Max Collins: Scratch Fever

And then he was sitting next to Nolan, pumping Nolan’s hand and saying, “You’re a pal, Nolan, you’re really a pal.”

“I made money on the deal,” Nolan said noncommittally.

“Not that much. Not that goddamn much. It was nice of him wasn’t it?”

“Nice of who?”

“The banker!”

“Bankers aren’t nice. Bankers are just bankers.”

“It was nice of him, Nolan. To come down after hours to sign papers. That just isn’t done, you know.”

“Banks have been known to open at odd hours.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I get it Ha! Lemme buy you lunch.”

“It’s past lunch.”

“Why, did you eat already?”

“No.”

“Then let’s have lunch. It’ll make a great prelim to dinner. It’s on me, Nolan.”

“Okay,” he said.

They walked across the bricked former street to a place called Bushnell’s Turtle; it was a sandwich place specializing in submarines (its name derived from the fact that a guy named Bushnell invented the “turtle,” the first submersible) and was in a beautiful old restored building with lots of oak and stained glass and plants. They stood and looked at the menu, which was on a blackboard, and a guy in a ponytail and apron came and wrote their order down. Then they were in line a while; the kid in front of Nolan was long-haired and in overalls with a leather thong around his neck and was reading, while he waited, a book called Make Your Own Shoes . Soon they picked their food up at the old-fashioned soda-fountainlike bar, where the nostalgic spirit was slightly disrupted when a computer cash register totaled their order.

“The hippies did it right for once,” Wagner said, referring to the restaurant. He was about to bite into a sub the size of one of the shoes the kid in line was planning to make.

“I agree with you,” Nolan managed, between bites of a hot bratwurst sandwich, dripping with mozzarella cheese and sauerkraut.

“I love this town. Love it. Makes me feel young.”

“Yeah, well, it makes me feel old, and you be careful or you’ll have another heart attack before the ink is dry.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, his mouth full of sub, “this pacemaker’s made a new man out of me.”

“You should’ve stayed in Florida. There’s nothing wrong with being retired.”

“Florida stinks! Nothing but old people and Cubans.”

“And sunshine and girls in bikinis.”

“Don’t believe everything the Chamber of Commerce tells you. How’s the Quad Cities thing working out?”

“Okay,” Nolan said. “It’s early yet.”

“It’s smaller than the Pier, I take it”

“Much. I can loaf with this place.”

“You opened yet?”

“In a couple weeks. Still getting the inventory together. Still working with the staff.”

“I’m sure you’re working with the staff. Particularly the female staff.”

“Just one.” He smiled.

“Special, this one?”

“Just a girl. I knew her from before.”

“Oh. What’s it called?”

“Sherry.”

“Not the girl, the joint.”

“Nolan’s.”

“No kidding? What was it called before that?”

“I don’t know. I think it was always called Nolan’s. It’s been around for years. That’s why I had to shut it down, for remodeling and such.”

“Whaddya know. It must’ve been meant to be. So are you using the Nolan name there, then?”

“Yeah. I decided to. The coincidence of it was just too good to pass up. I still pay taxes and sign legal stuff with the Logan name. That’s one good thing I got out of the Family — a legal name.”

Wagner started on the second half of the massive sub. “You know,” he said through the food, “I feel guilty about not giving you more money for the Pier. You’re giving me a better operation than I sold you.”

“I know. I didn’t sell out entirely, remember. I still got half interest.”

“Which you split with that kid, Jon, right?”

“Right. And the money you’re going to be paying me monthly is sent in two checks, one for me, one for him.”

“You see much of him lately?”

“No.”

“So what’s he doing? Where is he?”

“Playing with a rock’n’roll band, of all things.”

Wagner shook his head. “A nice kid, messed up in a business like that.”

Nolan smiled, sipped his beer. “Yeah. When he could’ve stayed in heisting.”

They finished their meal and walked out onto the street. “We still got work to do,” Wagner said, hands in pockets, rocking back and forth on his feet. “The accountant’ll be down at the Pier by now.”

“Let’s get it over with,” Nolan said.

“You in a hurry or something?”

“Look who’s talking.”

“Then you’ll stay the evening? The Al Pierson Dance Band’s playing.”

“Sure. Why not.” He hadn’t given Sherry a definite time he’d be back. There was no rush.

They drove down in Nolan’s dark blue LTD.

The Pier was a former Elks Lodge, on the banks of the Iowa River, converted into a seafood restaurant. The bottom floor was the Steamboat Lounge; the main floor was the Mark Twain Dining Room; and the upper floor was the Captain’s Ballroom. But Nolan and Wagner were headed for the Accountant’s Den, which was to say, the office that had been Nolan’s and was now Wagner’s, where an accountant was waiting to go over the books, before the final changeover in management.

That took several hours, and by that time Nolan and Wagner were ready to eat again, in the dining room, where an illuminated aquarium built into the length of one wall gave a deep-sea effect. Nolan had the house specialty — pond-raised catfish — the one thing about Iowa City he missed.

Then they went upstairs to the ballroom, where the Al Pierson Band was playing. An eight-piece group in powder-blue tuxes, the Pierson Band had a good, solid sound; Nolan was amazed how full so small a brass section could sound.

About eight months ago, it had occurred to Nolan that in a town full of country-rock discos and live rock’n’roll clubs, there was nothing for people of his generation — the sort of people who flocked to Iowa City for football and basketball weekends. He began providing Saturday night entertainment and soon added Friday, with groups like the Pierson Band. And it went over big — big enough to hire some top names; even the current Glenn Miller configuration had played at the Pier.

“How can you stand that shit?” Jon had demanded.

“What shit?”

“That... that Muzak !”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, kid.”

“It’s worse than fucking disco !’

“I considered a disco, but that fad seems pretty dead to me. Besides, I’m not after the college crowd.”

“Nolan, I got a piece of this place. What if I want to book a rock act in the ballroom?”

“No way in hell. You want the Ramones playing upstairs, while my businessmen and professors eat surf-and-turf downstairs? Sure.”

“Well that music sucks, and that’s all there is to it. I knew you were old, but I didn’t know you were Lawrence Welk.”

And the kid had stalked out.

It was probably the most hostile exchange they’d ever had. Soon Jon was gone, working out of Des Moines with his rock band.

He’d wanted to explain it to Jon. He’d wanted to explain that there were few things in this life that could bring a tear to his eyes, but one of them was Bob Eberley (or a good facsimile) singing “Tangerine.” No kid brought up on the Beatles could understand that.

He sat at a side table and had a few drinks and listened to the music and watched the couples dance. The floor was crowded, and most of the people were in their forties, fifties, sixties. Lots of blazers and blue hair. It made him feel old.