Night's Favour (8 page)

Val took another pull from his beer.
 
Damn, but those Italians knew how to brew a good lager.
 
“Man, I woke up without pants, alright?
 
I like to think I must have had a good time somewhere.
 
Orgies don’t just start themselves, right?”

John laughed. “I’ll drink to that.”
 
They clinked their bottles.

“Still.”
 
Val hesitated.

“Still what?”

“Something about it seemed real familiar.”

“What do you mean?
 
Of course it’s familiar.
 
You drink there seven nights a week.”

“No, not like that, like —”

“Hey, it’s him!”
 
The shout came from just to the right, a couple of fit looking young guys crowded around a phone.
 
“Check it out!”
 
They came over.
 
The one with the phone held it out towards Val and said, “Hey man.
 
Is this for real?”

The phone’s screen showed a frame of Val, on a bench.
 
An impossibly large amount of weight was on the bar above him.
 
The guy pressed a button on the phone and the movie played forward, showing Val pressing that weight down and up — and then throwing up on the floor afterwards.
 
Val turned away.
 
“Shit.”

“Nah man.
 
That was awesome!
 
Hey, what’s your name?”
 
And — impossibly, simply — like that, Val was the centre of the group, being clapped on the shoulder, his hand being shaken, young guys high fiving around him.
 
He looked to John for help.

“Hey buddy, don’t look at me.
 
You deserve this.”
 
He cleared his throat.
 
“Guys, this is my friend Val…”

The crowd around Val started to grow.
 
People shared the phone with the video.
 
Someone worked out how to put it up on the screen behind the bar, showing Val’s massive lifting effort from earlier in the day.
 
People bought him beers, clapped him on the back like old friends.
 
They wanted to know how long he’d been lifting for, what his secret was.
 
There were cries of disbelief when he admitted it was his first day in the gym.

“So it’s a fake then?”
 
The guy with the phone looked crestfallen.
 
He looked down at Val’s belly.
 
“Figures“.
 

John stepped up then, putting a hundred dollar bill on the bar.
 
“No fake.
 
I’m confident in my buddy here.
 
So confident that I reckon he’ll take anyone here in an arm wrestling match.
 
Right now.
 
So confident that I’ll put up this hundred against your fifty.”
 
The crowd quietened then.

Val looked around.
 
“Man, what are you doing —”

“I’ll take that bet.”
 
Working his way towards the back of the bar, the newcomer was young, cocksure.
 
He was muscled, lean, and moved like a wrestler.
 
A table was quickly cleared, and Val found himself very alone in the centre of a crowd, his opponent already with his elbow on the table.

“What —”
 
Val swallowed, feeling panicked.
 

John came up behind him, put his hands on Val’s shoulders.
 
Leaning forward, he said, “Don’t worry man, you got this.
 
Just grab his hand, take it to the table.”

Tentatively, Val reached out, putting his elbow on the table.
 
It was slightly rickety — one of the legs must have been shorter than the others.
 
The top was coarse, veneer roughened by the passing of glasses and plates and God knows what else over its surface.
 
He looked at his opponent, taking in the bulging bicep and muscled forearm.
 
The predatory, mocking grin.

Something inside Val — something hungry — made him reach forward, and they clasped hands.
 
He grinned himself then.

Val’s opponent wanted the win — his grin said he knew he was going to get it.
 
He tried a vice grip on Val’s hand, applying pressure before giving a savage wrench and slamming Val’s arm to the tabletop.
 
At least, that’s what he thought was going to happen.
 
As soon as he used that pressure, trying to crush Val’s hand in his, the game changed.
 
That hungry thing inside of Val noticed the change, felt the point where this stopped being a game and started being a fight.
 
Instead of his arm slamming to the tabletop in defeat, it stayed upright.

Val’s arm didn’t move an inch.

Val’s teeth were still showing over the top of their clasped hands.
 
He began to apply pressure of his own, inexorably pushing the back of his opponent’s hand towards the tabletop.
 
The motion was slow and smooth, no trembling of exertion.

Like that, it was over.
 
The back of his opponent’s hand touched the table.
 
Val hadn’t realised how quiet the bar had become until people started cheering, clapping him on the back.
 
A beer appeared in front of him, and he chugged it thirstily.
 
His opponent kicked back his chair, pushing savagely through the crowd.
 
Jeers followed him to the anonymity of the night outside.

John reached forward.
 
“Another fifty bro.
 
It’s going to be a long night.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“What?”
 
Her head cocked at him, the small bar having become so loud that it was hard to hear yourself think, let alone get an order across.

“I said — hell — sorry!
 
Peroni!”
 
Val was almost shouting at her across the small bar top.
 
The place had become almost rowdy, but in a jovial way —
good people, good times
.
 
Val’s kind of crowd.
 
At least, this was how he imagined his crowd was, if he could remember it in the morning.

She held up two fingers, head tilted to the side.
 
Val nodded.
 
“Sure!”
 
And then those amber curls jounced away to the frosted door of the beer compartment.
 
Val watched as she pulled the beers out, and with a practiced swipe pulled an opener from her back pocket.
 
Two quick motions and the caps were tossed somewhere behind the bar, thrown in with the litter of another busy night.

