I parked the Dart near Laurel Mall and walked to a place called Bernardo O’Reilly’s that stood in the mall’s lot. Once inside I was greeted by a young brunet hostess. She was wearing shorts and a white oxford with green suspenders over the oxford. The suspenders had buttons pinned on them from top to bottom, and on the buttons were “wacky” sayings redundantly punctuated with exclamation points.
“Welcome to Bernardo O’Reilly’s,” the hostess said with a cheerfully glued-up smile, but her eyes had no depth. “One for lunch?”
“One for the bar.”
“All righty,” she said.
“Okeydokey,” I said.
“Right this way.”
I followed her, dodging baby carriages, shopping bags, and perky waiters and waitresses dressed the same way as the hostess. There was the hood of a ’5 °Chevy mounted on the wall and next to that antique Coca-Cola ads and Moxie signs, and the mounted heads of wooden Indians. Bernardo O’Reilly’s looked less like a bar than it did a garage sale run by Keebler elves.
I nodded my hostess off as I removed my overcoat, but she was already skipping toward a table where the entire wait staff had gathered to sing “Happy Birthday” to a woman in a pink jogging suit. I had a seat at the empty bar.
There were two young bartenders. Both wore green suspenders, and both had green bow ties to match. The larger of the two stood in front of me. He was heavyset, leaning to fat, and he had a modified crew cut that seemed to be the Laurel rage. The little tuft of hair that remained on the top of his head had been gelled up.
“What can I get you?” he said. A button on his suspender said HAVE A REAL COOL YULE.
“Just a Coke, please.”
“Would you like to see a menu?”
“No, thanks.”
He pointed to a machine behind him that had a im fontap protruding from the front of a clear plastic plate. Behind the plate something swirled like a brown and white pinwheel. “How ’bout a Coke-a-Doke?” the bartender said.
“What the hell’s that?”
He looked at me through a sour smile. “Rum and Coke. You know, frozen.”
“A regular Coke’ll do it,” I said. “And don’t do anything cute to it, hear?”
He nodded and came back with my drink. I placed my card next to the coaster (which advertised COKE-A-DOKE) where he set the glass. He picked up the card and looked it over. His mouth dropped open and his lips moved as he did it.
“You wanna talk to the manager?” he said. “Is that it?”
“No. I can talk to you if it’s all right.”
“What about?”
I reached inside my overcoat and pulled out the photo of April that Billy had sent me and placed it on the bar. The bartender glanced down but didn’t touch the photo. “She was in here about a week and a half ago,” I said, “on a Tuesday night. Drinking at this bar, I think.”
“I don’t work Tuesday nights.”
“Who does?”
The bartender jerked his thumb toward the service area, where his partner was garnishing some frozen drinks on a tray. “He does. He works the main bar at night and service bar on the weekends.”
“Ask him to come over here for a second, will you?” I pulled my wallet and from that a five. I placed the five on the bar and pushed it into my friend’s hand. “Thanks.”
“Sure thing.”
Bartender Number One walked over to Bartender Number Two to talk things over. As they talked, Bartender Number One dropped the five into an empty pitcher that was their mutual tip jar. I listened to the Beach Boys’ pathetic “Little Saint Nick” on the house stereo while some whistles screamed and boingers boinged in the background, probably signaling someone else’s birthday. The place made me want to puke something, preferably Coke-a-Doke, directly on the bar.
Bartender Number Two walked my way. He puffed out his narrow chest and lowered his voice. “How’s it goin?”
“Good.” I tapped the photo once on the bar. “She was in here Tuesday night last week, with a friend of mine.”
“What’s this all about?”
“It’s about another five, for you and your buddy.”
Number Two looked around and leaned over the bar. “You’re talkin’ about a ten then, am I not right?”
“If ten can make you remember.”
He looked over the photo and th"0em" back at me. “What’d your friend look like?”
“My age and size. Blond hair.”
“Drinkers, right?”
“You tell me.” I put the ten on the bar and kept my hand on it. He studied the photograph.
“Okay. They were in that night. The reason I remember is ’cause Tuesday’s rum night. You know, we do a special on it, get a premium back from the local distributor. Anyway, it doesn’t draw much of a crowd, but this particular lady”-he touched his finger to the photo-“she put away almost a liter of Bacardi Dark herself that night. Man, she could really pound it.”
I took my hand off the bill. Number Two pulled it off the bar, folded it, and slipped it into the breast pocket of his oxford shirt. “How much for the Coke?” I said.
“On the house,” he said, and winked as I put on my overcoat. “If you don’t mind my asking, why are you after those two? They done anything wrong?”
“No,” I said. “Nothing wrong. Just a man and his wife, gettin’ a load on for the holidays. Thanks for the information.”
“No problem. Have a real cool yule.”
“Right.”
On the way home I stopped at Town Hall in College Park for one beer that turned into four and two hours’ worth of pool with a biker named Robert. The sky was dark when I walked out. I drove down Rhode Island Avenue and cut across Northeast to my apartment in Shepherd Park.
My cat was lapping water from her dish when I entered my apartment. I spooned some salmon into her food dish and tapped the can with the spoon. She abandoned the water for the salmon. In my bedroom I hit the power button on my stereo-Weasel was still on, moving from the Kinks’ “Father Christmas” to the Pogues/Kirsty MacColl duet, “Fairytale of New York”-and I let it play. Out in the hall I opened the closet door and searched until I found a two-foot-high plastic Christmas tree with retractable arms, buried in the clutter. I dusted off the tree and set it up on the small table in my living room.
After that I made coffee and poured some whiskey in it and took it out to my couch. I drank it to the fade-in of the Pretenders’ “2000 Miles.” When I woke up, my cat was sleeping in my lap. I talked to her for a long while as I scratched behind her ears. Then I picked her up and carried her into my bedroom, where I put her in the cardboard box. The clock on my nightstand said 2:14 A.M.
I undressed and removed my wristwatch and laid it on my dresser. Next to the watch were the earrings and the ring from Tommy Crane’s cottage. I picked up the ring and looked closely at the silver antique setting. Then I absently rubbed the tiny ruby that was set like a spot of blood in the middle of the ring.
I switched off the light and got into bed. I thought of April and Billy, and of Tommy Crane. The next time I looked at the clock it read 4:05. I sat up in bed, reached for my cigarettes, and garo blighted one off a match. A half hour later I sat up again and put fire to another one in the dark.
SEVENTEEN
Jackie Kahn’s accordion-gated elevator rose through the center of the marble staircase and stopped with pneumatic ease. My footsteps echoed on the marble floor that led to her door. I knocked once on the door. It opened and Jackie leaned in the frame.