Now it was really starting to heat up. Queenie read over a man’s shoulder on the train: Ninety degrees with rising humidity. She sighed. It’s almost July, she thought. What do you expect.
The train was moving slowly—chugging along like a little kid was pulling it on a string. They finally made it to the First Avenue Station, and Queenie said good-bye to the sweet air-conditioning and stepped off and held her breath. She was instantly overwhelmed with the heat of the station, and it made her feel like a baked potato wrapped in foil. She walked upstairs, into the sun and the thick air and headed down First, feeling blasts of air-conditioning as she passed shops and restaurants and the doors swung open.
There was a man with a gash in his head stumbling around St. Mark’s Place. He had a bottle of beer in a brown paper bag and was smiling a lot.
“It’s a happy fuckin’ day!” he shouted. “These are happy fuckin’ people!”
See, Queenie, she said to herself. Why can’t you be more like this guy? Things get him down, sure, but look at what a great attitude he has.
The streets were beginning to fill. It was close to five. People were clamoring to get out of town. Everyone who doesn’t live here busts their ass to get here, she thought, then they spend all their time trying to get away for the weekend. The weekends here are the best part, she thought.
Queenie stood on the corner of Houston and First Avenue, where there appeared to be no traffic laws whatsoever. It was chaos—horns honking and buses making U-turns, the street black and blurry from the heat. There were many pedestrians waiting to cross, looking from left to right, staring at all the many traffic lights for some kind of signal, trying to read them like Rorschach tests.
All of the cars became gridlocked-all of them frozen in centipede lines up and down Houston. Even though DON’T WALK had stopped blinking, Queenie, along with the other pedestrians, stepped into the street and started weaving and passing through the cars, their hips and hands brushing against the hot bumpers and hoods. The cars continued to honk, but not at her or the other pedestrians specifically, she didn’t think, and she didn’t mind anyway. Honking in this town is practically free speech, she thought. The ACLU should really get on that.
She reached the other side of Houston, and the crowd dispersed every which way. She walked to Orchard and peeked into the Pomme Frites shop on the way, with its huge cone of plaster fries hanging over the entrance. I could really use some pomme frites, she thought, but then decided against it. Beer first, then food.
When she saw the sign for Wintertown, something came over her. She sped up, started to trot, then run; she couldn’t get there fast enough, feet flopping all the way, and she finally came to the door and pushed it open and felt the cool air inside.
“Hey, now,” said Stanley. “Where’s the fire at?”
Queenie laughed. “I dunno.”
Meade turned to her from behind the bar and nodded as he filled a glass with Coca-Cola, then set it in front of Rey. Rey smiled. Then Felix, sitting next to Rey, turned.
“Hello, Miss Queenie,” said Felix. “How are you today?”
“I’m okay, Felix, how about yourself?” said Queenie, sitting down next to Rey.
“I’m exhausted. I hate this weather. It makes me feel like a Bangkok whore.”
Rey put his head down, laughing silently.
“I always feel like a Bangkok whore,” said Queenie.
Meade placed a pint of beer in front of her and folded his arms.
“Tough week?” he said.
“No way,” said Queenie. “It was a breeze.”
She sipped her beer, and it was light and ambery, with a little bitter aftertaste.
Someone at the other end of the bar shouted, “Bartender!”
Meade closed his eyes in frustration and breathed deeply. Then he yelled, “Customer!”
Queenie and Rey laughed. Meade walked to the other end, and Felix stared out the window.
“How are you?” said Rey gently.
“I’m fine,” she said, staring at her beer. She couldn’t look him in the eyes just yet.
Rey nodded and sipped his Coke.
“How was it when you left?” he said.
“All fine,” she said, shrugging. “Mill’s still being questioned, but Olds said they were gonna let him go this afternoon.”
“What about Fish and the hitman?” asked Rey.
Queenie smirked. “They’re in custody. Of course there were already about ten lawyers there when I left.”
“And … the body?” Rey said tentatively. “Where is she going to go?”
Queenie felt itchy suddenly. She scratched at the back of her neck, and said, “They found—Olds and his guys found the next of kin. It’s her mother. In Phoenix, Arizona.”
Palm trees, right? thought Queenie. They have palm trees there, and cactuses, and deserts and flash floods. That was all Queenie knew about Arizona. And that it was hot as hell but it was a “dry heat,” whatever that meant. And Alice, the TV show, took place there. She had to admit, she felt good that Trig was going home to a mother. Queenie like to think about her: Trig’s mother, maybe a sassy redhead type like the gal on Alice. Queenie shook her head. Hell, she said to herself, maybe not. Maybe Trig’s mom isn’t sassy at all, maybe she’s not fragile and dramatic and sickly either—maybe she’s the plainest Jane you ever met, who knows.
“Phoenix, Arizona,” repeated Rey quietly. “Do they need you again?”
“Probably—what about you?”
Rey nodded. “I’ll get called for the grand jury in a few weeks. You know you’ll be too, right?”
Queenie sighed. “Olds already lectured me on all the various steps and statements.” She rolled her eyes and tried to look tough, as if to say, Being a witness is such a hassle.
Rey put his hand on her chin and turned her face to his.
“I’ve done it before,” he said softly. “It’s not so bad.”
Queenie’s stomach jumped.
Then Felix shouted, “Meade! Meade!”
Meade came back to their end.
“Please, sir, can I have some more,” said Felix, holding up his martini glass with both hands. “Just not quite so dirty this time, okay?”
“You hear that, everyone?” said Meade grandly. “Felix doesn’t want it so dirty this time.”
They all laughed. Meade grabbed the Tanqueray and poured a large dose into a silver martini bullet.
Queenie sipped her beer. “What the hell is this anyway,” she said, lifting the glass.
“It’s new,” said Meade. “It’s from a small company upstate—actually a spin-off from another microbrewery.”
“What’s the name?” said Queenie.
Meade looked at her sideways, coyly. “You don’t believe me?” he said.
Queenie laughed. “No, I don’t. I won’t believe you until you tell me who made this beer.”
Meade pulled a pen from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth like it was a pipe. He grinned but didn’t answer her.
“Who, goddammit?” said Queenie.
Then Meade said slowly, “Top. Men.”
Queenie laughed like crazy. She felt tears come to her eyes and put her head down on the bar.
She loved the new beer. She loved Felix. She loved Meade. She loved Rey. She loved everything just then.