Thrown-away Child

sharkskin suits he wears. I’m in the middle of a bite out of my lettuce and tomato sandwich. Guess what the mayor does?”
    “I don’t want to guess.”
    “He unhooks this weave on his head and sets the hairy thing down between us.”
    “Some table manners.” I patted the tiny field of skin at the back of my head, a reflexive gesture of sympathy for a balding brother. Never mind that Giuliani did not get my vote. “The mayor wears a piece?“
    “Men should never wear those stupid rugs, especially politicians.”
    “You can’t fool all the people all the time. But here we are rolling along to the New Orleans. Who wants to talk about a bald-headed New York pol?”
    “You’re right. So, Irish—what were you thinking about while I was dreaming?”
    Burlesque I should tell her about?
    “I don’t know ...” I felt myself going a little stupid. I could picture stupid happening: drops of black ink tailing into a glass of clear water and making it go all dark. Then I even heard myself going stupid. “I guess was thinking, I don’t know—guy stuff…”
    “What’s guy stuff? Nails in an old coffee can?“
    “Not exactly.”
    “I hope it wasn’t booze you were thinking about.” Ruby opened her pocketbook and fished around until she found lipstick. She daubed maroon on her light brown lips, and said brightly, “By the way, you know why guys never refill ice trays?”
    “I suppose not.”
    “Because they don’t put ice in their beer.“
    “You’re cute.”
    “I know.”
    “In answer to your question back there, I was thinking about the troubles we've had—and will have.”
    “You’re planning something awful?”
    “I don’t have to plan. Awful stuff finds me.“
    “Who am I talking to here—little Neil Hockaday wearing his short pants and his necktie on his way to Holy Cross School? The place where he first learned to believe that upon his choirboy shoulders rides the whole wide world? God Almighty, Hock! Those nuns really did the number on you, didn’t they?”
    “Well, there was Sister Bertice. She’d keep me after school and have me write a hundred times on the blackboard: I am personally responsible for the agony of Christ...”
    “Sister Bertice. Please—I’m supposed to believe this?”
    “I would steal from you, but I would never lie.”
    “Very clever. Just like your Uncle Liam used to say. This is the usual load of Irish codswallop you haul out when you want to hide your thoughts.”
    “Put it this way, sweet—I have to wonder if I’m the best guy for your plans.”
    “Now he tells me.” Ruby waved a hand in front of her nose again.
    “What smells?”
    “Self-loathing. It doesn’t become you, Hock. You’ve got troubles, more than your share. That’s like all the best people.”
    I had to pause for a second to figure out how to express myself in order not to sound like the Holy Cross kid of my lost youth that Ruby somehow knew so accurately. She is scary that way. Finally I came up with, “You’ve seen people in those gyms working out on those exercise gizmos?”
    “StairMasters? Rowing machines?”
    “Like that, yes. Those contraptions where you’re already at where you’re supposed to be going.“
    “What’s it to you, belly boy?” asked Ruby, looking at my thickening waist. “You’re no gym rat.”
    “No, but I am a cop. Meaning I am supposed to battle against crime. By the way, what I happen to have is a virile paunch.”
    Ruby rolled her eyes. “So you’re a crime buster. So what’s that mean?”
    “It means I’m on a treadmill. Like all those people on their StairMasters and whatnot. See what I mean? Sometimes I think hamsters all over America are laughing their asses off at me.”
    Ruby said nothing. She probably thought up another choice crack, then decided against letting me have it on humane grounds. She just sat there next to me, quiet and a little concerned, as if she suspected me of getting ready for a heart attack, or at least for throwing up. She looked particularly intelligent and beautiful in that still moment. I pictured us strolling through the French Quarter of New Orleans, Ruby in a lacy dress.
    “This cop universe,” she said, tenderly now. “It’s in you deep. Like you once said yourself, about Ireland, «’s in you deeper than you know.”
    “Deeper than I’d want you to know.”
    “Why? Because it’s not what I’d plan for myself?“
    “That’s a good way of putting it.”
    “Since when do you think I ever