“No. No! We’re not from the ABC, and we’re not looking to make any trouble for you. You can serve sixteen-year-olds, for all we care.”
“Ten-year-olds!” I added, just to be helpful.
Tim looked at the bartender and held his gaze. I wondered what story he would concoct, how he would hide the truth. Would we be spies from a competing college? Authors of a university guide? “We’re reporters,” he said.
The bartender squinted. “Like from a newspaper?”
“Internet publication,” Tim corrected. “It’s much more forward-thinking. But the same basic idea.”
The bartender nodded and chewed his lip.
“We have a source says there’s something funny going on around here.” The bartender raised his eyebrows in confusion. “Sex,” Tim clarified. “For sale. You be willing to tell us what you know?”
The bartender’s eyes widened. “Hookers? Here? Get out. I don’t know nothing about no hookers.” He leaned over the bar, engrossed. Apparently, we were even better than the soaps.
Tim nodded at the bartender. “Maybe you could keep your eyes open for us, then.”
The bartender tightened his lips and shook his head. “I think it’s terrible what you people did to Princess Di.”
“Those weren’t reporters,” I said. “It was the paparazzi. You know—photographers who chase celebrities.”
He crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “I know what paparazzi are,” he said.
“Of course you do. I just—”
“I went to college. Just ’cause I tend bar doesn’t mean I didn’t go to college. Three semesters at U Mass Boston. Then one here at Mercer. Course that was a long time ago.”
“There’s money in it,” Tim interrupted.
That got him. “What do you want me to do?”
His name was Gerry. He’d been working at The Snake Pit since his college years, first as a bouncer, now as bartender and manager. “We do check ID’s.” But, he confided, “Some of ’em are fake and you know they’re fake, but what the hell you gonna do? A kid shows you some laminated thing, says it’s a license from, oh, hell, Nebraska or something, and you’re going to say, what? We got closed down four, five years ago—some asshole served a fourteen-year-old. Me, I don’t serve anyone looks under seventeen.”
Tim began spouting. Twenty-one’s too old for the drinking age. If kids want to drink, they’re going to drink, and it’s best if they do it in a bar, where the management can make sure things don’t get out of hand. Why are we wasting our tax dollars on liquor agents when the public schools stink and there are criminals roaming the street?
Next thing you know, we have our first source. “I’ll be in touch, man.” Tim gave him a high five.
“How do you know he won’t tell people we’ve been snooping around?”
He smiled at me. “Easy. He’s outside the system. Resents the system. He’d love to help expose some spoiled rich kids.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions. Just because he’s a bartender, you assume he resents college kids. Besides, he even went here for a while.”
“Not that simple. His beef about the ABC? That’s the system.”
I stared at him for a minute. Suddenly, his tie didn’t seem at all stupid with the jeans. He seemed hip and savvy, and terribly, terribly smart. “You’re right. I didn’t even make the connection.”
He put his hand behind my neck and gave it a brief, electrifying rub. “You’ll learn,” he said.
“Thanks for helping, Professor Higgins,” I scowled.
What did I expect? Red velvet and mirrors? False eyelashes and a bustier?
Her smile froze when she saw me standing there with Tim. She shoved her hands in the pockets of her tight, faded jeans and stuck out a plump hip. She was trying to look casual and provocative, but I sensed anxiety. Her tank top, purple with spaghetti straps, was clingy. It outlined her generous breasts and revealed just a hint of cleavage. She had wide brown eyes and streaky blond hair that fell
“Ten-year-olds!” I added, just to be helpful.
Tim looked at the bartender and held his gaze. I wondered what story he would concoct, how he would hide the truth. Would we be spies from a competing college? Authors of a university guide? “We’re reporters,” he said.
The bartender squinted. “Like from a newspaper?”
“Internet publication,” Tim corrected. “It’s much more forward-thinking. But the same basic idea.”
The bartender nodded and chewed his lip.
“We have a source says there’s something funny going on around here.” The bartender raised his eyebrows in confusion. “Sex,” Tim clarified. “For sale. You be willing to tell us what you know?”
The bartender’s eyes widened. “Hookers? Here? Get out. I don’t know nothing about no hookers.” He leaned over the bar, engrossed. Apparently, we were even better than the soaps.
Tim nodded at the bartender. “Maybe you could keep your eyes open for us, then.”
The bartender tightened his lips and shook his head. “I think it’s terrible what you people did to Princess Di.”
“Those weren’t reporters,” I said. “It was the paparazzi. You know—photographers who chase celebrities.”
He crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “I know what paparazzi are,” he said.
“Of course you do. I just—”
“I went to college. Just ’cause I tend bar doesn’t mean I didn’t go to college. Three semesters at U Mass Boston. Then one here at Mercer. Course that was a long time ago.”
“There’s money in it,” Tim interrupted.
That got him. “What do you want me to do?”
His name was Gerry. He’d been working at The Snake Pit since his college years, first as a bouncer, now as bartender and manager. “We do check ID’s.” But, he confided, “Some of ’em are fake and you know they’re fake, but what the hell you gonna do? A kid shows you some laminated thing, says it’s a license from, oh, hell, Nebraska or something, and you’re going to say, what? We got closed down four, five years ago—some asshole served a fourteen-year-old. Me, I don’t serve anyone looks under seventeen.”
Tim began spouting. Twenty-one’s too old for the drinking age. If kids want to drink, they’re going to drink, and it’s best if they do it in a bar, where the management can make sure things don’t get out of hand. Why are we wasting our tax dollars on liquor agents when the public schools stink and there are criminals roaming the street?
Next thing you know, we have our first source. “I’ll be in touch, man.” Tim gave him a high five.
“How do you know he won’t tell people we’ve been snooping around?”
He smiled at me. “Easy. He’s outside the system. Resents the system. He’d love to help expose some spoiled rich kids.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions. Just because he’s a bartender, you assume he resents college kids. Besides, he even went here for a while.”
“Not that simple. His beef about the ABC? That’s the system.”
I stared at him for a minute. Suddenly, his tie didn’t seem at all stupid with the jeans. He seemed hip and savvy, and terribly, terribly smart. “You’re right. I didn’t even make the connection.”
He put his hand behind my neck and gave it a brief, electrifying rub. “You’ll learn,” he said.
“Thanks for helping, Professor Higgins,” I scowled.
What did I expect? Red velvet and mirrors? False eyelashes and a bustier?
Her smile froze when she saw me standing there with Tim. She shoved her hands in the pockets of her tight, faded jeans and stuck out a plump hip. She was trying to look casual and provocative, but I sensed anxiety. Her tank top, purple with spaghetti straps, was clingy. It outlined her generous breasts and revealed just a hint of cleavage. She had wide brown eyes and streaky blond hair that fell
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