saloon. It used to belong to John Argyris, an old Greek who figured it was time to pack it in and go back to Athens to die. Along comes Lulu with a handbag stuffed with hundred dollar bills, and the next thing you know, Lulu’s behind the bar, and Argyris is on an airplane. That was, like, a dozen years ago.”
“Where’d she come from?”
“All kinds of stories. One is she was a madam from Pennsylvania someplace. Another, she was on the lam, embezzled the money from a tire factory in Ohio. And get this. Somebody even said she was the bastard daughter of Lyndon Johnson, and that the bar was paid for with hush money from the Democratic National Committee. All bullshit dreamed up by drunks. The truth is, nobody knows, really. And she’s never said. Hey, you want to find out, I think you should ask her.”
We drove on until the highway crossed the Shinnecock Canal, a man-made waterway that connects two of Long Island’s big bays. Boats can go from the Atlantic Ocean on the south up into Shinnecock Bay, then through the canal, with its lock, into Great Peconic Bay. It’s a practical route for boats of all kinds, and Shinnecock is ringed with docks and marinas.
“Turn off here,” Wally said. “Then take the third left, and another left. Over there. See it?”
I saw it. An exhausted old building covered in asbestos tile that hadn’t been painted in so long it was hard to tell what color it used to be. The sign on the roof still said John Argyris Tavern, no apostrophe, in faded green and blue letters. I had to look hard to decipher it. The car rocked as I drove it across deep ruts in the graveled lot. I parked.
“How do you like it so far?” Wally said.
Though the morning sun was out full, once the tavern door closed behind us, it was late afternoon inside, dismal and totally drained of color. Two grizzled old-timers sat murmuring to each other near the door, as they filled the air with cigarette smoke. There were empty coffee mugs and shot glasses on the pitted wooden table in front of them. The only other customer was an obese woman in a ghastly green housedress who sat at the bar drinking Coors from a long-neck bottle. Her hair looked as though she hadn’t combed it since Elvis Presley died.
“That’s not her,” Wally said, quietly.
“I hope not,” I said.
The centerpiece above the bar was an ornate advertising clock, framed in red and purple neon, that said Hale’s Pale Ale. I remembered the Hale brand, an extinct regional brew that quenched its last thirst sometime in the late 1970s, I think it was.
A door behind the bar opened and it was the fabled Lulu Lumpkin who appeared, as I could tell by Wally’s smile and nod to me. She carried a full pot of coffee. I had to agree with Wally’s assessment of her looks. With an ample nose and chin that gave her face the coarse appearance of someone right at home pulling draft beers and breaking up fights, she was not a beauty queen contender. Still, she had a remarkable figure for a woman of what? sixty, maybe more, and an unmistakable come-hither presence. She wore a denim workshirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows, and jeans.
Lulu Lumpkin came from behind the bar and filled the mugs of the two old guys with coffee. “And what can I get for you gents?” she said to us.
“Two coffees,” Wally said.
“Got any donuts?” I said.
“You must be lost,” she said. “Dunkin Donuts is the one with the big orange sign over in Hampton Bays. This here, where you are, is a tavern, and everything we serve is a liquid of one sort or another. Coffee we can do, though mostly it’s a chaser for something stronger.”
“Just the coffee, then,” I said. “Two black. Little early for stronger.”
“Something only a sissy would say, you know that?” She went behind the bar, brought up two mugs, thumped them down and filled them with coffee. She looked at Wally and said, “Him I don’t know, but I seen you before, didn’t I?”
“Been in a couple of
“Where’d she come from?”
“All kinds of stories. One is she was a madam from Pennsylvania someplace. Another, she was on the lam, embezzled the money from a tire factory in Ohio. And get this. Somebody even said she was the bastard daughter of Lyndon Johnson, and that the bar was paid for with hush money from the Democratic National Committee. All bullshit dreamed up by drunks. The truth is, nobody knows, really. And she’s never said. Hey, you want to find out, I think you should ask her.”
We drove on until the highway crossed the Shinnecock Canal, a man-made waterway that connects two of Long Island’s big bays. Boats can go from the Atlantic Ocean on the south up into Shinnecock Bay, then through the canal, with its lock, into Great Peconic Bay. It’s a practical route for boats of all kinds, and Shinnecock is ringed with docks and marinas.
“Turn off here,” Wally said. “Then take the third left, and another left. Over there. See it?”
I saw it. An exhausted old building covered in asbestos tile that hadn’t been painted in so long it was hard to tell what color it used to be. The sign on the roof still said John Argyris Tavern, no apostrophe, in faded green and blue letters. I had to look hard to decipher it. The car rocked as I drove it across deep ruts in the graveled lot. I parked.
“How do you like it so far?” Wally said.
Though the morning sun was out full, once the tavern door closed behind us, it was late afternoon inside, dismal and totally drained of color. Two grizzled old-timers sat murmuring to each other near the door, as they filled the air with cigarette smoke. There were empty coffee mugs and shot glasses on the pitted wooden table in front of them. The only other customer was an obese woman in a ghastly green housedress who sat at the bar drinking Coors from a long-neck bottle. Her hair looked as though she hadn’t combed it since Elvis Presley died.
“That’s not her,” Wally said, quietly.
“I hope not,” I said.
The centerpiece above the bar was an ornate advertising clock, framed in red and purple neon, that said Hale’s Pale Ale. I remembered the Hale brand, an extinct regional brew that quenched its last thirst sometime in the late 1970s, I think it was.
A door behind the bar opened and it was the fabled Lulu Lumpkin who appeared, as I could tell by Wally’s smile and nod to me. She carried a full pot of coffee. I had to agree with Wally’s assessment of her looks. With an ample nose and chin that gave her face the coarse appearance of someone right at home pulling draft beers and breaking up fights, she was not a beauty queen contender. Still, she had a remarkable figure for a woman of what? sixty, maybe more, and an unmistakable come-hither presence. She wore a denim workshirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows, and jeans.
Lulu Lumpkin came from behind the bar and filled the mugs of the two old guys with coffee. “And what can I get for you gents?” she said to us.
“Two coffees,” Wally said.
“Got any donuts?” I said.
“You must be lost,” she said. “Dunkin Donuts is the one with the big orange sign over in Hampton Bays. This here, where you are, is a tavern, and everything we serve is a liquid of one sort or another. Coffee we can do, though mostly it’s a chaser for something stronger.”
“Just the coffee, then,” I said. “Two black. Little early for stronger.”
“Something only a sissy would say, you know that?” She went behind the bar, brought up two mugs, thumped them down and filled them with coffee. She looked at Wally and said, “Him I don’t know, but I seen you before, didn’t I?”
“Been in a couple of
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