“We all have to do our share.”
“That’s it.”
The woman returned to the booth and the soldier joined her. It was some time before Jake, who did a little visiting with is customers, returned to the piano. Then he said: “This is murder, plain murder. Every person in this room know what’s going on except two people. One’s that sergeant, because he’s stuck on her. The other is this kid under the bar, because she’s asleep.”
“Was that Willie? That called?”
“What do you think? That couple up there the ones drinking rye and soda, even made a bet that it was him, and they’re sore because I won’t tell them. It’s so raw it burns my stomach. First give the husband a runaround at the beach all day, then have the sweetie call in to find out when the bus leaves, then at one minute after twelve meet him outside, and then her and him put Pokey to bed. I wouldn’t ask much to kick her out.”
“Oh you couldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“All God’s chillun, you know. Maybe she came for a good time too.”
“Be a funny kind of heaven with her flying around in it. If she’s got wings, why hasn’t she got a heart?”
“For Willie, maybe she has.”
“I wish he didn’t look quite so much like a dignified weasel.”
“I wish that damned bus would go.”
Fred began to sing again and little by little the blue twilight came back. The couple in the booth were friendlier now and the soldier, who had been drinking beer, ordered double Scotch. Then abruptly Fred broke off in the middle of a song, looked at his watch. With a look of alarm, he pointed his finger at the soldier, said: “Hey!”
“Yeah?”
“It’s five minutes to twelve.”
The soldier got up, came over to the bar, picked up his hooker of Scotch, downed it in a series of gulps. After a second in which he seemed to be strangling, he said: “So what?”
“Your bus is coming.”
“Whose bus?”
“Did you forget you’re standing reveille?”
“Me and who else?”
“Listen sergeant, you like those three stripes?
“Not to the point of being silly about them.”
“You like that extra dough they bring in though, don’t you? For the little woman overt there? And the little woman under here? Pokey? So she can have a nice warm coat for school, with a little fur collar on it? And peppermint for Christmas? And—”
“Shut up.”
“I won’t shut up.”
“You will or I’m socking you.”
“OK then, I clam.”
Weaving a little, the soldier went back to the booth. The woman stared at him, looked at her watch. Then she came over to the bar. “What did he say?”
Fred made no answer. Jake swabbed a section of bar, then looked her straight in the eye and spoke slowly, quietly, deliberately; “He said he’s going AWOL so he can be with a woman that’s been two-timing him for a month, that didn’t think enough of him even to bring him home when he came all the way up here to see her, and that needn’t come back in this bar after tonight, if she don’t mind.”
How much of this after “AWOL” she actually heard, it would be hard to say. Her great black eyes opened in horror, and even after Jake had finished she stared at him. Then, breathlessly, she said: “I’ll be back in a minute,” and hurried out to the street.
Jake said: “It’s so raw it stinks.”
In a few minutes she was back, but instead of going to the booth, she flitted through the door with the pictures on it. The soldier ordered another double hooker of Scotch. Jake served a single, with soda. The soldier asked: “What time is it?”
“Little after twelve.”
“I was supposed to catch a bus.”
“It left. I seen it go by.”
“OK.”
Jake returned to the bar and Fred sang several songs. Then a woman came out of the door with the pictures on it, walked quickly around to where Jake was, leaned over, and said quietly to him: “You better get back there.”
“Back where?”
“Ladies’ room.”
“What for?”
“There’s trouble.”
Conversation stopped and the row of people perched on stools looked at each other, then looked at Jake as he walked to the door, opened it, and disappeared. The soldier wig-wagged for Scotch. Fred took a bottle to the booth, poured a drink, came back to the piano. After some minutes, Jake reappeared, went to the phone, made a call. When he came back to the bar, he said loudly: “OK, folks, one on the house — what’ll it be?”
Two or three ordered refills and the rest took the hint and began to talk. Two men paid their checks and left. When Jake got back to the piano, Fred said: “Where’s Mommy?”
“Flying around.”
“Where?”
“Heaven. Or will be soon.”
“... Why?”
“She’s going to be dead.”
“Jake, what the hell are you talking about?”
“She’s took six of the blue ones. She dissolved them all before she put them down and she won’t take anything I fix for her ad it’s too late now for anything to be done and this time tomorrow night she’s going to die. That’s what the hell I’m talking about.”
“Holy Smoke.”
“That’s right, only hit it harder.”
“Aren’t you sending her to a hospital?”
“I already called.”
“Aren’t you — staying with her?”
“She don’t want me. And—” with a jerk of a thumb toward the soldier — “She don’t want him. And I’ll not call Willie.”
“This boy has to be told.”
“Then tell him.”
Another hush had fallen over the bar. Then suddenly it was cut by a whisper: “Play ‘Little Glow-Worm.’”
Jake said: “Yes, play it. God, play something!”
When he played a few bars, Fred said: “And she’s got to be told.”
“No she hasn’t”
“How do you figure that out?”
“She’s coming with me. She’s coming with my wife and our two kids, and take the place of the one that died. Anyway till this guy is free and maybe for good. She’s going to get up with the sun and go to bed with the sun and drink milk and chase butterflies. And she’s not going to be told. Mommy just gave her to us, that’s all.”
The soldier called for “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes.” Jake said: “Get over there now and tell him. About how it was, tell him what’s good for him to know, and not nothing about Willie. About how it’s going to be, you give him the works. And get the name of his outfit. So I can get his captain on the line and explain why he’s not standing reveille.”
From the street came the sound of an ambulance siren, and soon an interne and two orderlies entered the bar. Fred stopped playing, got up, and started his dreadful walk toward the soldier in the booth.
Cigarette Girl
Bullets weren’t in Cameron’s line, but he couldn’t back out. He couldn’t leave the girl alone again.
I’d never so much as laid eyes on her before going in this place, the Here’s How, a night-club on Route 1, a few miles north of Washington, on business that was 99 % silly, but that I had to keep to myself. It was around 8 at night, with hardly anyone there, and I’d just taken a table, ordered a drink, and started to unwrap a cigar, when a whiff of perfume hit me, and she swept by with cigarettes. As to what she looked like, I had only a rear view, but the taffeta skirt, crepe blouse, and silver earrings were quiet, and the chassis was choice, call it fancy, a little smaller than medium. So far, a cigarette girl, nothing to rate any cheers, but not bad either, for a guy unattached who’d like an excuse to linger.