Page 7 of The Puppet Master
Pity. I bet she’s kind, obviously smart.
If she’s a mother, she’s a good one, albeit lonely. Piles of gifts on Christmas morning with endearing pet names written on every package: lovebug, babybear, treasure. A hundred mouth-blown balloons on birthdays that she carefully tapes to the ceiling by strings knowing lovebug/babybear will pull them down with the irresistible urge to slap the inflatable piece of rubber.Subdue your appetites, my dears, and you've conquered human nature.As with all important things in life, this takes time.
I glance down at the gin and tonic I shouldn’t have ordered. My time has yet to come.
We flirt for another minute before my phone buzzes on the counter, interrupting her mid-sentence. I wait for her to finish before holding up a finger and reading the text that comes across the screen.
Twenty minutes. Hurry.
Someone snaps loudly at the end of the bar, sinking the lips of my new friend, Sherry. She pats the counter. “Let me know if you need anything.”
I pick up my drink, rattle the ice, and take what I’m going to call a small sip. Then listen to the drunk slurring an order at Sherry.
She returns to her station for the drink and gives me acan you believe this guylook that has me subtly shaking my head—men.
When she walks him his order, I let my eyes follow, sipping more gin than tonic, the crisp liquid heaven warming the back of my throat. I should’ve ordered water.
I drain the glass before clanking it on the counter. I tell myself I’m only drinking because I’m nervous about the meeting. But that isn’t a problem for now. That’s a problem for… I click the side button on my phone… eighteen minutes.
Time to get to work.
I lean overThe Talented Mr. Ripley—hand to my forehead, elbow on the counter—and tilt just enough to get a good look at the guy. He’s young. All smooth skin and a blemish-free face. His brown comb-over shows no hint of gray.
The charcoal Zegna suit jacket thrown on the stool next to him tells me he likes quality but isn’t flashy. For a kid under thirty, that means old money. My favorite kind.
I pull out my wallet and slip two hundred dollar bills in the cover ofThe Talented Mr. Ripley, then abandon my glass to venture down the bar, book tucked beneath my arm. I sit two stools away from the kid and search his wrist.
“You got the time?”
Bloodshot eyes find me and blink, the kid’s head turning slowly, his brain running on a delay. He raises his right wrist to his face and reveals a Patek watch. Luxury but minimalist. Definitely old-money taste. It’s useless to know that he’s left-handed, but I catalogue that too out of habit. “7:44.”
Sixteen minutes left.
Not two minutes pass before his glass is empty, and he’s snapping his fingers once again. Though it isn’t quite as loud, his rhythm sloppy.
A progressively irritated Sherry comes over with her arms stiff at her sides. “Another?”
“Macallan 25, splash of water on the side,” he mutters with his gaze on a bowl of piss nuts.
She takes his glass and goes to walk off but pauses as I stretch my hand across the bartop. “Could I get the same, sweetheart?”
The thin layer of blush on each of Sherry’s cheeks grows, presumably at the petname, but it’s her lips I watch closely. Both corners twitch, not quite a smile but not a sneer. She doesn’t mind.
I like that.
“You got it,” she says to me before walking away.
The kid takes a handful of nuts and smashes his palm to his mouth. He munches on his urine-covered dinner.
Even I don’t eat that shit.
My fingers play a slow tune on the bartop while my mind wanders, the pieces of his life fitting together.
My best guess: twenty-six, fresh out of grad school, back home working for Daddy. And he hates it. So much so that every day at exactly 6:30 PM, he leaves the office, finds a bar—always different, to avoid being a regular—and drinks his way back to his undergrad years.
He has a business degree from an Ivy League, the closest one being … Dartmouth?
“Thanks, Sherry,” I say when she comes back with my drink.
