Читать книгу Fri Nov 22 00:00:00 CST 2019 - Bryan Woolley - Страница 12

WARNER

He preferred the blonde one, he decided, and felt a little guilty for it. His wife was brunette, and he guessed that was the reason—not for liking the blonde, but for feeling the guilt. And he was drunk. He wondered if he could get up and find his way to the hotel. The bald man with the cigar—the bartender, he remembered—was standing at the door, saying goodnight to his customers. He called some by name, but the names meant nothing to Warner. He was glad they didn’t. He didn’t like people who hung around joints like this. Babe’s. He had never been in Babe’s before, but had been in places like it, full of men reeking of beer and cigarettes and sweat. The sweat was bad tonight, maybe because of the rain. And what was the other odor? Piss. Piss and those chemicals that people like Babe use to try to keep you from smelling the piss. The odor had been in Warner’s nostrils all night. His table was close to the john. Or maybe the whole place smelled like piss and chemicals. The bald man was moving his way. Warner was the only customer left in the place. The bald man stopped beside the table and took the cigar out of his mouth.

“Time to go, buddy,” he said.

“What time is it?”

“A little after midnight. Closing time.”

“Closing time isn’t till two.”

“Where you from?”

“San Antonio.”

“Ah. Well, this is Dallas. In Dallas, closing time is twelve.”

“How about one more setup?” Warner said. “One for the road.”

“Can’t do it.”

“Let me see Babe, then. Babe will give me a setup.”

“I’m Babe,” the bald man said.

“Pleased to meet you.” Warner extended his hand, and Babe shook it listlessly. “I’m Warner Barnhill.”

“Ah. Two last names,” Babe said. “You rich? Most people with two last names are rich.”

“My daddy’s rich. He gave me two last names because he’s rich, I guess. He gave me my mother’s maiden name. You’re right. Rich people do that. They put your whole damn family tree in your name. How about a setup, Babe?” Warner waved his empty glass.

Babe moved the cigar from side to side with his tongue, appraising him. “Ask me to join you, and we can call it social,” he said. “In case the vice cops come.”

“Sure.”

“Let me lock up,” Babe said. “Then, it’ll be all right.”

Warner gazed at the dark stage while he waited. He heard a key turn in the lock. Babe rattled the knob, testing it, then moved behind the bar. Ice cubes clinked in glasses. “What’s your pleasure?” Babe asked.

“Water.”

“I’m a soda man.”

Babe set the glasses on the table, and Warner uncorked the bottle in the paper bag and poured for both of them. Babe raised his glass in salute and sipped. “Nice stuff,” he said.

“Cutty Sark,” Warner said. “What’s your last name?”

“Slater. Jerome Slater. Nobody calls me Jerome since my mother died, though. So call me Babe. I ain’t rich.”

“Warner raised his glass. “You ought to be, charging seventy-fine cents for a glass of water.”

“In New Orleans, you can sell real drinks and stay open all night if you want to,” Babe said. “Here it’s beer and wine and setups and close at midnight. Crazy fucking place. Ain’t a bartender got as much right to sell whiskey as the guy in a liquor store? Ain’t that what bartenders are for?”

“It’s the Baptists,” Warner said. “They’re afraid somebody might get drunk. It’s them and the brown paper bag companies.” He giggled.

“It’s the fucking legislature,” Babe said. “They’d change it if they wasn’t hypocrites. They get drunk enough.”

“I can’t allow you to impugn the reputation of that august body,” Warner said. “I’m a member of it.”

“Yeah?” Babe’s dark eyes lit briefly. “Then why don’t you change it?”

“The Baptists wouldn’t like it.”

“Well, between the state law and the city’s midnight curfew, I’ve got it tough, even at seventy-five cents for water. By the time I pay the rent and the band and the girls, I ain’t got nothing.” He grunted. “And that’s a fact. Where you from?”

“San Antonio.”

“Oh, yeah. You said. The old Alamo City.”

“Right.”

“You really in the legislature?”

“Yeah. The House.”

Babe rolled his cigar between thumb and forefinger, inspecting its gnawed, soggy end. Warner tilted his head for the last of his drink. “How about another?” Babe asked.

“Might as well.”

Babe picked up their glasses and walked behind the bar.

“You here for the visit?” he asked.

“Yeah. I missed him in San Antonio.”

Babe laughed. “You must not be important.”

“I’m not.”

“Where is he tonight?”

“Fort Worth.”

“You like him?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re a pinko liberal. No wonder you ain’t important.”

Babe returned to the table and watched Warner pour the whiskey. “How’d you like my girls?”

“The brunette had a bruise on her thigh.”

“Shit. You noticed.”

“Couldn’t help noticing.”

“I told her to cover it up. With makeup, you know. Her boyfriend did it. Fucking boyfriends. I keep warning them, but they don’t listen.”

“The blonde is nice.”

“Ain’t she? That’s Sheila.”

“Yeah, Sheila’s nice. Nice tits.”

They stared at the ashtray in the center of the table, drinking quietly. The haze in Warner’s head made the butts in the tray seem to move. He groped his pack from his pocket and lit another.

“You here alone?” Babe asked.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe you’d like to meet Sheila. She likes politicians.” Warner raised his eyes to Babe’s. “She lives at the Plaza,” Babe said. “Couple of blocks from here. If you wanted to drop by, I could call. She wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t want to go to the Plaza.”

“Maybe she’d come down here. It’s up to you.”

