William Kennedy - Chango's Beads and Two-Tone Shoes

“Hello, Chudge, hello Maaa,” George said.

“George, where’ve you been? We miss you.”

“Been in and out, up and down,” George said.

“Damn it all, George, let’s get you up to the lake. Get a few fellows together and play a little golf.”

“You said it, Judge. Golf. Haven’t played golf in quite a while.”

“You feeling all right, George?” the Mayor asked. “I heard they operated on you.”

“New glasses, Mayor, new eyes.”

“That’ll improve your putting,” the Mayor said.

“Putt-putt,” George said. “Going over to Havana.”

“Havana Cuba? I love it down there, but that’s a long way to go to play golf,” the Mayor said.

And George sang: “Cuba, that’s where I’m going,

Cuba, that’s where I’ll stay.”

“Haven’t heard that one in a while,” the Mayor said.

“Stop in my chambers, George,” the judge said. “We’ll talk about you coming up for some golf.”

“I will, Judge, I will. I’ll say a prayer for you.”

“A prayer? You think you can beat me?”

“Two Hail Marys,” George said.

“That’s the wrong religion,” the Judge said and he and the Mayor both laughed and walked up the street.

Judge. Epstein. Morris. Always wants me to play golf. Mayor Fitz. Fitz what? George watched the Judge and the Mayor walk up Washington Avenue. Going to have a beer, that’s what they do after work. Up to the Club. Fort Fitz. The Fort. Mayor Alex Fitz. George decided he wanted a beer, wanted it cold, the foam sliced off the top by the bartender and the glass with frost on it. He did not know where to go to get such a beer. Fort Fitzgibbon? Fort Orange? The Club has beer. Where is it? He walked down State Street past the Elks Club and turned onto Lodge Street, down past the old Christian Brothers Academy. Brother who, taught reading and writing, arithmetic, taught to the tune of the hickory stick. Brother. . I never liked him. . Knocko. Brother Bernardine was a good fella. Brother William Knocko. He walked past Jack Shaughnessy’s old Towne Tavern, but it’s not there, new place there, don’t like the looks, a dump. He walked down Beaver Street past Rudnick’s, Jack’s old Oyster House, Apollo Billiards, that’s where Billy won the candy store. We booked numbers in the back of the store and Billy dealt poker. George crossed to the other side of Beaver and walked back the way he came and up the hill to where Beaver met Eagle. He saw the second police precinct, stay out of there, and across from it he saw a word in the window that he liked, Stanwix. Patsy. He went in and stood at the bar. People on barstools were watching television. Bobby Kennedy is out of surgery. It’s shocking. In critical condition. The nation is stunned. Big colored fella behind the bar looked at George.

“What can I get you?”

“What’s in the window.”

“What do you want?”

“The sign in the window.”

“You want the sign?”

“I want that,” and he pointed at the neon window sign with Stanwix spelled backward.

“You want a Stanwix beer, is that it?”

“Yes. What’s the name of this place?”

“Cody’s,” the man said.

“This isn’t the Club, I know that.”

“It’s Cody’s Havana Club, if that’s what you mean.”

“Cody’s Havana Club,” George said. “I’ve been here before.”

“I’ll get your beer,” the man said.

George took a swallow of the beer and he loved it. He looked at it, watched it sweat. He rubbed the sweat, then lifted the glass and sipped. He loved the taste, the coldness on his tongue, in his throat. I should drink more beer. He tipped up the glass and finished it. He licked the foam off his lips. The bartender looked at him.

“Do it again?” he asked George.

“Do what again?”

“Have another beer.”

“Good idea. I’ll have another beer and do it again.”

The barman drew another beer. “Only costs you a dollar,” he said.

“What does?”

“The beer.”

“A dollar? That’s way too much. Beer costs a nickel. Some places they charge a dime. A glass of Bordeaux wine costs ten cents in Paris.”

“That’s before I was born,” the bartender said. “You want a beer today it’s fifty cents a glass and you had two glasses. One dollar.”

George took out his wallet and fished for one of his five-dollar bills. He gave it to the man and stared at him.

“Is your name Dick?” George asked.

“No.”

“You look a lot like a friend of mine. I haven’t seen him in a while. You know Van Woert Street?”

“I do,” the bartender said.

“Dick. That was his name. Dick Hawkins. Did you know him?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Nigger Dick Hawkins,” George said. “He could go in and out of anybody’s house on Van Woert Street, just like a white man.”

“Nigger Dick on Van Woert Street, imagine that,” the bartender said.

“Wonderful fella,” George said. “He’d do anything for me. They’d come around and tell me this and that and Dick’d say to them, ‘You leave this kid alone, he’s a friend of mine,’ and they’d never touch me. Looked a lot like you. Is your name Dick, by any chance?”

“No, my name is George. Nigger George. I live on Van Woert Street. You ever heard of me?”

“No, can’t say that I have and I live on Van Woert Street. Nigger Dick I know. Wonderful fella. Looks just like you. He’d do anything for me.”

“You know what I’ll do for you?” the bartender asked.

“No.”

“I’ll get your change, you’ll finish your beer and then I’ll kick your ass the fuck out of this bar.”

“Hey, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I don’t want your business, motherfucker.”

“Are you crazy? You can’t use that language in public. There’s women in here.”

Everybody in the bar was looking at George. Man wearing his shirt outside his pants, two women in straw hats. George tipped his hat to the women who were sitting at the bar, separated by one stool. That looks like Vivvie. George saw them all staring as if they expected something from him, so he picked up his beer and raised a toast: “I care not for riches or wealth of the best, I care not for finery grand. Just give me a lass who owns a good name and give me a willing hand.” He smiled and took a mouthful of his second beer. The woman in the yellow straw hat raised her glass to George and took a sip.

“He’s all right, Roy,” she said to the bartender.

“Sure he is,” Roy said.

“No,” she said, “I know him a long time. He works in the court. He handles the grand juries.”

George broke into song: “Good-bye, gang, I’m through.

Old pals I can’t forget.

I say good-bye to you, without the least regret.”

“I know that song,” the woman said, and she sang along with George: “I’m through with all flirtations.

There’ll be no more fascinations.

There is one to whom I’m true.

Good-bye boys, good-bye girls, good-bye gang, I’m through.”

Behind the bar Roy turned up the volume on the news show. The woman came over to George at the bar.

“George Quinn,” she said, “you’re still a rascal.”

“George Josephus Jeremiah Randolph Franklin Aloysius Quinn,” he said. “A pleasure to see you, my dear. Will you kiss me now or will you wait?”

“You’re a scream. The last time we were in a bar together was at Farnham’s. Do you remember?”

“Farnham’s is a wonderful place. Right up to snuff.”

“Oh, I know. I love the atmosphere. That wonderful dark wood.”

“The atmosphere is wonderful. The wood.”

“You mustn’t mind the bartender, George. He’s a sensitive boy, he doesn’t like that word you used.”