Danny
.
 
That was what the name badge said.
 
“You running late for work this evening?”

She leaned closer.
 
“What?”

Val pointed to the badge.
 
“Your badge.
 
You swipe it from one of your pals?”

She looked down at it, then laughed.
 
“Nah.
 
My Dad always wanted a dog named Daniel.
 
Wait a sec!”
 
And like that, she was off down the other end of the bar for an order.
 
Val watched her go.
 
There was something about her, a feistiness in her grin —
and dimples
— that spoke out to him.

He stared down at his Peroni, watching the perspiration bead on the glass, then took a pull from it.
 
He was sure he’d drunk his bodyweight in beer, but he only had a long smooth high, like the bottle couldn’t touch him.
 
Not tonight.
 
If only his left arm would stop aching.

“Why the hangdog face?”

He looked up to find her back.
 
He dragged up a lopsided grin.
 
“Sorry.
 
I’ve been trying to teach myself Italian all night, can’t seen to get past, ‘Superior beer.’
 
At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what it says.”

Danny grinned at him.
 
“Where’s your friend?”

Of course.
 
None of the pretty girls really wanted to talk to Val.
 
It was John they were usually after.
 
“Hell, I don’t know.
 
I think he went to the…”
 
Val looked around.
 
Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen John in a while.
 
He’d been swapping manly stories about a Russian tennis game last time Val had seen him.

“Hey, wait a sec!”
 
And like that, she was gone again.
 
No surprise really.
 
Like he thought, they were usually after John.
 
Val didn’t mind, he wasn’t jealous of John — after all, John had the looks and the body to match.
 
That body took effort, and Val was honest enough with himself to know that didn’t come for free.
 
You needed to earn it, work for it, really want it.

He looked up at the TV behind the bar.
 
There was some story on about the Blues.
 
Or at least, the backdrop for the scene was the Elephant Blues, yellow Police tape flapping in the rain.
 
The sound was either turned down or too low for the noise in the bar and he couldn’t hear any of the details, but a bold banner marched across the bottom of the screen proclaiming, “MASS MURDERER LOOSE IN CITY… POLICE HAVE NO SUSPECTS… EYE WITNESSES BEING SOUGHT…”

She knocked on the bar in front of him, startling him.
 
“Oh hey!
 
I didn’t think you’d be back.”

“Why not? I said I would be!”

“It’s nothing!
 
Say, want a beer?”
 
The second beer for John was still on the bar, untouched.

“I’m working!
 
But thanks!
 
Maybe later.”
 
She was leaning forward over the bar again so they could hear each other.

Val tapped a finger in the ring of water left by his Peroni, tracing the circle.
 
“Ok, I’m confused about something.”

She looked back at him.
 
“Shoot.”

“Actually, it’s three things.”

“Three?”
 
She grinned at him again.
 
“You can have any answers without numbers in them.”

“Fair enough.
 
So, three questions.
 
First, what’s it short for?
 
And secondly, why not just have the whole thing on there?”

“You said three things.”
 
Danny tilted her head to the side, her cheeks dimpling.

“We’ll get to the third thing in a second.”

“Alright.
 
Well, you’ve got to trade me.
 
Shit.
 
Wait a second.”
 
She went back down the bar to get another order.

Val watched her go.
 
Picking up his Peroni, he finished it off.
 
It had been a little while since anyone had bought him a beer, his moment of stardom fading out as the alcohol blurred the sharp edges of the afternoon into unfocused memory.
 
Stories had been shared, they’d all sworn to stay in touch, he even had a couple of numbers on his phone.
 
He’d probably delete them in the morning.
 
It just wasn’t really his style.
 
This whole thing, it was more John than him.

They were a great team that way.
 
John made a great front man, Val brought the brains.
 
Just like at school.

“Ok, so I’ve got three questions.”
 
Danny had arrived back, wiping her hands on her apron.
 
“What would be on your name badge?
 
And what do you do when you’re not warming that bar stool?”

“You said three!”

“So did you.
 
So we’ll trade our third one later.”
 
She grinned.
 
“It’s only fair.”

“Sure.
 
It’s only fair.
 
Ok.
 
I have to go first?”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yeah, yeah I do.
 
There’s a rule about it somewhere.”
 
Danny nodded in mock solemn agreement.
 
“Ok.
 
My name badge?
 
It’d say Val.
 
And right now, I guess you could say I’m on a sabbatical.”

She nodded in exaggerated slowness.
 
“Sabbatical.
 
You’re not a musician?”

Val snorted.
 
“Shit no.
 
I can’t even dance.”

“Thank God.
 
There’s that many dead beat musicians arrive in here, they all try and hit on me.”

Val sensed a trap.
 
“I guess it’s lucky for me I can’t play.
 
After I decided to leave Juilliard, I became a software engineer.”

“A what?”

“I write programs.
 
On computers.”

She wrinkled her nose.
 
“I think I prefer musicians.”

“Shit.
 
Would it have helped if I said I was a tax accountant?”

She thought about it.
 
“I think so.
 
I think I know what one of those is.
 
Are they — do you scrape those off your shoe sometimes after it rains?”