A small part of Near is disappointed by the lack of protest or even a put-upon sigh at the manufactured hassle; it’s the same part of him that briefly, as he spoke, fantasized he might catch Jude, who has never seemed exactly real enough to be carrying around legitimate legal identification or exactly savvy enough to procure a fake, in whatever level of wrongdoing walking up to a bar without an ID rises to. Enough to kick him out on his ass, anyway. But the odds were long; the loss is minor.
He snatches the license from Jude’s hand and takes more time with it than he needs to, gives it the minute perusal of a jeweler with a diamond under his loupe. The Door, once, years ago, pre-Near, was caught up in some underage drinking sting, so management (Kovich, lurking in the back room) came to Jesus and now demands compliance and splurges on those UV pen lights. Near digs one of these out from under the counter and uses it to search for who knows what, he’s never been to Connecticut, but it seems to be the word Connecticut and a tiny cartoon whale. Creative. Gun to his head, he’d say it looks real, but it is still fake as fuck, unless Jude is in fact David.
And here’s the thing: maybe he is. What does Near know? It’s not like Near’s driver’s license says “Near.” Why should the magic disappearing boy be going around introducing himself by his government name anyway? As to the Radcliffe, Near has never known what Jude’s last name is, or if Jude has a last name. It would feel like gaining a point in an unwinnable game if he could say that either of these unknowns had become knowns, but they haven’t. So, unsatisfied but with nothing else to examine, he flips the thing onto the table, croupier-style.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s talk. You owe me twenty bucks, Dave.” This is a rounding-up of the cost of vindaloo, which would have been his treat except for the whole fucking him over and running away thing. Jude owes him an apology, too, and while Near would prefer the apology to the money, the thought of asking for one and being refused feels too pathetic, so he sticks to the concrete.
He snatches the license from Jude’s hand and takes more time with it than he needs to, gives it the minute perusal of a jeweler with a diamond under his loupe. The Door, once, years ago, pre-Near, was caught up in some underage drinking sting, so management (Kovich, lurking in the back room) came to Jesus and now demands compliance and splurges on those UV pen lights. Near digs one of these out from under the counter and uses it to search for who knows what, he’s never been to Connecticut, but it seems to be the word Connecticut and a tiny cartoon whale. Creative. Gun to his head, he’d say it looks real, but it is still fake as fuck, unless Jude is in fact David.
And here’s the thing: maybe he is. What does Near know? It’s not like Near’s driver’s license says “Near.” Why should the magic disappearing boy be going around introducing himself by his government name anyway? As to the Radcliffe, Near has never known what Jude’s last name is, or if Jude has a last name. It would feel like gaining a point in an unwinnable game if he could say that either of these unknowns had become knowns, but they haven’t. So, unsatisfied but with nothing else to examine, he flips the thing onto the table, croupier-style.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s talk. You owe me twenty bucks, Dave.” This is a rounding-up of the cost of vindaloo, which would have been his treat except for the whole fucking him over and running away thing. Jude owes him an apology, too, and while Near would prefer the apology to the money, the thought of asking for one and being refused feels too pathetic, so he sticks to the concrete.