Beware the Solitary Drinker by Cornelius Lehane Read Free Book Online Page A

expression on her face. I knew from Angelina that she was an office clerk, and she looked like one—the kind who goes by the book and can’t bend the rules and takes it personally if you haven’t paid your electric bill on time.
    Some other, mostly younger people began arriving then, probably high school friends of Angelina’s. Later, as Carl and I sat in the back row on cushioned folding chairs staring straight in front of us, guys in suits came in and with them women who looked accustomed to wearing high heels. These were friends of the sister. Janet hugged each of them in a way that suggested she was glad they came but felt funny about the hugging. None of them seemed the hugging sort either.
    We shook hands with mother and daughter once more before we left. The mother smiled tightly. But something had changed in the daughter. She seemed more interested in me. Her eyes, still red and puffy, were almost friendly. “I’d like to talk a minute,” she said. “I’ll walk out with you.”
    She walked with Carl and me out onto the porch of the funeral parlor. A black car with a taxi light on the roof idled at the curb. Carl and I glanced at each other, then looked longingly at the cab.
    â€œI’m coming to New York in a few days to pick up whatever might remain of Angelina’s things,” Janet Carter said. “Might I call you?”
    â€œMe? Sure…I guess,” I said.
    A beseeching look, an entreaty, tears starting up in the corners of her eyes. I didn’t like this. Carl was eyeing the cab like he might make a run for it. Janet Carter looked at me with those pain-filled eyes. “Poor, little Angel—” she began, then turned away, sobbing, her shoulders shuddering.
    I patted her awkwardly on the back. “I’m sorry,” I said. I didn’t know what she wanted. I suppose at that moment she didn’t either. But I couldn’t turn her down, whatever it was. I gave her my phone number and the phone number and address for Oscar’s and left her standing, sniffling, on the porch. There was something about her, too, even in her sniffling. Strength, maybe. Determination not to give in to her sorrow? Anger? I couldn’t tell. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see this Miss Carter again. But I wasn’t sure I didn’t want to see her.
    ***
    At dinner in a surprisingly good German restaurant near the bus depot, Carl and I drank Wurtzburger drafts, direct from Germany, and ate weiner schnitzel.
    When we were finished, Carl’s expression turned owlish, so I expected something serious. “It would be better if Angelina’s sister didn’t come to New York,” he said.
    â€œOh?”
    He fidgeted a bit with what was left on his plate, then sloshed the beer around in his stein. “There’s something you should know about Angelina,” he said in a determined voice. “She acted in some movies for Boss and Rocky—” His eyes softened with sympathy. Maybe the shock I felt registered on my face. It was the shock of finding out what I couldn’t believe but knew immediately must be true as soon as I heard the words.
    Cheap sixteen-millimeter flicks made in the cellar of 811 West End Avenue. I knew about Rocky’s flicks. I’d even, in my innocence, thought I was the one who first told Angelina about them. We’d sat in that cellar on a sagging filthy couch in the shadows of the giant boilers watching them once. A girl slapped around by two guys, until her tits hung out of her dress and the guys became frenzied like starving dogs and devoured her while she writhed, tied to the bed, panting, bleeding from her mouth.
    When we walked home afterward, I told Angelina I didn’t know why there were movies like that.
    â€œMen get off on them,” she said.
    â€œI don’t.”
    â€œIt’s better for men to watch that than to do it,” she said. “Men are into really sick