The Night Before

He woke with a start. It was a bad idea, since his head promptly exploded in agony at the sudden movement. Roll desperately to avoid the remains of whatever the hell he had eaten last night soaking his chest and face as it decided to leave his guts for somewhere more hygienic and stable. His eyes popped open as his hand struck nothing but air, and he was treated to the sight of a trail of vomit falling 40 stories to the busy street below. It was then that Maxwell Jones discovered that sheer, bowel wringing terror is the best hangover cure ever invented.

Somehow he found himself suddenly leaning against the top of the elevator shaft, 20 feet from the buildings edge. Shakily reached into his jacket for a cigarette, pants pocket for his lighter. The lighter wasn't there. Nor were his pants. What the …?

“Think, asshole.” His voice comes out hoarse and quivery. Look around, no pants visible, not even hanging on the various aerials. Most of the night before is simply gone in a haze of whiskey and sex. The last thing he remembers is sinking shots with Tommy in O'Halligans.

Scrabble around in the jacket pockets and take stock. 7 Kools in a crumpled pack. A book of matches. A pen. $10,000 in used hundreds.

“What the fuck did I do this time!”

The great thing about New York is no one cares. In any other city, walking down the street in your lucky paisley boxers with a hangover at lunch time would get you some strange looks at the least, with a quick beat down and ride in a cop car more likely. In New York no one even blinks, you simply ain't their problem. Push open the door and enter O'Halligans.

“Hey, you, what you thi … Oh, tis you, Max. Wash yer face and put some fuckin' pants on, wouldja!” Mick gestures around the empty bar before flicking something shiny to him, “You are scaring off the thirsty hordes. Here's your keys, you asked Tommy to hold them.”

“You know where I went last night, Mick?”

“How the fuck should I know? You left here about 10, totally crocked, after totally failing with some woman. Now fuck off before the bankers start coming in.”

Pick up the keys. A dead end. At least he has his apartment and car back. Grab a cigarette as he passes out the door, and pull out the matches. Light up, inhale with relief as the nicotine rush starts kicking shit out of his throbbing headache. Glance at the match-book – The Blue Pearl in faux script on the cover, and an unreadable phone number written in eyebrow pencil. It is a clue.

Time to move. Coffee is needed. But first – buy some pants.

No one ever has a complete blackout. There are always flickers of memory, if you really concentrate. A deja vu as you walk the street that you should listen to. Muscle memory, if you will. So when his feet made a sudden turn into a dingy Mom and Pop cafe, Max wasn't hugely surprised. Instantly nauseated by the smell, but not surprised.

“Black coffee”

“Coming right up,” the elderly man behind the counter replied without looking up.

“Look, was I in here last night?”

“You'll have to ask my son. He does the night shifts.” Still with head lowered over the coffee machine he bellowed in a surprisingly strong voice “Paulie! Customer wants a word!” A grumbled response from the back room and an absolutely huge guy squeezes through the door. Stops dead and pales as he sees Max.

“I don't want any trouble, Mister. Just drink yer coffee and go. It's on the house.” Interesting.

“Was I in here last night?” the combination of the smell of rancid grease and the hangover making his voice harsh. Big Paulie slumps further.

“Yessir, you came in about 11 with your lady. Unless you say different, a'course”

“Which lady?” This coffee is fucking horrible, burning his stomach like tasteless acid.

“Trixie, Sir. The dancer from the Blue Pearl. Same one as always.” As always? Sir? As much as he hates to admit it publicly, Max is almost permanently between girlfriends and has never been called Sir in his life. This shit is getting deep. Grunt at Paulie, nod and leave. Dive into the nearest alley and get rid of the coffee roiling in his stomach.

As he pukes, a quick flash of memory. A bar on 3^rd, and a man in a booth. Concentrate. Nothing much, just the man's face and a wooden Indian with a three foot long peace pipe. Finish puking, wipe his mouth and shakily flag down a cab.

