His thoughts drifted. Free association of ideas brought images into peculiar communion. Carys, and him, and Buddy Holly. That song, “True Love Ways,” playing in the dovecote, while he danced with the girl in the chilly air.
When he shook the pictures from his head there were new customers at the bar; a group of young men making enough noise, braying laughter mostly, to blank out both the sound of the television and the birthday party. One of them was clearly the hub of the entertainment, a lanky, rubber-jointed individual with a smile wide enough to play Chopin on. It took Marty several seconds to register that he knew this clown: it was Flynn. Of all the people he’d thought he might run into on this turf, Flynn was just about the last. Marty half-stood, as Flynn’s glance-an almost magical coincidence-roved the room and fell on him. Marty froze, like an actor who’d forgotten his next move, unable to advance or retreat. He wasn’t sure he was ready for a dose of Flynn. Then the comedian’s face lit up with recognition, and it was too late for retreat.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” said Flynn. The grin faded, to be replaced, momentarily, with a look of total bewilderment, before returning-more radiant than ever. “Look who’s here, will you?” and now he was coming toward Marty, arms outspread in welcome, the loudest shirt man had ever created revealed beneath the well-cut jacket.
“Fucking hell. Marty! Marty!”
They half-embraced, half-shook hands. It was a difficult reunion, but Flynn blustered over the cracks with a salesman’s efficiency.
“What do you know? Of all people. Of all people!”
“Hello, Flynn.”
Marty felt like a dowdy cousin in front of this instant joy machine, all quips and color. Flynn’s smile was immovably in place now, and he was escorting Marty across to the bar, introducing the circle of his audience (Marty caught half of the names, and could put faces to none of them), then it was a double brandy for everyone to celebrate Marty’s homecoming.
“Didn’t know you were out so soon,” Flynn said, toasting his victim. “Here’s to time off for good behavior.”
The rest of the party made no attempt to interrupt the master’s flow, and took instead to talking among themselves, leaving Marty at Flynn’s mercy. He’d changed very little. The style of the clothes, of course, that was different: he was dressed, as ever, as last year’s fashions demanded; he was losing hair too, receding at quite a rate; but apart from that he was the same wisecracking faker he’d always been, laying out a sparkling collection of fabrications for Marty to inspect. His involvement with the music business, his contacts in L.A., his plans to open a recording studio in the neighborhood. “Done a lot of thinking about you,” he said. “Wondered how you were getting on. Meant to visit; but I didn’t think you’d thank me for it.” He was right. “Besides, I’m never here, you know? So tell me, old son, what are you doing back?”
“I came to see Charmaine.”
“Oh.” He seemed almost to have forgotten who she was. “She OK?”
“So-so. You sound as if you’re doing well.”
“I’ve had my hassles, you know, but then who hasn’t? I’m all right though, you know.” He lowered his voice to the barely audible. “The big money’s in dope these days. Not grass, the hard stuff. I handle cocaine mostly; occasionally the big H. I don’t like to touch it . . . but I’ve got expensive tastes.” He pulled a “what a world this is” face, turned to the bar to order more drinks, then talked on, a seamless train of self-inflation and off-color remarks. After some initial resistance Marty found himself succumbing to him. His tide of invention was as irresistible as ever. Only occasionally did he pause to ask a question of his audience, which was fine by Marty. He had little he wanted to tell. It had always been that way. Flynn the rude boy, fast and smooth; Marty the quiet one, the one with all the doubts. Like alter egos. Simply being with Flynn again Marty could feel himself flung into sharper relief.
The evening passed very quickly. People joined Flynn, drank with him, and wandered off again, having been entertained by the court jester for a while. There were some individuals Marty knew among the traffic of drinkers, and a few uncomfortable encounters, but it was all easier than he’d expected, smoothed on its way by Flynn’s bonhomie. About ten-fifteen he ducked out for a quarter of an hour-“Just got to sort out a little business”-.and came back with a wad of money in his inside pocket, which he immediately began to spend.