Most people
with any sense were either home or at some party to celebrate, probably up in
the Heights, but not me. Eva and I were at a diner with the cook and two winos
nursing a bottle in the corner.
Eva sat on
the stool next to me, her head pillowed on her arms, a step away from sawing
logs. I wasn’t much better.
I scrubbed
a hand over my face, trying to chase the fatigue away, but it didn’t do much
good.
Cookie
plopped down a pot of joe between us. I raised my eyebrows in thanks.
I poured
myself a cup, then added the cream. One of Eva’s arms fought its way free to
grab her own mug, then slid it in the direction of the coffee.
When I
didn’t pour for her, she clanged it once on the counter. “Fill the cup or I
will cut you,” she whispered.
She will, too.
I filled
the cup, adding a generous pour of sugar. She liked it sweet. One of the concessions
to our arrangement is that I would get the coffee when it didn’t matter. Mostly
at the office, but Cookie was good with us, and the winos certainly didn’t
notice anything.
She raised
her head with Herculean effort, brushing black hair from her face before
wobbling the cup to her lips. She drank the still steaming mug without care. I
could never understand how she avoided burning her lips and throat, but she
preferred her coffee a step removed from lava.
I sipped
mine gingerly.
Cookie rang
a bell, but when no food showed up, I looked at him questioningly.
“Happy New
Year,” he gave me a big smile.
A moment
later and we heard the cheer from the speakeasy across the street.
Won’t be long, now.
Eva pushed
her cup at me, and I raised the pot again.
“Not that,”
she said.
I nodded
and pulled out my flask of bourbon, adding the booze to her cup and mine.
“Cookie?
Care for a belt to ring in the New Year.”
He grabbed
a mug from a stack behind him, and held it out. His hands dwarfed the cup, and
I could see scars from cuts barely visible in the black skin.
“Happy New
Year,” he raised his cup.
“Happy New
Year,” I said.
“Ugh,” Eva
added, but she did the same.