The Summer Home

11. Truth In Books

     Frank leaned over the table and snatched the bottle from the bartender, as he was clearly unsatisfied with his ungenerous portions and proceeded to pour the next shot for himself. Now matter how many shots of whiskey the private investigator slammed down; things would never be the same. He would always have this gapping hole in his heart, a memory of how things used to be. It had been this way for months and while Frank managed to make ends meet consulting for people as a Private Investigator, it was never enough to fill that hole in his chest. No matter how many lives he saved, he was incapable of saving his own. It also didn't matter how many fortunes he received and took a percentage of, he was always in his own eyes a pauper incapable of finding the one thing that would complete his life. She was gone forever and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Even if she walked right into this bar and begged on her knees for forgiveness, it would never be the same. The scar on his heart was there to stay just as his ass was every night in that bar stool. No one messed with Frank when he was on the sauce, because even when his was sober he was a tough son-of-a-bitch so there was no telling what Frank was capable of when he drank a few strips of fear and reason away from his persona. Just as he finished his latest shot, there was a crash as someone had thrown a shot glass into the mirror that was behind the bar. Frank turned around to see the irate eyes of his lady friend, the one whom he never thought would ever be dumb enough to set one foot into this bar. He sat corrected.

     "There you are, you miserable piece of shit!" she called out as she walked into the establishment and up to the bar. Many people had a clue of what was going on and cleared a good portion of the bar out of fear that they might get caught in the crossfire.

     "You're a no good, whiney piece of trash." She screamed at him.

     "And you know your trash, don't ya baby?" Frank retorted.

     The lady's eyes were red with fury. "And just for saying that I should..."

      *   *   *   *

     "Nathan," Peter called out at him from the other side of the room, "What's that you got there?"

     "It's called a book, father." Nathan answered.

     "I can see that smartass," Peter said as his curiosity was getting the best of him, and he just had to know. "What's it called?"

     The book Nathan had in his hands was very old and the dust jacket was missing, so it was hard for anyone to tell what it was just by looking at it. Nathan held up the book so that Peter could read the titled from the middle of the hardcover jacket. Peter looked at the title for a moment before realizing whose book it really was.

     "Where did you get that copy?" Peter demanded.

     "Actually, Ray gave this to me." Nathan answered.

     "Why the hell did he do that?" Peter asked.

     "He said it was his favourite book." Nathan replied, "And he also said it was a loaner, so I'm expected to return it when I'm finished."

     "Did he now?" Peter said with a puzzled look on his face.

     "You have a problem with him liking your work?" Nathan asked.

     "It's not that," Peter said stumbling for something to say. "It's just not what I would consider to be my best work."

     "Well," Nathan said, sitting up. "Which book do you happen to like most?"

     "Alright." Peter said as he left the room and went upstairs to his bedroom.

     It took a few minutes, but Peter finally came back down with a hardcover of his own. This one was in much better shape as he handed it over to his son.