2 a.m. at the Cat's Pajamas by Marie-Helene Bertino Page A

Cubanistas play when the lead Cubanista is not here?”
    “Like I said, he won’t answer his phone but when he does, I will certainly ask him. Did you call your uncle?”
    “I did.”
    “And?”
    “No. But I thought of another option.”
    “I’m all ears.”
    “We could sell the Snakehead.”
    Sonny’s hand instinctively moves to protect the guitar hanging over the bar. “Not an option.”
    “If we want to keep the bar, we have to make sacrifices.”
    “Your father would roll in his grave,” Sonny says.
    Lorca pulls on the beer and stares at the guitar. The S-holes, dashing mustaches. The neck and body the color of syrup.
    “Who would even buy it, Lorc? Who has that kind of money, or loves guitars that much?”
    Lorca doesn’t answer.
    “There is one more update,” Sonny says. “And I don’t know if this is good news or bad news. I say it’s good news, with bad aspects. Louisa’s in the back.”
    “Why would that be bad news?” Lorca halts in the doorway. “You didn’t tell her.”
    “She guessed!”
    In the back room, Louisa sorts through a box of paperwork. She is always more petite than he remembers. For a moment, he lets himself believe he is still her boyfriend and they are having one of their Sunday night disagreements.
    “Is he ever going to clean that up?” she says, gesturing to Gus’s half-constructed plane.
    “He’s making progress,” Lorca says.
    “What’s this?” She holds up the citation, the color of prison jumpsuits.
    “Something I’m taking care of.”
    “I’m not here to lecture you. I’m here to get my check and leave.”
    “It’s good to see you, Louisa. I’ve left a few messages for you. You get any of them?”
    “Is my hair different from the last time you saw me?”
    Lorca’s throat goes dry.
    “I cut it,” she says. “And dyed it.”
    “I’m not perceptive, Lou. We know this.”
    “I’m a minor character in my own life.” Her eyes fill. Lorca thinks he will go to her, put his arm around her, but he doesn’t move. She waits for his reaction and gets none. Her gaze sharpens. “Alex told me you won’t let him play.”
    “I’ll lose my club if he plays.”
    “He’s going down a bad road,” she says. “You’re choosing not to see it.”
    The desk phone rings.
    Louisa selects her paycheck from the stack and slams the folder shut. “Good-bye!” She disappears into the hallway. “Best of luck!”
    “Lou. Wait.” He picks up the phone. “Hello.”
    Someone on the other end clears his throat. “Lorca, it’s Mongoose.”
    “Hang on.” Lorca covers the receiver. “Louisa!” He hears her wish Sonny a merry Christmas. “Come on!” The heavy thud of the front door closing. He leaves the phone on the desk. The hallway is dark and long and empty. “Louisa?” His voice echoes against the walls as if he is asking himself her name.

6:00 P.M.
    M adeleine unlayers by the door to her apartment. The day’s dressing and undressing has exhausted her. She unleashes Pedro, who conducts a cursory study of every bookshelf base and table leg.
    In the bathroom the toilet wails: Clare! Claaaarrrrrre!
    Madeleine has learned to pre-announce her arrival in rooms to give the roaches time to scatter. “I am in the family room!” she cries. “I am walking from the family room to the bathroom!”
    She switches on the bathroom light and closes her eyes for three beats. She lifts the back lid off the toilet, uses the watering can to fill the basin, then replaces the lid. The toilet quiets.
    “I am walking from the bathroom to the kitchen!”
    In the kitchen, she fills a bowl of water for Pedro and turns the kettle on.
    The voice of Nina Simone drifts in from her father’s bedroom, remorseless as cigarette smoke. It grows louder. Madeleine’s father will adjust the volume ten to fifteen times during a song, sitting in arm’s distance of the player, surrounded by his library of vinyl and books. There are three record players in the apartment and no milk. One