There's a shimmering pool of something thin and watery inside the door. It's probably only water, a spilled drink, cleaning fluid – unlikely in this dive, but possible – but Huang's mind immediately jumps to the vulgar: piss, vomit, blood. He steps gingerly over it and scans the room. Dozens of narrow gazes are being tossed his way; he carefully avoids each face. The face he's looking for won't be looking back at him. The face he's looking for will be stuck to the bar top in an inch of whisky neat. The face he's looking for will be glassily immersed in a TV screen, guilty and drunken. Drunken as a synonym for helpless. There's thick fuzzy music blasting over the cracked speakers; the game's on but no one's watching. It is as if they themselves are immersed in a glass of thick, syrupy liquor: the lighting's terrible and everything's oppressive and vague. Huang's stomach turns as he walks inside and leans over the sticky bar, trying to motion Jake, the bartender, over.
Jake's immersed in low conversation with one of the men at the bar. He's a tiny man, serpentish, always smiling. The guy squatting on a barstool next to Huang turns to him and raises his brows. "You need somethin'?"
"I'd like to speak with the bartender," Huang answers coolly. He's not used to this kind of thing. The last time, he'd barely known Cragen, and Elliot had gone with him, had done most of the yelling.
"Ya want somethin'? Lemme treat you." This guy, he looks pretty nondescript – a contractor, a security guard at Sears. He's obviously trying hard to be kind, and Huang hopes it's not a come-on. He seems sober, but Huang's used to that in both his professional and personal life.
"No, thank you. I'm actually looking for someone."
The man's eyes bulge, an unattractive expression of surprise and pleasure. "I know everyman in here." Everyman's one word and emphasized carefully, working his mouth around the marbley word. "Whodyya want?"
"Raskolnikov," Huang's tempted to say, sarcastically, out of contempt for both the man and the entire situation. Instead, he forces a closemouthed smile and says, "Don Cragen."
"Oh." Guy's face folds in on itself carefully, weighing the words. He gives Huang a careful, scrutinising glance; it comes off clownish and exaggerated, a drunken attempt. Drunken, in this case, is a synonym for failed. "You from IAB?"
"No." Huang grimaces at the thought of this man knowing Cragen was a cop; knowing that IAB could be after him. As if these lowlifes could protect him from the NYPD. As if they could protect him from himself. "My name's George Huang, I work for him." For sounds better than with, it implies that Cragen, even in these circumstances, is in control.
"Nice t'meet you." The man broods a little, sips at his drink. Then, out of the corner of his mouth, as if he doesn't mean to say it: "Cragen was here awhile ago, but I haven't seen him in…half hour? Coulda been an hour."
It's probably more like two hours. Huang sighs and looks at his watch. When does it cease to become your concern? He's tired and the air in the bar, smokefree but nonetheless choking, is making him feel dirty. He shoves his weight off the bar, stands listlessly for a moment, then walks out. The pavement's hissing at him as he begins the long walk home.
There's a murky pool of something watery underneath the smashed sink. The floor was either once white or once black; gashes of both colours are visible between Cragen's scuffed brown shoes. It's uneven, too, gouged and pitted and just plain broken in several spots. The other sink's cracked from people using it as a prop for fucking, and sags down against the wall. When Cragen came inside, there was a prostitute washing her foot in the smashed sink. She'd leered at him and briefly attempted to offer her services, but he declined. He stares at the obscenity she left on the mirror in burnt cinnamon lipstick.
He's not drunk. He had one whisky, neat, and then he retreated to the bathroom, stared at his face, watched it change into Huang's face and back into his own again. He wants to go back to the bar, and he wants to go home. He's very tired, and he wants to lie down. Every inch of his skin feels hot and stretched tight, tense. He wants to be drunk and he hates even the feel of the glass in his hand. To him, drunken has become a synonym for self-loathing.
Cragen moves one foot, the other, walks toward the door and out of it. Robby calls to him from the end of the bar but he keeps walking. Outside, it's misting rain, visible only in the little pockets of yellow light beneath streetlamps. He gets into his car and drives home, parks and listens to the city howl and snarl at the night.
Huang's fingering the cordless phone, white and grainy with dark red numbers. He can dial only Cragen's number and the number of the Thai take-out place on the next block with his eyes closed. The TV's on, but he stopped watching sometime after September 11th. The chatter is comfortable because it is placeless, contextless, griefless. It exists only in the tubes and wires of a fake woodgrain box. Huang sometimes wishes he were self-contained and meaningless. He feels thin and unidentifiable as the dark puddle on the floor of the bar, rippling somewhere beneath Cragen's feet. The phone slips out from his fingers onto the carpet, and he doesn't bother to pick it up. He lies on his side on the couch, turns inward, and falls asleep.
Cragen walks up the two flights of stairs, palming the wall for support because the banister is rickety and dirty. He lets himself in quietly. The lights are still on: Huang's asleep. He knows this before he finds the doctor on the couch because the apartment's filled with the yawning noise of the TV. Cragen shuts the lights and unlaces his shoes. He places them underneath the coat rack and goes around the couch.
"George," he mouths for his own benefit. Huang is curled into the couch, still in his work clothes. Cragen stands next to the couch, feeling ungainly, lacking purpose. A minute passes. Finally he eases down onto his knees and then lies down on the carpet next to the couch, wincing as he feels the movement in every part of his body. His head connects with something odd-shaped; it's the phone. He frowns and moves it out of the way. On his back, the ceiling begins to shift colour slightly. Cragen feels his own chest expand thickly and closes his eyes.
The TV talks to itself. Huang rolls over and one outstretched arm hangs down, touching Cragen's cheek. Half sleeping, Cragen kisses the warm curled fingers. They stiffen and then uncurl, resting like the alert raised legs of a spider on Cragen's tired face. Huang makes unintelligible noises in his throat as he strokes Cragen's face, allows his fingers to be kissed. Neither of their bodies move except for breathing.
The reality's too tender to unearth. Drunken as a synonym for anything but itself.