and her face grew
somber. "Why don't you tell whoever it is that's looking for
this girl to forget her? You'll save yourself a lot of trouble. They
don't give things up easy, those two. I know. I've seen how they
work. People they don't like, people that get in their way, just
don't last very long. That girl who went off with them knew what she
was doing. Why not just leave it at that?"
"It's not up to me," I said.
"Well, then, keep that kid's old man out of
harm's way," she said sternly. "Or both you and he will
regret it. Get out of here, now. Before he comes out and starts a
ruckus."
"Good luck," I said to her.
I started up the clay embankment and looked back once
when I got to the car. But she'd already gone in.
She was right about one thing. From the looks of Abel
Jones, a meddlesome old man like Hugo would be better off out of the
way. Better for him, better for me, and, maybe, better for Cindy Ann.
7
WE WENT out to dinner that night, Hugo Cratz and I.
We drove down Cornell to Ludlow and three blocks south to the
nondescript gray and white cube of the Busy Bee.
He'd cleaned himself up for the meal. Put on a fresh
checked shirt and a red cardigan sweater and scraped at the stubble
on his chin. And, as we walked from the parking lot to the street, I
caught a bit of bounce, a bit of military cadence, in his step. He
was enjoying it, what he thought was the honor of it, which was fine
with me. A little back-slapping and a few beers and we both might
find the nerve to strike a compromise.
The restaurant was crowded, so I took Hugo up to the
big dark U-shaped bar on the second level--an elevated terrace about
six steps above the ground floor--and introduced him to Hank
Greenberg, the barkeep.
We ordered two beers and, after taking a quick look
at Hugo, I decided it would be better if we both sat down to talk.
"We'll be over in the corner," I called to Hank and pointed
to an empty booth to the left of the bar.
"Right," he said.
We were almost there. We'd almost made it--Hugo
tottering a little as we maneuvered through the crowd, me pushing
gently at his back--when a big square sallow-faced man, with the name
"Mike" tagged on his shirtfront and a blue Navy anchor
tattooed on his left forearm, inadvertently clobbered the old man and
sent him tumbling back into me. I caught Hugo by the arms and pulled
him to his feet. Big Mike dropped drunkenly into our booth and, with
a sigh of unexpected pleasure, started drinking the beers that Hank
had just deposited on the table.
"Hey!" I shouted over the top of Hugo's
wispy head. "Those are our beers."
"He's drunk, mister," a gaunt man with the
name "Al" on his shirt said from the bar rail. "Don't
mess with him. He's just plain red-eyed mean when he's stiff like
that."
"Those are our beers," I said to him.
Al shrugged. "It's your funeral."
Hugo was wobbling a bit, so I turned him around and
looked him over. A little blood was oozing from his nose.
"It ain't nothing. That moose just clipped me is
all, with his elbow. Say, mister?" he said to Mike. "You
ought to watch where you're going."
Mike looked up balefully, the way a big, bad-tempered
shepherd dog looks up from his food bowl. "Go to hell," he
growled.
The moralist in me was getting a good work-out that
day. But I managed to check him. He had bigger fish to fry than a
barroom loudmouth.
"C'mon Hugo," I said. "Let's get you
cleaned up."
Hugo washed himself off in the john, and as we walked
back down to the restaurant level, Big Mike raised a glass to us.
"Goddamn pissant," Hugo hissed. And gave me a withering
look.
Jo Riley, the hostess at the Busy Bee, seated us at a
relatively quiet table in a corner of the main room.
On duty Jo wears pale pink lipstick, piles her
coal-black hair in a massive bee-hive, and carries a pair of sequined
glasses on a silver-metal chain around her neck. She fancies long,
highnecked, colorless dresses for the same reason she wears her
hair unfashionably and sports those bridge
somber. "Why don't you tell whoever it is that's looking for
this girl to forget her? You'll save yourself a lot of trouble. They
don't give things up easy, those two. I know. I've seen how they
work. People they don't like, people that get in their way, just
don't last very long. That girl who went off with them knew what she
was doing. Why not just leave it at that?"
"It's not up to me," I said.
"Well, then, keep that kid's old man out of
harm's way," she said sternly. "Or both you and he will
regret it. Get out of here, now. Before he comes out and starts a
ruckus."
"Good luck," I said to her.
I started up the clay embankment and looked back once
when I got to the car. But she'd already gone in.
She was right about one thing. From the looks of Abel
Jones, a meddlesome old man like Hugo would be better off out of the
way. Better for him, better for me, and, maybe, better for Cindy Ann.
7
WE WENT out to dinner that night, Hugo Cratz and I.
We drove down Cornell to Ludlow and three blocks south to the
nondescript gray and white cube of the Busy Bee.
He'd cleaned himself up for the meal. Put on a fresh
checked shirt and a red cardigan sweater and scraped at the stubble
on his chin. And, as we walked from the parking lot to the street, I
caught a bit of bounce, a bit of military cadence, in his step. He
was enjoying it, what he thought was the honor of it, which was fine
with me. A little back-slapping and a few beers and we both might
find the nerve to strike a compromise.
The restaurant was crowded, so I took Hugo up to the
big dark U-shaped bar on the second level--an elevated terrace about
six steps above the ground floor--and introduced him to Hank
Greenberg, the barkeep.
We ordered two beers and, after taking a quick look
at Hugo, I decided it would be better if we both sat down to talk.
"We'll be over in the corner," I called to Hank and pointed
to an empty booth to the left of the bar.
"Right," he said.
We were almost there. We'd almost made it--Hugo
tottering a little as we maneuvered through the crowd, me pushing
gently at his back--when a big square sallow-faced man, with the name
"Mike" tagged on his shirtfront and a blue Navy anchor
tattooed on his left forearm, inadvertently clobbered the old man and
sent him tumbling back into me. I caught Hugo by the arms and pulled
him to his feet. Big Mike dropped drunkenly into our booth and, with
a sigh of unexpected pleasure, started drinking the beers that Hank
had just deposited on the table.
"Hey!" I shouted over the top of Hugo's
wispy head. "Those are our beers."
"He's drunk, mister," a gaunt man with the
name "Al" on his shirt said from the bar rail. "Don't
mess with him. He's just plain red-eyed mean when he's stiff like
that."
"Those are our beers," I said to him.
Al shrugged. "It's your funeral."
Hugo was wobbling a bit, so I turned him around and
looked him over. A little blood was oozing from his nose.
"It ain't nothing. That moose just clipped me is
all, with his elbow. Say, mister?" he said to Mike. "You
ought to watch where you're going."
Mike looked up balefully, the way a big, bad-tempered
shepherd dog looks up from his food bowl. "Go to hell," he
growled.
The moralist in me was getting a good work-out that
day. But I managed to check him. He had bigger fish to fry than a
barroom loudmouth.
"C'mon Hugo," I said. "Let's get you
cleaned up."
Hugo washed himself off in the john, and as we walked
back down to the restaurant level, Big Mike raised a glass to us.
"Goddamn pissant," Hugo hissed. And gave me a withering
look.
Jo Riley, the hostess at the Busy Bee, seated us at a
relatively quiet table in a corner of the main room.
On duty Jo wears pale pink lipstick, piles her
coal-black hair in a massive bee-hive, and carries a pair of sequined
glasses on a silver-metal chain around her neck. She fancies long,
highnecked, colorless dresses for the same reason she wears her
hair unfashionably and sports those bridge
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