2 a.m. at the Cat's Pajamas Read Online Free Page B

says.
    The man shifts from foot to foot. “Hello?”
    Lorca releases the chain and jolts the door open, revealing the cop and a scene of flurries.
    “Is it snowing?” Lorca says to no one.
    The cop consults the sky. “Since dawn.”
    Lorca pulls a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket andshakes one out. “In here it’s always midnight. I guess you want to come in.” He motions for the man to pass him, then follows him into the club.
    The club has a carved-out quality like the caboose of a train. A knee-high step separates the room from the stage, where, amid an argument of cables, Gray Gus’s drum set sits, charred. The stools lining the long oak bar are draped in unlit twinkle lights. Lorca recalls a boozy, predawn idea of hanging them. He had overturned chairs on only half of the tables before quitting, he recalls, to get sick in the men’s bathroom. The Snakehead, a 1932 archtop with Waverly individual tuners, is the club’s beating heart. Lorca’s father said he won it in an arm-wrestling match but this was one of his fish tales. He had saved for years to buy it. Next to his picture a sign reads:
All musicians are liars except you and me and I’m not so sure about you
.
    The back of the cop’s collar is not fully folded over his tie. “I don’t want to take up much of your time,” he says.
    “Then don’t.” Lorca plugs the lights in. “Ta-da.” They go green then red then blue. “When’s the last time we had a white Christmas?”
    “It’s not likely to last.” The cop extends his hand and they shake. “Len Thomas.” He shows his badge again.
    Lorca nods toward it. “Jack Francis Lorca.”
    The cop pulls a notebook from his blazer pocket. “I’m afraid we’ve gotten several calls about your club. Over capacity, use of pyrotechnics, excessive smoke …”
    “Where’s Renaldo? Normally they send him.”
    Len scribbles into his notebook. “Renaldo got promoted.”
    “Good for him. Deserves it. Excessive smoke?” Lorca says. “The crème brûlée torch?”
    The cop points to Gus’s drums. The warped cymbals hang on blackened stands. A singed, licorice smell emanates from them.
    “He wanted to see if he every time he hit the cymbals, flames would explode,” Lorca says.
    “Did it work?”
    “Not like we thought it would,” Lorca admits.
    The cop reads from his notebook. “… Consistent refusal to abide by the city’s law of no smoking inside the premises.”
    Lorca stubs out his cigarette in one of the bar’s ashtrays. “I can’t get used to that law.”
    “It was passed in 2007.”
    “Has it been that long? We’re all getting so old.”
    “… Consistent refusal to stop serving alcohol at two A.M. I stopped in last night around three and saw fifty or so people cheering on a drummer dousing his drum set in lighter fluid.”
    “If you think about it,” Lorca says, “it’s funny.” The cop’s expression doesn’t budge. “I’ll tell Gus no more fires.”
    “That’s not all, Mr. Lorca. This property”—he points to the garbage bags, the stage—“is licensed as a bar, and a bar only. No one is legally allowed to use this property as a residence. How many people stay here every night, Mr. Lorca?”
    The shape of the cop’s visit and the potential price tag form in Lorca’s mind. For years Renaldo let them go on all of it. Being exposed as a residence would be thousands of dollars. As long as the boys stay sleeping in the back, he canbargain this cop down. He raises his hands as if guilty. “I’ve been crashing here,” he says. “My girlfriend and I have hit upon hard times.”
    The cop raises one eyebrow. “No one else?”
    Sonny emerges from the back room. His hastily tied robe reveals his pale, hairless chest. A lit cigarette hangs from his lips. His slippers make hard scuffling sounds. He mutely acknowledges Len as he passes. “We got any eggs? We’re out in the back.” He checks the bar’s fridge and straightens up, holding a carton of orange