Читать книгу The Vultures - Mark Hannon - Страница 19

14.

Tom heard the sound of the Rolling Stones’ “Street Fighting Man” getting cranked up in the living room. He shut the copy of Plato’s Republic and swung his legs off the bed, kicking over his Krober’s Anthropology and Paine’s The Rights of Man. Shit, didn’t get to them tonight, he thought as he sheathed the wide leather belt to his jeans.

HR was nodding his head to the music as he passed a joint to Artie.

“Hey, Tom, c’mon in, have a toke. Artie and I were just getting ready to go out for a beer. Come along, my man.”

Artie nodded, took a deep drag and passed it to Tom, who took the joint carefully and got two short puffs off the roach.

“Yeah, let’s finish the joint and head out to the Silver. There’s always cool people in that joint,” HR said.

“It’s cheap, too,” Artie added, chuckling.

The three of them walked up Mariner St., hands in their pockets. When they turned onto Allen Street, HR pulled his hands out and gestured at the street.

“This is so cool. All kinds of people here. Black, white, working people, artists, thinkers, all coming up with new ways of seeing things. Really free in their minds. That’s what’s going to change this country, and we’re right here at the beginning of it. So cool... like in 1848. All the ideas came together and changed Europe forever. It’s time for that to happen in America.”

HR led the way, opening the door to the bar, and jukebox music, noisy talk and the smell of spilt beer wafted over them as they entered. HR smiled as he looked over the crowd, nodding to a couple of regulars, his eyes bright and his hands in his pockets.

Tom pulled out some singles. “Pitcher of Schmidt’s, please,” he said to the bartender, a big guy wearing an untucked Buffalo Braves jersey.

“Three glasses?” the bartender asked.

“Yeah, for now,” HR said. “We may need more later.”

The three stood at the bar, Tom carefully pouring the beer. A dark-complexioned man with curly hair smoking a cigarette turned to them. “Hello, HR.”

“Hey, Jimmy. How are you?” HR replied.

“I am fine,” Jimmy answered, holding up his Pall Mall. Tom noticed an accent. Middle East. Israeli?

“I see the Zionists are attacking the Palestinians again,” HR said.

“The Jews are exterminating the Palestinian refugees with their American weapons,” Jimmy said, waving his cigarette.

Looking over Jimmy’s shoulder, Tom spotted a guy in a Bills’ cap and plaid shirt look up from his beer and stare at Jimmy with glazed eyes.

“Jimmy’s a real source of the truth about what goes on in the Middle East,” HR said. “He’s a student like us. Came here from North Yemen.” HR signaled the barman for another glass, and Tom poured another beer for Jimmy.

“How’d you get here from North Yemen, Jimmy?” Tom asked, putting the glass before Jimmy.

“Scholarship. We are a new country and will need leaders,” Jimmy answered.

“That’s cool,” Artie added. “They pay the full ride?”

“They must. In America, there is no sharing.”

“Huh,” Artie said, looking down at the floor as the guy in the plaid shirt got off his stool.

“Yer one fuckin’ nasty Arab,” Plaid Shirt said.

Jimmy’s eyes went wide as he turned, stood up and backed off his stool.

“Hey man, take it easy,” Tom said, shaking his head and mouthing “DRUNK” to HR and Artie.

“Yeah, well, fuck you and fuck him,” Plaid Shirt said, swinging a round house right. Tom blocked the looping punch with his left as HR backed away. Jimmy threw himself against the wall and Tom threw a right hand, going straight from his shoulder to Plaid Shirt’s chin. The man staggered back, falling into his stool. The bartender came around the bar and got between them.

“Ok, that’s it,” the barman said, glancing at Plaid Shirt hanging on the bar. He turned to face Tom.

“Fuck him,” Tom said. “He insulted Jimmy and threw the first punch.”

“I don’t give a shit who started it, all you guys need to call it a night,” the bartender said, eye-to-eye with Tom.

HR clapped Tom on the shoulder. “Easy there, young Ali. We’ll just get some more beer someplace else. It’ll all be ok tomorrow.”

Tom picked up his change and headed for the door, HR and Artie following.

“What an asshole,” Artie said.

“Never seen that in Jake before,” HR said.

“Who’s Jake?” Tom asked.

“The guy you hit. He’s a regular there. Just sits there watching TV and drinking Gennys from the time he gets off work on the trash trucks until after the eleven o’clock news comes on, then he goes home. Weird.”

“Hey, where’d Jimmy go?” Artie asked.

“I dunno. Maybe he’ll meet up with us later at Birdie’s. He usually goes there late,” HR said.

“What’s Jimmy’s real name?” Tom asked.

“Gamil,” HR said. “He calls himself Jimmy in case the Zionists on campus attack him.” HR led them up wooden steps into a one-story cottage painted flat black with a sign that read Birdie’s 19th Hole and Hens’ Roost.

“Looks like the place is jumpin’ tonight,” Artie said.

“Yeah,” HR said, clapping Tom on the shoulder. “Let’s do some shots to celebrate the victory of the people’s champion and see what else we can score here.”