I covered her with the top sheet, sat back down again. There was something else I'd wanted to do but I couldn't think what it was. I tried to think, and I guess I must have dozed off myself. I don't suppose I was out for more than a few minutes, just time enough to lose myself in a dream that fled from me the minute I opened my eyes and blinked it away.
I let myself out. Her door had a spring lock. There was a dead bolt you could engage with the key for extra security, but all I had to do was draw the door shut and it was locked, and reasonably secure. I took the elevator down and went outside.
The rain was holding off. At the corner of Ninth Avenue a jogger passed, running doggedly uptown against what little traffic there was. His T-shirt was gray with sweat and he look ready to drop. I thought of O'Bannon, Jack Diebold's old partner, getting physically fit before blowing his brains out.
And then I remembered what I'd wanted to do at Carolyn's apartment. I'd been planning on taking away the little gun Tommy had given her. If she was going to drink like that and get depressed like that, she didn't need to have a weapon in the bedside table.
But the door was locked. And she was out cold, she wasn't going to wake up and kill herself.
I crossed the street. The steel gate was drawn most of the way across the front of Armstrong's, and the white globe lights over the front were out, but light showed from within. I walked over to the door, saw that the chairs were on top of the tables, ready for the Dominican kid who came in first thing in the morning to sweep the place out. I didn't see Billie at first, and then I saw him at a stool at the far end of the bar. The door was locked, but he spotted me and came over and let me in.
He locked the door again after I was through it, walked me over to the bar and slipped behind it. Without my saying anything he poured me a glass of bourbon. I curled my hand around it but didn't pick it up from the top of the bar.
"The coffee's all gone," he said.
"That's all right. I didn't want any more."
"She all right? Carolyn?"
"Well, she might have a hangover tomorrow."
"Just about everybody I know might have a hangover tomorrow," he said. "I might have a hangover tomorrow. It's gonna pour, I might as well sit in the house and eat aspirin all day."
Someone banged on the door. Billie shook his head at him, waved him away. The man knocked again. Billie ignored him.
"Can't they see the place is closed?" he complained. "Put your money away, Matt. We're closed, the register's locked up, it's private-party time." He held his glass to the light and looked at it. "Beautiful color," he said. "She's a pisser, old Carolyn. A bourbon drinker's a gentleman and a scotch drinker's- what did she say a scotch drinker was?"
"I think a hypocrite."
"So I gave her the straight line, didn't I? What's it make a man if he drinks Irish whiskey? An Irishman."
"Well, you asked."
"What else it makes him is drunk, but in a nice way. I only get drunk in the nicest possible way. Ah, Jesus, Matt, these are the best hours of the day. You can keep your Morrissey's. This is like having your own private after-hours, you know? The joint empty and dark, the music off, the chairs up, one or two people around for company, the rest of the world locked the hell out. Great, huh?"
"It's not bad."
"No, it's not."
He was freshening my drink. I didn't remember drinking it. I said, "You know, my trouble is I can't go home."
"That's what Thomas Wolfe said, 'You Can't Go Home Again.' That's everybody's trouble."
"No, I mean it. My feet keep taking me to a bar instead. I was out in Brooklyn, I got home late, I was tired, I was already half in the bag, I started to walk to my hotel and I turned around and came here instead. And just now I put her to sleep, Carolyn, and I had to drag myself out of there before I fell asleep in her chair, and instead of going home like a sane human being I came back here again like some dim homing pigeon."
"You're a swallow and this is Capistrano."
"Is that what I am? I don't know what the hell I am anymore."
"Oh, bullshit. You're a guy, a human being. Just another poor son of a bitch who doesn't want to be alone when the sacred ginmill closes."
"The what?" I started to laugh. "Is that what this place is? The sacred ginmill?"
"Don't you know the song?"
"What song?"
"The Van Ronk song. 'And so we've had another night- ' " He broke off. "Hell, I can't sing, I can't even get the tune right. 'Last Call,' Dave Van Ronk. You don't know it?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Well, Christ," he said. "You have got to hear it. You have by Christ got to hear this song. It's what we've been talking about, and on top of that it's the fucking national anthem. Come on."
"Come on and what?"
"Just come on," he said. He put a Piedmont Airlines flight bag on top of the bar, rooted around under the back bar and came up with two unopened bottles, one of the twelve-year-old Jameson Irish he favored and one of Jack Daniel's. "This okay?" he asked me.
"Okay for what?"
"For pouring over your head to kill the cooties. Is it okay to drink is my question. You've been drinking Forester, but I can't find an unopened bottle, and there's a law against carrying an opened bottle on the street."
"There is?"
"There ought to be. I never steal opened bottles. Will you please answer a simple question? Is Jack Black all right?"
"Of course it's all right, but where the hell are we going?"
"My place," he said. "You've got to hear this record."
"BARTENDERS drink free," he said. "Even at home. It's a fringe benefit. Other people get pension plans and dental care. We get all the booze we can steal. You're gonna love this song, Matt."
We were in his apartment, an L-shaped studio with a parquet floor and a fireplace. He was on the twenty-second floor and his window looked south. He had a good view of the Empire State Building and, farther down on the right, the World Trade Center.
The place was sparsely furnished. There was a white mica platform bed and dresser in the sleeping alcove, a couch and a sling chair in the middle of the room. Books and records overflowed a bookcase and stood around in stacks on the floor. Stereo components were placed here and there- a turntable on an upended milk crate, speakers resting on the floor.
"Where did I put the thing?" Billie wondered.
I walked over to the window, looked out at the city. I was wearing a watch but I purposely didn't look at it because I didn't want to know what time it was. I suppose it must have been somewhere around four o'clock. It still wasn't raining.
"Here," he said, holding up an album. "Dave Van Ronk. You know him?"
"Never heard of him."
"Got a Dutch name, looks like a mick and I swear on the blues numbers he sounds just like a nigger. He's also one bitchin' guitar player but he doesn't play anything on this cut. 'Last Call.' He sings it al fresco."
"Okay."
"Not al fresco. I forget the expression. How do you say it when you sing without accompaniment?"
"What difference does it make?"
"How can I forget something like that? I got a mind like a fucking sieve. You're gonna love this song."