Page 6 of Destiny

“I’m a bartender. It’s what I do. I listen.”

“Right.”

“Ask any bartender, Lamone. They’ll all tell you the same thing.”

He sighs. “My birth parents were okay. They didn’t think they could have kids, so when they adopted me, it was a big deal to them. They were great parents up until the time I was about nine or ten years old.”

“What happened after that?”

“A damned miracle,” he says. “My mother got pregnant.”

I nearly drop the cloth I’m holding. “Oh?”

“So once they realized they could actually have their own biological child, they stopped caring so much about me.” He taps his fingers on the bar.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, whatever. The problem is, the baby was…”

“What?”

He inhales, lets it out slowly. “The baby was stillborn. A little girl. They named her Patricia Rose.”

“Patricia? After they named you Pat?” Man, that’s weird.

“Yeah.” He frowns. “Except I don’t think my name is actually Pat. According to some PI, my birth certificate says Baby Boy Wingdam, which makes sense. But apparently I wasn’t adopted by Peter and Julie Lamone and named Patrick John Lamone. I was adopted by some family named Clark who named me Daniel. Which is another question I have. Why did my birth parents change their names and mine? It’s got to have something to do with this Wendy Madigan and Steel stuff.”

He’s babbling now. Too much information. “Wait, wait, wait. Back up a minute. Your baby sister was stillborn.”

“Yeah.”

“So your parents…”

“They never stopped mourning her. They didn’t give a shit about me anymore.”

Man, no wonder he’s so screwed up.

They changed his name from Daniel to Patrick. And then, when they had a baby girl, they called her Patricia.

It could mean nothing. Maybe they just like the name in its masculine and feminine form.

He shoves his glass at me.

“I’m going to have to cut you off, Lamone.”

“Really? After that sob story I just gave you?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck you, then.” He opens his wallet, lays down a hundred-dollar bill. “Will this help you?”

Pat Lamone works over at the hotel. He rents a room at Mrs. Mayer’s house. Why the hell is he carrying around hundred-dollar bills?

I slide the bill back toward him. “Afraid not.”

“Well then, fuck you to next Sunday.” Lamone rises and then stumbles, falling to the ground.

A couple of guys at a table nearby help him up. “You okay, buddy?” one of them asks.

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