Sixkill

40

Z and I went to the bar in Grill 23 for a victory drink.

I had a Dewar’s and soda. He had Maker’s Mark on the rocks.

“You have learned well, grasshopper,” I said.

Z nodded. I sipped my scotch. He looked at his bourbon.

“Where’d you get the bodyslam?” I said.

“Television,” Z said. “WWF.”

“I suggest you lose it,” I said.

“Worked like a charm today,” Z said.

“Did,” I said. “But the guy was a little quicker, or knew a little more, he’d have had time and opportunity to get a firm hold on your windpipe.”

“What instead?” Z said.

“Stay on top of him. ’Specially a guy as big and strong as you are. Bombard him with more than he can prevent.”

Z nodded. I had a little more scotch.

“Makes sense,” he said. “On the other hand, I hadn’t been there, they’d have had your ass.”

“If you hadn’t been there,” I said, “I wouldn’t have gone into the stadium in the first place.”

“So you trusted me,” Z said.

“Yep.”

Z hadn’t taken a drink yet.

“And you’ll trust me again,” he said.

“Yep.”

“You had other people you could have called on,” Z said.

“Yep.”

“Why me?”

“Why not you?” I said.

“How’d you know I could do what you taught me?”

“This was a way to find out,” I said.

“Christ,” Z said. “A test run?”

“Yeah.”

“What if I’d tanked,” Z said.

“I figured they’d hire some local stiffs,” I said. “And just on size, strength, and enthusiasm, you could distract them while I did my stomp.”

Z looked at me for a while, then picked up his bourbon and drank some. He put the glass down on the glistening mahogany bar and looked at it. I looked at it, too. It looked so good, the amber liquid, the translucent ice, the squat, clear glass.

“I don’t want to give this up,” Z said.

“Maybe you don’t need to,” I said.

“I drink a lot,” Z said.

“Maybe you cut back,” I said.

“Everybody says that won’t work.”

“Everybody is generally wrong,” I said. “Not everybody has to go all or nothing.”

“You know that?” Z said.

“I did it,” I said.

“You cut back?”

“I went from too much to not too much.”

“You ever get drunk?” he said.

“Now and then,” I said. “Not often.”

“What if I quit for a little while?” he said.

“You think you’re an alcoholic?” I said.

“I don’t think so,” Z said. “How do you know?”

“Something about you controlling the drinking or the drinking controlling you,” I said.

“So if I could quit?” Z said. “For a while.”

“Worth trying,” I said.

“Maybe I’d know,” Z said.

“Maybe.”

“So what if I lay off for a month and go back and after my first drink I’m right back into the booze?”

“Then you’ll know more about yourself than you do now.”

“And I’d have to quit for good,” Z said.

“Maybe.”

“Be like a test run,” Z said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Like today,” Z said.

“Uh-huh.”

“No way to know if you don’t try it out,” Z said.

“Sort of like the scientific method,” I said.

“What’s that,” Z said.

“Form a hypothesis and test it,” I said.

“A hypothesis.”

“Yep.”

Z picked up his bourbon and drank the rest of it. I looked at the colorful pattern of the booze bottles stacked behind the bar. I listened to the soft human sound of the half-full bar. I thought about the evenings alone, perhaps with Pearl asleep on the couch, when I would have a couple of drinks before supper and think about me and Susan and all that had happened and all that we had done. No matter how many moments I had like that, they were all intensely moving for me.

“I don’t want to start today,” Z said.

“You’re not doing it for me,” I said.

“Meaning?”

“You don’t drink because I’m watching,” I said. “Doesn’t really count much.”

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t start not drinking while you’re watching.”

“Start when you’re alone,” I said. “And remember, it may be temporary.”

“A hypothesis,” he said.

“That you’re testing,” I said.

“Like today,” Z said again.

“Which worked out quite well,” I said.

“I’ll drink to that,” he said.

“Me too,” I said.

I signaled the bartender.