bermuda shorts, it was also an easy guess he had some roman numerals after his last name.
Subtly turning his body in the direction of the pool game, Danny swallowed some beer and told himself not to get involved.
Two minutes later, Josefina walked over to the quartet with, oh, of course, some craft bullshit on her round tray, and the James Spaderses, circa Pretty in Pink, stared at her in a way he was sure Chavez wouldn’t appreciate.
“Get anything good at the hospital?” a male voice said.
As Duff pulled a chair out, Danny nodded a greeting, and then realized the question was to him. “Nope. Just a co-pay I gotta get reimbursed by the department.”
“You need any respiratory rehab?”
“He’s coming,” Moose said. “It’s early.”
Over at the pool table, Danny refocused—and watched Josefina bend down and pick something off the floor. As she made her way back to the bar, she was frowning.
“Oh, great, Rizzo’s in the house,” Moose muttered.
Sure enough, Rizzo and some of the 617s were filing in, and as usual, they went in the opposite direction, to the booths by the front windows.
“You want another one, Dannyboy?”
Danny looked up at Josefina. “I didn’t know I was done. Yeah, I do.”
The woman smiled. “When you want me to turn you off tonight?”
“Not until I pass out.”
“You make me sad, Danny.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “You are with your friends, though. They always take care of you—”