“He’s not even Rupert,” the third regular said. “He’s Rodney. Rodney, the red-nosed—”
“They won’t let him play,” the second regular said, “unless it’s foggy.”
“And you,” the third regular said, pointing a definitive finger at the fourth regular, “are foggy.”
“Hey!” the fourth regular said. “How’m I supposed to take that?”
Rollo added an extremely accomplished apostrophe just to the right of XMA, then paused to contemplate that next bare space.
“Any way you want,” the third regular said.
The fourth regular frowned, thinking that over.
Rollo shook his head, then turned slightly to glance toward Dortmunder. “How you doin,” he said.
“Fine,” Dortmunder assured him.
Rollo shook the spray can in the direction of the space next to XMA’. “It’s all curves from now on,” he said.
“You did good with the R,” Dortmunder told him.
Rollo was cheered by that. “You think so? It’s in the wrist, I believe.”
“You’re probably right,” Dortmunder said.
“I think one of them is Dopey,” the second regular said.
“Yeah,” the third regular said, “and I know which one, too.”
The first regular said, “I think the next two are Masher and Nixon.”
“Nixon!” snorted the third regular. “He wasn’t even alive yet.”
“Well, it’s Masher and somebody.”
“Donner,” said the second regular. “I know Donner goes in there somewhere.”
“No, no, no,” said the first regular. “Donner’s that place where they ate the people.”
Everybody was interested in that. “Who ate the people?” asked the fourth regular, who had decided not to make a federal case out of being called foggy, or whatever it was.
“Some other people,” the first regular explained. “They got stuck in the snow, on a bus.”
“Now wait a minute,” the third regular said. “It wasn’t a bus. I know what you’re talkin about, it was a long time ago, it was one of those wagons, Saratoga wagons.”
“It wasn’t Saratoga,” the second regular said. “Maybe you mean station wagon.”
As Rollo started the slow circuitous path of the final letter on the mirror, the first regular said, “Station wagon! If it’s too long ago for a bus, whada they doin in a station wagon?”
“I dunno, Mac,” the second regular said, “it’s your story.”
Rollo finished a somewhat recognizable S, and the first regular called over, “Hey, Rollo, you got that misspelled there!”
Rollo looked at the regular, then at his handiwork. MERY XMA’S. He didn’t seem particularly worried. “Oh yeah?” he said.
“You gotta spell merry,” the first regular told him, “with an a.”
The third regular said, “What are you, nuts? When you spell it with an a, that’s what you call it when you get married.”
“Only if that’s her name,” the fourth regular said, and received massive frowns of bewilderment in response.
Rollo at last put down the spray can and faced Dortmunder. “It’s the thought that counts,” he said.
“You’re right about that.”
“You’ll be wanting the back room.”
“Sure. We’re gonna be the other bourbon, the vodka and red wine, the beer and salt, and the beer and salt’s Mom. I think she’s a beer, too.”
“She is,” Rollo agreed. A professional to his fingertips, he identified his customers exclusively by their choice of beverage. “I’ll give you the other bourbon’s glass,” he said, “and send everybody back when they get here. You’re the first.”
“I’m kind of the host,” Dortmunder said.
As Rollo went off to get glasses and ice and a bottle of Amsterdam Liquor Store Bourbon—Our Own Brand, as it said on the label, the regulars spent some time trying to decide if it was Mary that was a grand old name or Ulysses S. Grant that was a grand old name. Ulysses S. Grant certainly sounded grander. Probably older, too.
Rollo brought over a round enameled metal Rheingold Beer tray containing two plain water glasses, a shallow ironstone bowl with ice cubes in it, and the alleged bourbon, which, beyond the brave statement of its label, was a muddy brown liquid that looked as if it might have been scooped from a river somewhere in Azerbaijan. “See me on the way out,” he advised.
“Sure,” Dortmunder said. “Merry exmas,” he added, and carried the tray past the regulars, most of whom were pretty sure at this point that Nerdy was not one of the original Seven Dwarfs. Dortmunder went on down beyond the end of the bar and down the hall past doors decorated with black metal dog silhouettes labeled POINTERS and SETTERS and past the phone booth, where a new string now dangled from the quarter slot, and on through the green door at the very back, into a small square room with a concrete floor. All the walls were completely covered from floor to ceiling by beer and liquor cases, leaving a minimal space in the middle for a battered old round table with a stained felt top that had once been pool-table green but now looked as though some Amsterdam Liquor Store bourbon had been poured all over it a long time ago and let dry. This table was surrounded by half a dozen armless wooden chairs.
This room had been dark when Dortmunder opened the door, but when he hit the switch beside the door, it all sprang to life, illuminated by one bare bulb under a round tin reflector hanging low over the table on a long black wire. Dortmunder walked all around the table to sit in the chair that faced the door; the first arrival always did that. Setting the tray on the table, near his right hand, he shrugged out of his coat and let it drape behind him on the chair. Then he put two ice cubes into one of the glasses, poured muddy liquid on top, took a sip, and leaned back to gaze around the room in contentment. Small, cramped, windowless; what a nice place to be.
Tiny Bulcher appeared in the doorway. Barely visible in his left fist was a tall glass containing what looked like, but was not, cherry soda. He paused to cock his head and say, “Dortmunder. What’s that on your face?”
With his free hand, Dortmunder brushed at his face. “What, I got a smutch?”
“No,” Tiny said, coming in, moving around the table to put his glass at the place to Dortmunder’s left, “it almost looked like a smile.” He was wearing his World War I infantry coat again, which he dropped on the floor behind him, then sat down. “So what’s,” he said, picking up his glass, “with the giggling all at once? It ain’t like you.”
“Well, it coulda been I was thinking,” Dortmunder said, “that at last I know what I’m doing. Or maybe it’s just I’m somewhere at last that at least I should know what I’m doing because at least it’s the right place. Or maybe it’s just that Fitzroy and Irwin aren’t gonna be here.”
“So who is,” Tiny asked, “besides us?”
“Kelp, and Stan Murch, and I think Murch’s Mom.”
Tiny looked around at the table and the chairs. “You’re early,” he said, “which is right, and I’m on time.”
“So am I,” Kelp said, coming in, waving a thick manila envelope. “I brought the stuff,” he said. “Copies for all of us.” He took the chair to Dortmunder’s right, putting the envelope down there, shucking his coat, seating himself, reaching for the other glass on the tray.
“Which makes Murch late,” Tiny said. Tiny was known to disapprove of people who weren’t punctual.
“I wouldn’t be,” said a voice in the hall, approaching, “if we’d come the way I wanted to come.” Stan Murch appeared, walking briskly. “But no,” he said. “Whada they say? A boy should listen to his mother? Wrong again!”