"Just enough," he murmured, and dabbed a drop of Persian Mist behind each ear. "Wouldn't do to cause riots."
Jimmy's Grill was ten minutes out of town on Route 9. Outside it was fake bluestone and neon strips. Inside it was Naugahyde and pickled pine booths, a moose head on the wall, and a flashing BUD sign behind the bar. The food was burgers, fries, and chili dogs; and the music on the box was country. The place was as dim as a cave full of bats, and it smelled of stale beer and Lysol.
Sextant made a calculated entrance, moving with just enough of a sway to draw eyes as he walked to the bar. He put his back against it, leaned there languidly, and surveyed the scene. The customers were mostly men, and they looked like men who worked with their hands, men who wore Levis and steel-capped boots, flannel shirts and gimme caps. They sat around in groups of three, and four, and five, and most of them were drinking beer. Some of them were hard-working men relaxing at the end of the day. Those were the older ones, and Sextant ignored them. He was looking for animals.
"What'll it be?" said a voice in his ear.
Sextant turned. The bartender was a young man with a full beard. He wore a red T-shirt with a Maltese cross and the legend: R.V.F.D.
ENGINE CO. NO. 2.
"A glass of white wine, please."
The bartender poured, and Sextant sipped. The wine was disgusting. He gave a counterfeit sigh of pleasure, and said, "Lovely." He tipped his head toward the juke box, and asked, "Rockin' Chair Money?"
"That's it."
"Junior or senior?"
"Senior. I don't believe Hank Williams Junior ever cut that song."
"I'm sure you're right. My name is Ralph, what's yours?"
"Uh… Patsy."
"Are you really a fireman, Patsy?"
"What? Oh, the shirt. No, I just picked it up somewhere."
"Quel dommage! I absolutely adore firemen, don't you?"
"How's that?"
"Just think of what they do. Dashing into burning buildings, throwing their arms around people and rescuing them. It's all so sweaty and manly."
The bartender looked uncomfortable. "Yeah, they do good work, I guess."
"Good? Only good?" Sextant leaned closer. "Let me tell you, my dear, from personal experience, that firemen can be absolutely fantastic."
The bartender took a good look at the ruffled shirt, the languid manner, and the made-up eyes. He swallowed hard, and moved down to the other end of the bar. Sextant smiled, and forced himself to take another sip of wine as he looked around the room. He was as out of place as a rose in an onion patch, and he knew that there were eyes on him. His own eyes settled on three men sitting at a table near the far end of the bar. They were young, early twenties at the most, and they sprawled lazily in their seats. Two were tall, lanky, and lantern-jawed, and they looked enough alike to be brothers. The third had a beer-gut that hung over his belt, and small eyes set in a fleshy face. He got up, and came over to the bar. He whispered something to the bartender. The bartender nodded. Beer-gut laughed, and went back to his table.
Perhaps, thought Sextant. Perhaps.
He finished his wine in one convulsive gulp, held up his glass, and called out archly, "Bartender, another wee drop of ambrosia, please?"
That brought more eyes to him. The bartender came back, looking unhappy. Sextant pushed his empty glass across the bar, but the bartender did not take it. He said, "Look, mister, you don't really want another drink."
"Oh, but I do. It's delicious."
"No, you don't." His voice was firm. "What you want is to pay me for the one, and find yourself another place."
Sextant registered surprise. "Are you refusing to serve me?"
"I didn't say that. I was making a suggestion."
"Not a very friendly one, I must say. You make it sound as if I'm not welcome here."
The bartender held up his hands. "I didn't say that, either. The law says I gotta serve you so long as you're not drunk, and you're not. I'm just trying to give you some good advice."
"But why? I thought we were getting along so nicely."
"Now look…"
"I thought we had established the beginnings of a true rapport."
Patsy said indignantly, "We didn't establish anything. You gonna take my advice?"
"Certainly not, I have no intention of leaving. I like this place, and I'm enjoying myself." Sextant manufactured a shiver. "It's so… gritty."
"Suit yourself," the bartender muttered. He poured wine, slopping some on the bar, and went back to the far end. Beer-gut came over to confer with him, and, again, there was laughter.
Sextant turned his back on the scene. Wait for it, he told himself. He counted silently to ten. When nothing happened, he counted to twenty. He was up to eighteen when he heard the sound of someone sliding onto the barstool next to him. He turned around. "Hi there," said Beer-gut. "I hear you like firemen."
Sextant pouted. "Oh, he told you."
"Nothing wrong with that, Patsy's okay, he's just trying to be friendly." Beer-gut grinned, showing teeth the color of tobacco juice. "He said you liked firemen, and that's me."
"You're a fireman?"
"Rockhill Volunteers, best damn company in the Hudson Valley."
Sextant said doubtfully, "You don't look like a fireman to me."
"Hell, what's a fireman supposed to look like?"
"Sort of… athletic. I mean, how do you get up and down those ladders?"
"You mean this?" Beer-gut patted his belly. "That don't stop me from doing what I want to. Never has, and never will." He winked. "You know what I mean?"
"I haven't the faintest idea what you mean." Sextant flashed a glance at Beer-gut's table. The two men who looked like brothers were grinning broadly. Patsy stood at the end of the bar with a worried look on his face. "I don't believe you're a fireman at all. "
"You're a hard man to convince."
"Prove it then. If you're a fireman, where's your tool?"
"Say what?"
"Your tool. That long iron bar that the firemen carry. They call it a halligan."
"Oh, that tool. Well, hell, you don't expect me to carry it around with me, do you? It's out in my van."
"I don't believe you."
"Wanna bet? I'll bet you fifty bucks it is."
Sextant looked at him with cool contempt. "You're bluffing. Go ahead and get it."
"Bring it in here?" Beer-gut shook his head. "No way, might cause a panic, people think there's a fire. You want to see it, come on out to the parking lot, and I'll show it to you."
Sextant looked away. "How boring."
Beer-gut shrugged. "Suit yourself, pal, but that's the only way you get to see my tool."
Sextant looked back. "Let me see if I understand this. We go out to the parking lot, and look in your van?"
"Right."
"And if you can show me your tool, you win and I give you fifty dollars?"
"That's it."
Sextant glanced at the table again. The other two men were gone. He slid off his stool. "Let's go."
They left the bar, Beer-gut leading. The parking lot was dark beyond the pool of light by the door. Their shoes crunched on gravel. They turned a corner past a dumpster, and past the exhaust fan from the kitchen. Sextant caught a blast of foul air, and tightened his lips.
"Where's your van?" he asked.
Beer-gut's voice came floating out of the darkness. "Right back here."
"I don't see anything."