I folded up a matchbook cover and tied it on the end. It was a little light and with a regular casting rod it would have been tough going, but I thought I could handle it with this outfit. An impulse to show off, like a kid riding a bicycle no-hands past his girl’s house, came over me and I’m not apologizing. That’s just the way it was. That’s the way Lee Marlow was hitting me. I took a round, cardboard beer glass coaster from the top of the piano and scaled it across the room. It rolled near the far wall, about twenty-five feet away.
“Okay,” I said. “Here goes.”
I whipped an easy side-arm cast and the nylon line unfurled from the spinning reel silently and smoothly. The matchbook cover at the end of it, dropped an inch away from the coaster on the floor.
“Wonderful!” she said. “Will I ever learn to do that? If that coaster was a bass, you’d have hit him right on the nose with the plug. You—”
She was looking past me toward the bar and a worried frown darkened her lovely eyes and made vertical lines above her short, straight nose. I turned and followed her gaze. At the bar, her father was tossing off another drink. He turned and headed back toward us.
“He sneaked away on me, while we were busy with our fishing talk,” Lee said. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’ve got to watch him. He doesn’t know when to stop.”
At the same time I saw that Harry Wenzel had come back in. There was a lot of laughter and loud talk from the bar, now. Pete Saterlee was getting a little boisterous. He’d moved around beside Irma Wenzel and had his arm around her waist. I hoped Harry wouldn’t see that, or that if he did, he wouldn’t be in one of his jealous moods.
Irma was laughing up into Pete’s face as he talked. Eric Fabian was on the other side of her, looking bored, working his highball glass around in his fingers, making circled figures on the bar. Harry was down at the other end, talking with Gus Berkaw, the bartender.
Willis Marlow came back to the piano and I heard his daughter say, “Pops, you promised to take it easy, remember?”
“Of course,” old Marlow said, with tight-voiced dignity. He pulled at the flesh of his throat. “Tonsils got a little dry, is all. And that last blues number was a little muddy going. Want to get in the spirit for something gay. This is a party, you know.”
I turned away from them for a moment, embarrassed for Lee and I was just in time to see what happened at the bar. What had led up to it, wasn’t too hard to guess after I’d seen Pete Saterlee cozying up to Irma Wenzel.
Harry Wenzel had Pete Saterlee backed up against the bar, holding him there with his fist screwed up into the front of Pete’s jacket. Saterlee said, “Get your damned dirty paws off of me, Wenzel,” and put the flat of his hand into Harry’s face, shoved him away. Then Harry Wenzel swung. It was a powerful, chopping right. Saterlee managed to get a hand up fast enough to partially block and deflect the blow so that it caught him just above the ear instead of flush on the jaw. Still, he went down. He rolled over, got up onto his hands and knees and shook his head.
Irma Wenzel let out a little belated scream and was leaning against Eric Fabian, hiding her face in his shoulder. Gus Berkaw came over the bar in a vaulting leap and grabbed Harry Wenzel from behind, held his arms pinioned at his sides.
“Cut it out, Harry,” Gus said. “What’s the matter with you? The guy didn’t mean anything. Cut it out.”
Harry Wenzel shook himself loose and wheeled on the bartender. For a minute I thought he was going to go after Gus, too. Then he shook himself all over, wiped a big hand down over his face. “Sorry, Gus,” he said. “Thanks for straightening me out.”
That didn’t surprise me any. Gus Berkaw was the only man that I knew of for whom Harry Wenzel held any real respect. Gus had worked for Harry for six years, now. He lived upstairs in the inn and was quiet and a little on the moody side, but a good barkeep. He was a stocky, powerful shouldered man, about three inches shorter than Harry Wenzel.
There was a story that once, when Gus had first gone to work for Harry Wenzel, they’d had an argument. After the place had closed up, they had gone at it with their fists. Harry Wenzel had beaten the daylights out of Gus, but he hadn’t been able to knock him out or make him quit. And Gus had floored Harry Wenzel. It was supposed to be the first and only time Harry had ever been floored. Finally, they’d both gotten so exhausted they’d had to quit fighting.
Ever since that night, the story went, Gus Berkaw had been Harry and Irma Wenzel’s personal friend as well as an employee. Folks said that he could do anything with Harry and that the Wenzels would do anything for him.
Pete Saterlee got up onto his feet and brushed himself off. Harry Wenzel went over to help him and I watched them shake hands. “I’m sorry, Pete. Guess I just lost my temper. Maybe it was just a friendly kiss, I dunno. But, Irma, damn her, sometimes she—” He broke off, obviously fighting to control his temper.
He put his arm about Saterlee’s shoulder. “Aw, forget it. Let’s all have a drink and forget it.”
Saterlee mumbled an indignant reply but it was obvious that he was going to let himself be coaxed into accepting the apology and forgetting the incident. I turned back to the Marlows to see how they’d taken the scene. Lee Marlow looked pale and nervous. “I don’t like this, Pops. There’s liable to be more trouble. They’re all drinking too much. There won’t be much fishing done in the morning, anyhow. Let’s get out of here. Let’s leave, Pops.”
I knew how she felt. I thought maybe I could help her out. I said, “I know what you mean. It’s a good idea and if you don’t mind, I’ll go with you. You have a car?”
“No,” she said. “We rode out with Eric Fabian. But I can call a cab from Wildwood. I—”
“Nonsense,” I told her. “You can ride with me. If you don’t mind a jalopy with a broken spring. I’ll go tell Harry we’re leaving, while you’re getting your coats on.”
I turned away before she could refuse. I went over to the bar and said something about a headache and I had to go. I’d see Harry on the lake tomorrow. I told him that the Marlows were going to check out too, were going to ride with me. He let out a roar like a buffalo.
“That’s a hell of a thing, Matty,” he said. His yellowish brown eyes showed flecks of temper. His mouth pulled into a thin, ugly line. “Running out on us just when the party’s gettin’ good. What’s the matter, you too good for us or something?”
“It’s not that, Harry,” I said. “It’s just—”
“Nuts!” he cut me off. “Well, you don’t have to drag Will Marlow and his gal with you. I’ll see that they’re taken care of. We got to have some more of that piano of Will’s. He’s staying.”
Willis Marlow and Lee joined us, then. They’d heard what Harry Wenzel had said. I looked at Willis Marlow. He drew his small, plump figure up with dignity. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wenzel. We said we’re leaving and we are. You can’t bully us around like... like—”
Lee Marlow put a hand on her father’s arm and stopped him. “Please, Pops,” she said. “Maybe we’ll stay a little longer. Play another couple of songs for Mr. Wenzel, anyhow.” There was fear in her voice. She hadn’t gotten over the scene of violence that she’d witnessed a couple of minutes ago. She was afraid of Harry Wenzel’s deep bullying voice and his temper.
But Harry Wenzel looked at the stooped little old piano player with raised brows and an amused, surprised look. “Of course,” he boomed. “Don’t be silly. Stick around, kid and play us some more tunes. The evening’s young. Here.” He reached to the bar and brought a brimming shot glass over from it. He held it toward Marlow.
The old man stared glassily at the whiskey and licked his dry lips. He hesitated. Harry Wenzel said, “Go ahead, Will. There’s plenty more where that came from. We’ll all join you. We’ll all have another round.”