Warner shrugged. “Why not?”

Babe got up and picked his way among the tables and chairs toward the telephone near the door. He walked with a limp. Warner heard the nickel drop into the phone and the whirr of the dial.

“Hi, honey. You busy?” Babe spoke softly, intimately, like a father to a daughter. “I got somebody I want you to meet…Yeah, I know…I know. But this is special. A favor for Babe, huh?...Well, he don’t want to come there. He’s important, a state rep…yeah…yeah…Listen, honey, just get your ass in gear and come down here, OK?...Well, you got an umbrella, ain’t you?...OK. Good. Step on it, OK? Good. Fine. Thanks, sweetheart.”

Babe sat down and relit his cigar. “Sheila’s anxious to meet you,” he said.

“She coming right away?”

“She’ll be along. She’s got to get herself together, you know. How about a drink?” Not waiting for Warner’s reply, Babe picked up the glasses, got the ice, and refilled them. “How long you in town?”

“Just till tomorrow.”

“Just for the visit, huh?” Big deal for a politician, I guess. You going to meet him? Personally, I mean.”

“That’s why I’m here. I’ll have to get lucky, though.”

“Well, maybe you will. Mind if I clean up a bit?”

“Go ahead.”

Babe moved among the tables with a tray and a towel, picking up glasses and ashtrays, wiping the tables, arranging chairs. Warner rested his chin on his chest, saw a speck of ash on his necktie and considered flicking it off, but didn’t. He wished Babe hadn’t called the girl. He wished he weren’t sitting alone, that he was in his room where he belonged, sleeping, resting for tomorrow. When Babe limped past him and said, “That’s Sheila,” he raised his head, but he had heard nothing. Babe went through a door next to the stage and closed it, and Warner heard him talking but didn’t understand his words. Then the door opened and Babe was shaking a collapsed umbrella. The girl was unbuttoning her blue plastic raincoat.

She smiled. “Hi,” she said.

“Hello,” Warner said.

“This is Sheila,” Babe said. “Sheila, this is Representative Barnhill.”

Warner stood. Sheila offered her hand, so he shook it. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Sheila said.

Babe laid the umbrella on a table and helped the girl out of her coat and folded it over a chair. The girl stood like a statue, avoiding Warner’s eyes. Her blonde hair and red satin sheath and gold earrings reminded Warner of Marilyn Monroe. Men probably were supposed to think of Marilyn Monroe when they looked at Sheila. She was about twenty. Maybe twenty-one. “Have a seat,” he said. He pulled out a chair.

“Thank you.” Her voice was small. She perched on the edge of the chair. Maybe the sheath was too tight to let her really sit down.

He nodded at the brown bag. “Drink?”

“I don’t like the hard stuff. Mind if I have something else?”

“Whatever you like.”

Sheila smiled at Babe. “I’ll have the usual, Babe.”

“I’d like a beer,” Warner said.

“Sure. What kind?”

“Whatever’s handy.”

Sheila placed her elbows on the table and folded her hands and propped her chin on them. A gold charm bracelet clicked down her arm. Her nails were long and red. Her eyes dropped. Babe set a brown Lone Star bottle and a fresh glass before Warner and a long-stemmed glass of something bubbly in front of Sheila.

“Champagne,” Warner said. “You’re an expensive lady.”

“It’s Champale,” Babe said. Sheila gave him a small frown.

“He’s a friend,” Babe said. “Besides, it’s on me. Look, you kids have your drink. I got work to do.” He moved away, and Sheila smiled at Warner. Her eyes were blue.

“Babe says you’re a state rep,” she said.

“That’s right.”

“I expected someone old and greasy.”

“Babe says you like politicians.”

Sheila laughed.

“You’re a—good dancer,” Warner said.

She sipped the Champale. “Thank you.”

“Do you like it? Dancing.”

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know. I just wondered.”

“Do people ask you if you like being a state rep?”

“No. Maybe they should. They might be surprised at the answer.”

“OK, then, do you?”

“Yes and no.” Warner laughed, and she did too. The beer was clearing his head. He offered her a cigarette.

“No, thank you. They stain the teeth.”

“You have lovely teeth.”

“Thank you. You sure are complimentary. You don’t have to do that.”

“You don’t have to say ‘thank you’ all the time, either.”

“What do you do when you’re not making laws?”

“Guess.”

She looked him up and down. “You’re a lawyer.”

“That’s right. How did you know?”

“You look like a lawyer. If you saw me on the street, what would you think I was?”

Warner hesitated.

“An exotic dancer, right?”

“Right.”

“And that’s what I am. People look like what they are.”

“What about Babe?”

She laughed. “Babe looks like Babe. He says you’re rich. Are you?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say ‘rich.’ I’m a state representative and a somewhat successful attorney.”

“As you said, I’m an expensive woman. You can afford me, can’t you?”

“I think so.”

Her smile took on the sultry quality she had used on the stage. Her apparent shyness was gone. She picked up Warner’s hand and held it between her own. “It’s raining. Where’s your car?”

“I don’t have one. I flew in.”

“Hey, Babe!” she called over her shoulder. “Call us a cab, will you?”

Babe limped to the phone and dropped a nickel. “Five minutes,” he said when he hung up. “I told him to honk.”

“Babe told me you don’t like my place,” Sheila said.

“Mine’s better.”

“Where is it?”

“The Adolphus.”

“That’s fine.”