“Hotel service?” the manager gulped.
“Sure. The management is strictly responsible for stolen articles left in our care. The corpse was in our care, so I made good the loss,” O’Hanna said modestly.
Alcoholics Calamitous
by Robert Reeves
Chapter One
Bottoms Up
Cellini Smith carefully engineered his big friend toward the bar of the Kitty Klub. “Easy does it,” he said. However, it was Cellini and not Duck-Eye Ryan who collided with two of the tables before they reached their destination.
Mario, who doubled as manager and bartender, frowned at sight of them, and said, with undisguised disgust in his tone: “Oh, it’s you again.”
“That’s what you tell me every time I come in here,” Cellini Smith said. “Can’t you find a different tune to blow?”
“Well, every time you come in here, it’s you again,” replied Mario not illogically.
Cellini scowled. “Suppose you set out two wholesome, nutritious glasses of whiskey for me and my friend. I will pay you for it, the owner of this dump will make a handsome profit, he’ll be able to hire you for another week and everybody will be happy. When I want any chatty comments, witty limericks or soft-shoe routines I’ll let you know.”
Though the sibilants were slightly blurred, Cellini delivered each word with the extreme care and precision of a drunk trying to maintain an appearance of sobriety. He fooled nobody.
The barkeep plied his trade but continued to grumble. “Sure if that’s all you wanted. But you always look for trouble. Like Mrs. Madigan’s thigh the other day.”
“It was not I but Mrs. Madigan’s thigh that was looking for trouble.”
Mario set out two glasses. “Sure. It spoke to you.”
“It shouldn’t be so obscenely fat and it shouldn’t have sat down next to me.”
“That still don’t give you no call to pinch it. We try to keep this a family place.”
“I have no family,” Cellini observed. “I just have Duck-Eye Ryan.”
Duck-Eye Ryan downed the contents of his glass and his large moon-face beamed at Cellini vacuously.
“Mr. Madigan heard about it,” the bartender pursued. “He was simply furious. We nearly barred you from the Kitty Klub.”
Cellini Smith said: “Shut up.”
They had three more drinks and Duck-Eye said: “This is heaven. Can I have more?”
“Sure. I told you there’s no limit.”
“You’re wonderful to me, Cellini.” The dull, round eyes suddenly grew misty. “I stink, Cellini.” The mist coagulated into twin tear drops in the outside corners of each eye.
“Stop bawling and get that drink down.”
Duck-Eye’s lips trembled and his hands rubbed his boxing-ring scarred face. “I’m just a lousy has-been—”
Cellini nodded agreement.
“—but you treat me like I still rated a semifinal, like I was on top of the heap.” Duck-Eye Ryan’s head fell forward on his arms and he began to sob into the bar.
Cellini regarded him with disgust and ordered more drinks. After a while the sobs ceased but Duck-Eye’s head did not raise. Cellini shook the massive shoulders but there was no response. Duck-Eye had passed out.
Mario nodded toward Duck-Eye Ryan. “What gives with the goon?”
“Duck-Eye couldn’t take it,” Cellini replied. “He passed out. A hell of a bodyguard!” he muttered to himself.
“You’ve been at it three days,” said Mario. “I wonder you don’t pass out.”
“Four days,” corrected Cellini Smith. “Today is Friday.”
“It’s no good for you,” moralized the bartender. “Why don’t you give up and go home to sleep?”
“I got a shecret shorrow.” Cellini stood up, holding on to the bar for support. “Looking for a fight?”
Mario waved him back to the stool. “All right. Cool off and watch the floor show. Tanya’s going to sing so shut up and listen.”
Cellini drank and watched Tanya sing. When she had finished he yelled: “Boo!” A bouncer put a quieting finger to his lips. An accordian duet took the stage and this time Cellini didn’t wait for the end to indicate his displeasure. The bouncer left his station and came toward Cellini.
“You shouldn’t do that, mister,” he said pleasantly. “Just don’t applaud if you don’t like them.”
Cellini decided that he was living in a democracy and no one could tell him what to do. He drained his glass and then threw it at the bouncer. It went wide by over three yards and smashed into an array of bottles behind the bar.
“Now,” said Mario, “you’re really going to have a secret sorrow.”
The bouncer slid in expertly. Cellini let loose a punch, missing him completely but hitting a patron on the adjoining stool. The bouncer caught him by the left wrist and pulled back sharply, neatly depositing Cellini over his shoulder. Then, as if carrying a sack of potatoes, he walked out unhurriedly and into the manager’s office where he dropped his inert burden on a sofa.
Mario, who had followed, said: “I hope he doesn’t get sick in here.”
“Not this one. His plumbing is zinc-lined.”
“I shouldn’t have let him have that last couple.”
The bouncer nodded. “I been keeping my eye on him the last few days. Guess I’ll call a cop.” He left.
Cellini slowly stirred and sat up. He realized that the thing on the table in front of him was a fifth of brandy. He tilted the bottle to his lips and, after taking a long swig, began to sing I Got Sixpence. Mario slapped him over the face and took away the bottle. Cellini beamed and continued to sing.
He was still singing when the bouncer returned with a policeman. Obviously bored, the cop listened to the story.
“I hate to do this,” Mario concluded. “It’s no good for our reputation to arrest customers.”
“Then what do you want me for?” asked the cop.
“On the other hand, I don’t want them to get the idea they can come in here and rough up the place.”
Cellini suddenly lunged for the brandy bottle, which was now on a bookcase, and fell fiat on his face. The cop nudged him with a shoe and Cellini mumbled something that sounded like: “I wanna sleep. Lemme alone.”
“If you don’t want to charge him with nothing,” said the cop, “why don’t you keep him here overnight?”
“He’ll only wake up in the morning and start all over again.”
“That’s right,” the bouncer agreed. “The guy’s on a perpetual binge and he’ll be in looking for trouble again.”
“I just don’t want him around here and he’ll head back as soon as he starts drinking. I’ve tried kicking him out before but he gets tough and it’s bad for business.” Mario snapped his fingers. “Say, maybe we can talk him into going on the wagon. If we can get him to take that alcoholic cure, he’ll be out of circulation for a few weeks.”
“Do what you want,” said the cop, “but get it over with.”
Mario bent over Cellini. “We’ll give you a break, brother. You can either take the cure or you can go to jail. Which will it be?”
“I wanna drink,” came the voice from the carpet.
Mario straightened up. “He’ll take the cure. It’ll be more comfortable than spending the same time in jail.”
“As long as he agrees, it’s no skin off my badge,” said the cop and added suggestively: “Kind of cool out tonight.”
Mario indicated the brandy bottle, said, “Try that fuel oil,” consulted the telephone directory and made a call.
The cop had left when, some twenty minutes later, two competent-looking young men entered the office of the Kitty Klub. The initials, H.A.C., on their white jackets, stood for Howard’s Alcoholic Cure.