"PERHAPS SCOTCH isn't such a big help after all," said Henry Bethel from the depths of a booth at the Peppermill Coffee Shop where he lay with a hand over his eyes, a barely touched BLT on the plate above him.
"Depends on the scotch," replied Claude Griffith from the other side. He took out his bag of Drum and began to roll yet another cigarette; the deliberateness of the routine made his chain smoking seem somehow less manic than most.
"Spoken like a true snob," said Henry, seeking to cut Claude off before he launched into another discourse on the subtleties and betrayals of good and bad single malts.
Claude chuckled. "I thought you were the official snob," he said. "Or is that former snob, along with everything else?"
Henry kept his eyes closed. He was only now beginning to feel more sober, and he could feel the headache building within. "If only I could be the former Henry Bethel as well. If only we could all be the formers of ourselves."
"Not me," said Claude, lighting his cigarette and waving the waitress over for a refill of mediocre coffee. "I am at long last perfectly content with the slob in the mirror. It only took forty years, but what the hell."
Henry smiled. Sooner or later he was going to have get up, and thank Claude again for his sudden rescue from embarrassment. "You're a pretty ugly deus ex machina, you know," he said.
"Oh, do they still let you use Latin after you've been defrocked?"
"I wasn't defrocked, you idiot," said Henry from below the table. "I made a lateral move. Mid-life career change. Quite acceptable these days."
Claude exhaled and leaned back as the waitress refilled his cup. "Hm. Okay. From ivory tower to recluse, that's a definitely a lateral move, prof."
Henry snorted. It was terribly peaceful down here, laid out in this booth as if he was passed out. Luckily it was 3am and nobody seemed to care. "If I'm a recluse, Claude, what was I doing wandering around a construction site waiting to get nicked by security?"
Claude took off his glasses and began wiping them, cigarette held fast in the arms of his lips like a newborn. "I don't know, Hank, what were you doing wandering around there? No, wait, I can take a guess."
"Please don't start to analyze me, clyde," Henry said in mock irritation. "I've got that covered."
Claude laughed, and began singing, off-key:
I cover the waterfront,
I'm watching the sea,
Will the one I love
Be coming back to me…
"Nice," said Henry. "You sound like Billie Holiday after a particularly bad bender."
"That's why I hide behind the lens," said Claude. "Okay, fine. I won't play doctor. It's every man's right to get drunk and either tell the world all about it or willfully keep it locked up. Either way, you owe me."
"I know," said Henry. He opened his eyes, staring into the Peppermill's dark blue ceiling. He sat up slowly and looked over at Claude Griffith, photographer for the Las Vegas Desert Star, photographer to his deceased friend Jack Samson, someone Henry had come to know slowly, in the friend-of-a-friend manner, and who he liked for his no-nonsense wit, his shrug, hiS—yes—his obvious contentment with the path his life had taken. Claude regarded him over his own plate of half-eaten fries, a slightly bemused expression, at once tolerant yet ready to throw anyone on this ship of fools overboard.
"Claude," said Henry quietly. "Do you ever see Jack?"
"See Jack? You mean, do I think about Jack or…"
"No, I mean see him. His shade, his specter, his dread apparition stalking the night."
Claude laughed, then frowned. "No. Jack haunted me plenty when he was alive. What would he need my sorry ass for, unless it was to try to take pictures of an ectoplasmic Marilyn Monroe." He shrugged. "But I think about him, sure. Especially whenever I'm trying to get a woman into bed."
Henry smiled, and stared down at the BLT that seemed to rebuke him. When had he eaten last?
"Do you see him?" asked Claude, his cigarette leaving his mouth just long enough to allow in the other god, caffeine.
Henry was silent. He was also very sober now, he realized. Sober, but still not hungry. "Only when I sleep on my Ouija board, Claude."
Claude laughed. "Look, it really isn't any of my business. Sitting around all day selling Frank Sinatra stuff on eBay sounds like a nice life." He took deep drag and exhaled. "But why? Just burnt out? Too much crap from those assholes at UNLV?"
Henry stifled a yawn. Sure, burnt out. Why not? Burnt out as if there was never a fire in the first place. Henry was about to shrug it off again and suddenly found himself saying "I needed to change my life, Claude, and I couldn't find the way forward. So I went to some other place, it may be back, the past, I don't know…" He trailed off.
Claude nodded. "Say no more," and Henry hoped his relief didn't show.
They sat a while, each finishing their coffee, the murmur of the slightly lost, the ravenous insomniacs, the kids crawling out of the end of a bender drifting around them in the other booths, mixing with the sounds of short-order cookery coming from the kitchen. Then Henry said:
"Listen, will you do me a favor? A commission, I mean."
"Sure. I am a Camera," said Claude, smiling.
Henry laughed. "I want you to take some photos of the sculptures at Elise Valkenburg's gallery."
"Ah, rising from the art mafia dead already, eh?"
"Nothing like that. It's more of a personal project… you know, obsessive hermit stuff."
Claude laughed. "Okay. No problem. Who's the artist?"
"A rather talented and rather mysterious woman known as Maude S—."
Claude stopped for the briefest of moments, his cigarette suspended in his hand, frozen, his eyes a little blank and cold. Then it swiftly passed, and he dragged deep again.
"You've heard of her?" said Henry, surprised. Claude, like many a bitter fine arts graduate school dropout, made it a point to mock contemporary art and profess ignorance.
"Nope," he said. "Never heard of her." His manner had changed.
"Hm," said Henry, brow furrowed. "Okay. It seemed like you had—"
"Naw, screw art," said Claude, his smile restored. "Listen, I need to get out of here. I've got a shoot first thing."
"Of course," said Henry, who then insisted on picking up the check. "Least I can do for my prince charming," he said. They got up, Henry feeling rumpled, Claude looking distracted, and walked to Claude's old Toyota, out under the light from the Stardust's sign across the street
They were silent until they reached Henry's car, parked (he was thankful to see) a good two blocks away from the Paradise and the skeleton of the museum.
"Thanks again," said Henry.
"Hey, how often do I get to save a Sinatraist," said Claude with his trademark shrug.
"I'll call Elise and set things up."
Claude nodded, and seemed to look intently at Henry.
"Well, good night," he said. Henry caught himself at the last moment. "Hey, what the hell were you shooting tonight from the garage?"
Claude looked at him evenly. "Same thing as you, prof. Ghosts. The moon. Win Stevenson's ego." He smiled. "I'll catch you later."
As he sped away down Sands Boulevard, Henry stared after him, thinking about his words, but not really thinking. Tired, he turned and opened the door to his car and slipped in, thinking now only of his bed.
He nearly expired from a stroke when Madison Monroe, sitting as quiet and as invisible as a cat in the passenger seat suddenly spoke to him: "Good morning, Mr. Bethel. I was beginning to despair of you."