On Unfaithful Wings by Bruce Blake Read Free Book Online

buddies. Three of the best, salt-of-the-earth guys you could ever meet. Sully served lots of people, so it made sense he might not recognize me, but these guys should. We’d competed together on the Olympic drinking team with a specialty in synchronized puking.
    I pivoted back toward the bar as Sully set the next drink in front of me. I nodded my thanks.
    “You okay? Look like you saw a ghost.”
    “Fine.”
    He wiped his hands on his apron and eyed me a moment longer, probably wondering if I’d turn out to be trouble, then wandered to the far end of the bar to serve a balding guy in a Packers jersey with Favre’s number on the sleeve. I stared past the glass of vodka with its lime wedge clinging to the edge, past the pail of peanuts, looking at the back bar and its array of liquors, at the mirror behind them. I shifted, trying to see what Sully saw, but there were too many bottles for me to see myself clearly until the barkeep came and plucked a bottle of Cinzano red off the shelf to make a drink for the balding guy. I shuffled to the left to get a look at myself.
    I looked like me.
    My hair was longer, scruffier, and my shirt and jacket were in dire need of dry cleaning and pressing, but the face looking back was undeniably mine. Hope glimmered in my chest; surely the guys would recognize me. They’d be elated to find me still alive, happy to offer me a place to stay while I figured out what was going on.
    But what if they don’t?
    I gathered my refreshment and my nerves--the former in better supply than the latter--slid off the stool and headed for their table.
    “I’m tellin’ ya, it’s the Vikes’ year. They look good.” Marty had gained weight. Sitting in the same chair day after day quaffing beer could have that effect.
    “You don’t know nothing,” Todd said slamming his half-empty mug of beer down on the table, the impact shuddering the football-shaped salt and pepper shakers against one another. He wore the same Yankees cap he always wore, like it had been grafted to his head. “The Giants all the way.”
    Marty gagged on a mouthful of dark ale. I grinned as familiarity and comfort crept back in, hiding anxiety under a healthy-looking top coat. How many times had I heard this argument? For years, I sat in the fourth chair, arguing in favor of the Patriots; they hated me for it because my team won too much.
    “Tell him, Phil.” Marty wiped foam off his upper lip with the sleeve of his shirt. “Tell him the Giants suck.”
    Every extra pound on Marty’s body seemed to have been carved from Phil’s frame. Dark circles under his eyes spilled down sunken cheeks, giving his face the look of a pathetic-not-scary Halloween mask. Hardly enough hair remained on his head to qualify as a comb-over. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped his beer, preparing to answer Marty’s challenge. I didn’t need anyone to tell me what was going on; cancer killed Rae’s father, so I knew how it looked.
    “I don’t know, Marty. They don’t look bad.”
    I took a swig of vodka to reinforce my courage and stepped up to the table. Their conversation stopped and they looked at me, their expressions blank.
    “The Pats. No one can beat the Pats.”
    “Can we help you?” Marty’s tone lacked both friendliness and recognition. My vodka-backed nerves faltered. I considered walking away without another word but gritted my teeth, determined to push on.
    “It’s me. Ric.” I spread my arms in a gesture like a man expecting a welcome-home hug. No one stirred.
    “I think you’ve confused us with someone else.”
    “Come on guys, I know it’s been a while, but you know me.”
    “Maybe you need to slow down on the drinks a little, friend,” Todd said.
    “Icarus. Icarus Fell. Don’t you recognize me?”
    Marty slammed his fist on the table, the impact slopping beer over the edge of Phil’s mug.
    “I don’t know who you are, mister, but you ain’t funny.” He pushed his chair away from the table,