Red Hook
“A few old guys, sipping their brews slowly to make them last, watched racing on some kind of cable channel on a TV hung out on an arm over the bar like a set in a hospital. A bartender leaned over the bar and stared at a copy of the Post.
We climbed up on a couple of stools. The sweat dried on Tolya’s face.
“What else?” I said. “You didn’t bring me here to show me some real estate. You could have given me the key in the city.”
“No.”
“What?”
I ordered Scotch for both of us.
“Give me another one of those things you smoke.” I passed him the cigarettes and he simultaneously reached across the bar and plucked two bags of nuts off a cardboard stand with one hand, tore them open and swallowed the contents in one gulp.
The bartender set up some glasses and poured Scotch in them.
“Make them triples,” I said. “Why are we here, Tolya?”
He shifted uncomfortably on the barstool, too big for it, sitting uneasily while he knocked back his drink. He looked in his glass.
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