Джон Макдональд - More Good Old Stuff

Allison and Jader were very watchful and cautious men.

When Frank Bard walked in, there were four men at the bar. He knew three of them by sight; the fourth was a stranger. Two of the booths were occupied. In one were two Swedish merchant seamen and a thin painted girl with hair the color of ripe tomatoes and a wet, smeared mouth. In the second booth were two quiet men wearing dark topcoats. Bard glanced at them and guessed that they were waiting for one of the packages to arrive.

Bard did a curious thing. He held the door wide, and as he walked over to the bar, he smiled down over his right shoulder. He said something in a low voice.

He stepped up beside the stranger, still smiling down at a point about six inches from his right shoulder. Allison moved over toward him and said, “You got the money, Frank?”

He took the dollar in quarters from his pocket and said, “The usual for me and Jeanie, Arthur.” Allison poured two straight ryes and smiled tiredly as he put one in front of Bard and one in front of the empty space. Bard said, “You wouldn’t rather sit in a booth, would you, Jeanie?”

“What the hell do you keep asking her that for?” Arthur said. “She never wants to sit in a booth; she always stands up here at the bar with you.”

Bard looked vaguely indignant. “It’s polite to ask her, Arthur.”

The stranger, a lean man in work clothes with a pinched, bitter mouth, looked with pained disgust at Frank Bard and then at Allison. “What the hell goes on?” he asked.

Allison looked amused. “Oh, Frank comes in here all the time with Jeanie.”

Frank Bard turned and looked at the stranger. “Jeanie and me, we like this place. She likes to come here even if she did have a little bad luck here a little over a year ago.”

The stranger looked into Bard’s eyes and moved back a few inches. “Bad luck?” he inquired politely.

“Yeah. Jeanie was in here late one night and some lush hit her with a bottle. Hit her right over the left ear. I guess my Jeanie hasn’t got such a tough skull. Funny how it didn’t break the bottle, hey, Arthur?”

Jader came over, his pale eyes watering. He said, “Damn it, Arthur, why do you let this nut come in here?”

Arthur grinned. “Nervous?”

“No, the guy drives away trade.” He turned to the stranger. “Mister, a drunk bashed her head in with a bottle and got clean away. We give the cops a description but they never found the guy.” He paused and glanced at Bard, who was talking to Jeanie in a low voice, almost a whisper. He continued. “And this thing used to be a cop. Jeanie was his girl. He’s been on the skids for a year, and every time he comes in here he’s got that damn imaginary woman with him. I tell you, it’s enough to drive me nuts.”

Arthur grinned tightly. “Where’s your sense of humor, Jader?”

Jader looked again at Bard, cursed and wandered off. The Swedes were pounding on the table.

Frank Bard bent low over his glass of rye. He lifted it with a quick motion, and downed it. It caught in his throat. He gagged, but it stayed down. He stood for a moment, savoring the glow of it, feeling immediately stronger, more confident. He glanced at the wall above the back bar, whistling softly. His lean hand, dirt stained into the knuckles, reached slowly out, shoving the empty glass over toward Jeanie. The hand hooked around her full glass and brought it back. He glanced down, as though surprised to see the full drink in front of him. He drank it with steadier hand and smiled at Jeanie.

“Taste good to you, honey? If I had the dough, I’d buy you another.” He took out his last quarter. He glanced over and said, “What was that, honey?”

He beckoned to Arthur. “Arthur, Jeanie says...”

“Yeah, I know. She wants a beer chaser.” He picked up the coin, drew one beer and set it in front of Jeanie. Bard whistled again, while his right hand stole out and slid it over. He drank it quickly and, again looking at the wall, shoved the glass over in front of Jeanie.

The stranger said, “You were a cop?”

Bard looked at him and drew himself up, looking for a fraction of a second out of the wise, confident policeman’s eyes. The expression faded and his eyes once more looked hot and wild. “What’s it to you!” he demanded hoarsely. “I don’t see you buying me and Jeanie no drinks; buy ’em and we’ll talk to you, mister.”

The man took hold of Bard’s shoulder with what was almost gentleness. He turned him so that he faced him directly. The work-hardened hand came across, smacking solidly, fingers open, across Bard’s jaw, knocking him against the bar. The hand came back in a backhand blow that straightened him up again, splitting his underlip at the corner.

Frank Bard stood unsteadily, his hands at his side, grinning foolishly at the stranger, his eyes filling with tears from the burning pain in his lip.

Arthur said, “Take it easy!”

The stranger said, “That’s for being a lousy cop; that’s for nothing. You there, set up drinks for Prince Charming and his lady.”

“Thanks,” Bard said humbly.

“Think nothing of it, Prince.” The man turned his back.

Bard drank the two drinks and stood holding on to the edge of the bar. His face grayed and he said, “Excuse me, honey.”

He lurched off to the men’s room and was ill. He came out in a few minutes, still shaking, his clothes soiled, and stopped by the bar. He said, “Come on, Jeanie.” He walked toward the door. Jader crossed close beside him. With wild fury, Bard grabbed Jader’s arm and spun him around. He said, “Why the hell don’t you watch where you’re going?”

He bent over suddenly, as though helping someone up from the floor. He snarled at Jader, “Okay. Okay. Go around knocking women down and don’t apologize. You all right, honey?” he said softly, making brushing motions in the air. Jader grunted, balled a large white fist and slowly drew it back, his wet eyes narrowed.

Arthur snapped, “Jader! Hold it.”

The big hand unclenched and Bard walked to the door, held it open with a small bow and then walked out.

Jader said, “Arthur, I’m not going to stand for...”

“Shut up!” The gray eyes were cold behind the lenses, the mouth a thin tight line under the mustache. The girl with the Swedes giggled. Jader turned and walked toward the back of the place.

In the alley Frank Bard stood, his hand on the corner of the packing case, looking up at the night sky. The rain had stopped and small clouds scudded across the moon. Bard dropped to his knees and crawled into the box. He lay with his face against the damp wood and tears ran down through the thick stubble on his cheeks. He reached awkwardly into his side pocket and pulled out a small package. He unwrapped the paper. It contained a small cool metal tube that still contained lipstick. Her lipstick. He held it close to his nose. It held the elusive scent of her. His fingertips touched the little skein of hair. Her hair. Long and pale and delicate — amazingly golden. He wrapped the package and replaced it in his pocket. After a long time, he slept.

Jader was in a good mood. The drawer was almost full of packages and the first pickup was due in an hour. Arthur Allison had gone to the races. It was the first time Jader had been alone in the place in many months. He liked the feeling of being trusted. The sun was hot on Dorrity Street. It slanted through the smeared front window, lighting the dim interior. One old man was asleep, his head on the booth table. Jader planned to wake him up and get him out soon.

He glanced across the street and his cheerful smile faded. He saw Frank Bard coming diagonally across the street in the sun, looking down at a spot six inches from his right shoulder. Jader could see his lips moving. Jader’s lip curled as he saw Bard’s gray, shapeless shoes, the tired scuff of his walk, the stained, baggy trousers.