of, maybe.“Baby Please Don’t Go” was one of our favorites. I liked Fishhead’s right off the
top.
We walked up to the bar.
“Nice pooch,” the bartender said.
Some people called me pooch. Not sure what that was all about but I didn’t mind.
“Thanks,” Bernie said. “Lord or Duke in the house?”
“Who’s asking?” said the bartender.
Bernie laid our card on the table. This was the new card designed by Suzie, the one
with the flower; Bernie wasn’t happy about it.
The bartender’s fingertips were long and blue, hard to take your eyes off of. She
tapped our card with one of those long blue fingertips. “Little Detective Agency?”
“Correct,” Bernie said.
The singing stopped. “Vannah din’t say nothin’ ’bout no dog,” the singer said, rising
and leaning his guitar against the chair.
We turned to him. He had a straggly goatee, straggly long hair, kind of greasy—part
from grease he put on, part from his own natural grease—and wore jeans and a muscle
shirt that showed he had no muscles. He was a very skinny dude, in fact, as skinny
as meth heads I’d known. Also, there was the problem of that goatee. Why would anyone
want to look like a goat? I’ve had encounters with goats, none pleasant.
“Which one are you?” Bernie said. “Lord or Duke?”
The goateed dude squinted, at the same time letting his mouth fall open, maybe not
his best look. But he was no meth head—his teeth were all there, not too crooked,
not too stained.
“How’d you figure that out?” he said, proving he knew nothing about Bernie.
“Lucky guess,” Bernie said.
The white-bearded guy at the bar laughed, a quick, explosive burst that sounded a
lot like . . . yes, barking. What was the name of this town again? It was off to a
great start.
Whoever the goateed dude was—most likely Lord or Duke if I was getting this right—turned
on the white-bearded guy. “What’s so goddamn funny?” Bernie himself had no beard.
He’d tried once, back in the Leda days, and she’d put a stop to it pronto, maybe the
only time she and I had lined up on the same side about anything.
“Sorry, Duke,” said the white-bearded guy. “I just enjoy a little repartee now and
then.”
“What the hell is he talking about?” Duke said.
“Back-and-forth of a witty nature,” said the bartender, mopping up a wet spot on the
bar.
“Huh?” said Duke. “Where’s his tab at anyways?”
The bartender checked a sheet of paper. “Two thousand seven hundred fourteen dollars
and ninety-three cents,” she said. “Not counting the two Bloody Marys today.”
“Three,” said the white-haired guy. “So far.”
“What if I said pay up right this minute or you’re cut off?” said Duke.
“I’d be shocked,” the white-haired guy said.
“Damn straight,” Duke said. “How ’bout horrified?”
“Not denying it, Duke. You pick an adjective, that’d be me.”
“ ’Kay,” Duke said, “just so we’s on the same page.”
“Same page, same paragraph, same line,” said the white-haired guy. “Let me buy you
a drink, Duke.”
Duke thought about that; he was one of those humans whose forehead wrinkles up when
thinking is going on, something I always watch for. “I could use a beer,” he said.
“The Hammerhead Red?” said the bartender.
“Sounds ’bout right.” Duke turned to Bernie. “Somethin’ for you?”
“The same,” Bernie said. When Bernie’s enjoying himself all the darkness disappears
from his eyes, leaving only light, like right now. “And I’m sure Chet would appreciate
some water.”
Sounded ’bout right. I’ve tasted just about everything somewhere along the way, but
water’s always been my drink and always will be. No question booze can loosen you
up: I’ve seen it happen more times than I can remember, possibly lots more times.
But I have this way of loosening myself up with no help. I’m a pretty lucky guy, in
case
top.
We walked up to the bar.
“Nice pooch,” the bartender said.
Some people called me pooch. Not sure what that was all about but I didn’t mind.
“Thanks,” Bernie said. “Lord or Duke in the house?”
“Who’s asking?” said the bartender.
Bernie laid our card on the table. This was the new card designed by Suzie, the one
with the flower; Bernie wasn’t happy about it.
The bartender’s fingertips were long and blue, hard to take your eyes off of. She
tapped our card with one of those long blue fingertips. “Little Detective Agency?”
“Correct,” Bernie said.
The singing stopped. “Vannah din’t say nothin’ ’bout no dog,” the singer said, rising
and leaning his guitar against the chair.
We turned to him. He had a straggly goatee, straggly long hair, kind of greasy—part
from grease he put on, part from his own natural grease—and wore jeans and a muscle
shirt that showed he had no muscles. He was a very skinny dude, in fact, as skinny
as meth heads I’d known. Also, there was the problem of that goatee. Why would anyone
want to look like a goat? I’ve had encounters with goats, none pleasant.
“Which one are you?” Bernie said. “Lord or Duke?”
The goateed dude squinted, at the same time letting his mouth fall open, maybe not
his best look. But he was no meth head—his teeth were all there, not too crooked,
not too stained.
“How’d you figure that out?” he said, proving he knew nothing about Bernie.
“Lucky guess,” Bernie said.
The white-bearded guy at the bar laughed, a quick, explosive burst that sounded a
lot like . . . yes, barking. What was the name of this town again? It was off to a
great start.
Whoever the goateed dude was—most likely Lord or Duke if I was getting this right—turned
on the white-bearded guy. “What’s so goddamn funny?” Bernie himself had no beard.
He’d tried once, back in the Leda days, and she’d put a stop to it pronto, maybe the
only time she and I had lined up on the same side about anything.
“Sorry, Duke,” said the white-bearded guy. “I just enjoy a little repartee now and
then.”
“What the hell is he talking about?” Duke said.
“Back-and-forth of a witty nature,” said the bartender, mopping up a wet spot on the
bar.
“Huh?” said Duke. “Where’s his tab at anyways?”
The bartender checked a sheet of paper. “Two thousand seven hundred fourteen dollars
and ninety-three cents,” she said. “Not counting the two Bloody Marys today.”
“Three,” said the white-haired guy. “So far.”
“What if I said pay up right this minute or you’re cut off?” said Duke.
“I’d be shocked,” the white-haired guy said.
“Damn straight,” Duke said. “How ’bout horrified?”
“Not denying it, Duke. You pick an adjective, that’d be me.”
“ ’Kay,” Duke said, “just so we’s on the same page.”
“Same page, same paragraph, same line,” said the white-haired guy. “Let me buy you
a drink, Duke.”
Duke thought about that; he was one of those humans whose forehead wrinkles up when
thinking is going on, something I always watch for. “I could use a beer,” he said.
“The Hammerhead Red?” said the bartender.
“Sounds ’bout right.” Duke turned to Bernie. “Somethin’ for you?”
“The same,” Bernie said. When Bernie’s enjoying himself all the darkness disappears
from his eyes, leaving only light, like right now. “And I’m sure Chet would appreciate
some water.”
Sounded ’bout right. I’ve tasted just about everything somewhere along the way, but
water’s always been my drink and always will be. No question booze can loosen you
up: I’ve seen it happen more times than I can remember, possibly lots more times.
But I have this way of loosening myself up with no help. I’m a pretty lucky guy, in
case
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