2 A.M. at The Cat's Pajamas

5:15 P.M

“Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

The trash bags are gone, the bar wiped clean. The lights have been hung; they line the stage and loop around the Snakehead, making the old axe glow. Stalled in the doorway, Lorca experiences a stomachache he can only call Christmas.

Sonny leans against the bar, arms crossed. “The good news,” he says, “is that Christmas has come to The Cat’s Pajamas. It’s like a holiday card in here. Cassidy hung them. The mouth on that one. I sent her to get dinner before we open.”

“The bad news?”

“We’ve lost track of Max. He was here, now he’s not. He’s not at his place and he’s not answering his phone.”

“Do you understand that he is the bandleader of the Cubanistas?”

“Do I? I do.”

“Does he understand that we can’t have the Cubanistas play when the lead Cubanista is not here?”

“Like I said, he won’t answer his phone but when he does, I will certainly ask him. Did you call your uncle?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“No. But I thought of another option.”

“I’m all ears.”

“We could sell the Snakehead.”

Sonny’s hand instinctively moves to protect the guitar hanging over the bar. “Not an option.”

“If we want to keep the bar, we have to make sacrifices.”

“Your father would roll in his grave,” Sonny says.

Lorca pulls on the beer and stares at the guitar. The S-holes, dashing mustaches. The neck and body the color of syrup.

“Who would even buy it, Lorc? Who has that kind of money, or loves guitars that much?”

Lorca doesn’t answer.

“There is one more update,” Sonny says. “And I don’t know if this is good news or bad news. I say it’s good news, with bad aspects. Louisa’s in the back.”

“Why would that be bad news?” Lorca halts in the doorway. “You didn’t tell her.”

“She guessed!”

In the back room, Louisa sorts through a box of paperwork. She is always more petite than he remembers. For a moment, he lets himself believe he is still her boyfriend and they are having one of their Sunday night disagreements.

“Is he ever going to clean that up?” she says, gesturing to Gus’s half-constructed plane.

“He’s making progress,” Lorca says.

“What’s this?” She holds up the citation, the color of prison jumpsuits.

“Something I’m taking care of.”

“I’m not here to lecture you. I’m here to get my check and leave.”

“It’s good to see you, Louisa. I’ve left a few messages for you. You get any of them?”

“Is my hair different from the last time you saw me?”

Lorca’s throat goes dry.

“I cut it,” she says. “And dyed it.”

“I’m not perceptive, Lou. We know this.”

“I’m a minor character in my own life.” Her eyes fill. Lorca thinks he will go to her, put his arm around her, but he doesn’t move. She waits for his reaction and gets none. Her gaze sharpens. “Alex told me you won’t let him play.”

“I’ll lose my club if he plays.”

“He’s going down a bad road,” she says. “You’re choosing not to see it.”

The desk phone rings.

Louisa selects her paycheck from the stack and slams the folder shut. “Good-bye!” She disappears into the hallway. “Best of luck!”

“Lou. Wait.” He picks up the phone. “Hello.”

Someone on the other end clears his throat. “Lorca, it’s Mongoose.”

“Hang on.” Lorca covers the receiver. “Louisa!” He hears her wish Sonny a merry Christmas. “Come on!” The heavy thud of the front door closing. He leaves the phone on the desk. The hallway is dark and long and empty. “Louisa?” His voice echoes against the walls as if he is asking himself her name.