Do you know how many bars there are on 3^rd? A fuckton of them. The 17^th bar he tried was the right one. The Indian by the gents. The booths along the side wall. And, most convincingly, his pants wrapped, turban style, on the Indian's head.

Unwrap them. Wallet gone, of course. Head pounding like a freight train. Time for a beer and a shot. Snag today's paper from the rack, and let his feet do the work, picking third booth from the back. Start to skim the news, while hunting for more clues in the blackness of his mind. The usual shit. Politics. A car dredged out of the Hudson. A couple more murders. In his mind there is nothing. Just blankness. A shift of the seat alerts him to someone sitting down.

The man dimly remembered from last night. Different suit, same face and little pussy ticker moustache. Looks like an accountant.

“Fast work, even for you, Mr Walters,” he says, nodding at the paper and sliding an envelope over the table to Max. “Here is the other half, as agreed.”

Open it. A sheaf of used $100 bills inside. About a hundred of them. What the fuck is going on?!

As the man leaves, Max gives in to the impulse to bang his head sharply on the table. It hurts, and really doesn't help the hangover or his thinking.

Only one thing left. The Blue Pearl. Check the clock behind the bar – really should have bought a new watch – it'll be open by the time he gets there. Absently stuffing the envelope into his coat pocket, he picks up the paper and leaves.

The cab drops him outside a warehouse. Looks around dubiously as he pays the fare. The cabbie sighs.

“The Blue Pearl is there, asshole. Other side of the street. Jesus, why do I always get the morons!” he shouts as he drives off. Charming.

The Blue Pearl is a place that has definitely seen better days. Peeling paint, blacked out windows. A dive by any definition of the word. Fuck it, he has 20 grand in his pocket and not a fucking idea why. Going in. Head is still pounding, but he has to know.

Knock at the door. A rattle as the hatch slides open.

“Shit John, sorry, come on in” the bouncer says as he hurriedly unbolts the door. “Trixie is in the back, you know the way.” He does? “Dude, you OK?”

“Just a hangover. Got any coffee?” Who the fuck is John? The look of the club tells him nothing. The smell, well it smells like any strip club, an equal mix of sweat and lust overriding the ghosts of beers past.

“Johnny!!!!!” Her squeal climbs rapidly up into the ultrasonic and threatens to blow his head apart. “How sweet! You came to see me!!!!”

“Grfff,” he replies as a shapely girl wearing incredibly little wraps around him. Her delicate lips approach his ear to whisper.

“All done, and it is done well. We are gonna be so happy together!!!”

“What ...”

“Page 8. Sorry, I have to go get my costume on.” she whispers through a kiss like a promise of things to come. “I'll see you after my shift.” Settle at the bar, the taste of beer like a blessing. Open the paper to page 8.

A grainy picture of him, or close enough that is makes no difference.

Continued from page 1: One of the deceased in the car has been identified from his wallet as Maxwell Jones, an unemployed primary school teacher. The other victim is as yet formally unidentified, but has been provisionally identified as Two Finger Tommy, the notorious East Side gangster. Their car is assumed to have skidded and crashed through the …

Wait. I am dead? I don't feel it. People see me and react to me. So definitely not a ghost. The barman approaches.

“Same again, John?”

A spark in his mind, of dim and distant memories finally firing up.

He missed a stop. A nameless bar, a woman crying as someone who could be his twin hits her hard in the chest. Unreasoning rage and hit the guy once, hard with a bottle. No one treats a woman like that. The guy slumped and lies still. No one moves. No one really cares. The woman hisses something that makes the bouncers back off, and the two of them carry the still warm body from the bar.

The rest is lost in the fog of the blackout. Who killed Two Finger Tommy? Why was his wallet in this stranger's pocket? Why the hell did he take his pants off? He looks around. The mix of respect and fear towards him is like a fire, warming his very soul.

He smiles.

10 years later.

“Well, doctor, that is about it.” John Walters said with a smile to his shrink. “The story of my life. How a nobody became a power in the city – thanks to one drunken night.”