The Barkeep (27 page)

“How about a Tequila Sunrise.”

“Right away.”

“But hold the tequila.”

“Hold the tequila? What will you be wanting in it, then, vodka instead?”

“Just the juice and the grenadine. But charge me for the real thing, that’s fine.”

“A late-night vitamin C fix for you, is that it?”

“Something like that,” said Justin. “What kind of grenadine do you use?”

“Are you busting me balls now?”

“I just want to know.”

“He just wants to know, like it is any of his business what goes into his damn drink. Well, if you must, we use Rose’s here.”

Justin winced. “That’s mostly just high-fructose corn syrup. Have you ever made your own?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“It’s not too hard if you ignore all the hard ways to do it. Just squeeze a pomegranate in a juicer, heat the juice enough to mix in an equal amount of sugar, and then for each cup of juice, add an ounce of pomegranate molasses and half a teaspoon of orange-blossom water. Simple as that.”

“Pomegranate molasses?”

“You can get it at Whole Foods.”

“I don’t eat quiche, and I never took to chemistry.”

“All righty then. If all you’ve got is Rose’s, hold the grenadine as well as the tequila. I’ll just have the orange juice. Over ice. And maybe a dash of cranberry for color.”

“You seem to know your way around a drink.”

“I work at Zenzibar in Center City.”

The bartender tilted his head. “On Sixteenth, is it?”

“That’s the one.”

“Nice place, that. And what are you there, a waiter?”

“I’m behind the wood.”

“A fellow pour man, is it? It’s grand to know you, then. The name’s Rosenberg,” said the bartender, reaching out a hand.

“Rosenberg?”

“You got a problem, friend?”

“None,” said Justin as he took hold of the outstretched hand and gave it a shake. “Justin.”

“An old comrade of mine, he works down the street from your place now,” said Rosenberg as he poured the juices from his plastic pourers into a glass with ice and pushed it toward Justin. “By any chance do you know Crowder?”

“That knucklehead? Sure.”

“We poured drinks together at the Irish on Locust until they booted us both into the street.”

“What happened?”

“He was too generous with the merchandise and they said the clientele was getting too young for me to relate to.”

“That’s raw.”

“But they weren’t wrong on either of us, to be truthful. The place, it got discovered by a gaggle of goslings. The management wanted me to put myself out on Facebook to play to the crowd. I asked if they were pulling my pud. They weren’t. I told them I wished they would, because I could use the action. You sure you don’t want anything in that juice?”

“I’m sure.”

“A twelve-stepper, are you?”

“Something like that.”

Rosenberg slapped a shot glass on the bar and filled it to the brim with tequila. “You wouldn’t mind if I happen to take your shot for you, then?”

“I was hoping you would.”

“I was a twelve-stepper too, until I stepped off,” said Rosenberg. He lifted the glass. “Sláinte.”

Justin peeled a Benjamin out of his wallet, dropped it on the bar. “I’ll have another when you get the chance.”

Rosenberg eyed the bill for a bit and lifted his chin to stare at Justin. Just then one of the laggards at the bar spoke up.

“Hey, George. Let me have another. One final pint for the long dusty road.”

“The last call’s been rung, Tom,” said Rosenberg still staring at Justin. “The pub’s a-closing, boys.”

“You made that guy a drink.”

“I said it’s closing time, I did,” announced Rosenberg,
pushing away from the bar and heading over to Tom. “Snatch down what you’ve got and then be getting the hell out of here. I’m locking up.”

“What about him?” said Tom, jerking his thumb at Justin.

Rosenberg turned to glance back at Justin for a moment. “He’s a cousin, he is.”

“From the old country?”

“Sure,” said Rosenberg, “as long as by the old country you be meaning Philadelphia.”

“Family?” said the gray guy next to Tom. “That’s almost sweet. I love my family, so long as they stay the hell away from me. Let’s have one last drink and celebrate all our families.”

“Let’s not,” said Rosenberg. “Especially since you was tapped out an hour and a half ago, Johnny boy. Come on, lads, let’s be going on home now. I’m tired as a fifty-cent whore on payday, and me dogs are barking.”

It took Rosenberg a while to clear the place out; it was like herding cats that were drunk and had to piss one last time. As Rosenberg worked, Justin took a rag from the bar and started wiping down the tables, one after the other, lifting the chairs and setting them upside down on each tabletop after it had been wiped. By the time the last dawdler was being pushed out, all the chairs and stools were up except for Justin’s. Rosenberg twisted the lock and stepped back behind the bar.

“You need to sweep?” said Justin.

“They got a woman who opens up in the morning to do that. I just need to get everything in order back here and set the alarm. Another, you say?”

“Sure,” said Justin.

Rosenberg filled up Justin’s glass with juice, and then filled up his shot glass with Justin’s tequila. He downed it with
a wince. “If you’ll be taking my professional advice, you’d do better with something a bit smoother next time.”

“What do you like?”

He leaned forward. “Promise not to tell anyone, but when I first came to this country, I discovered bourbon. And that was it for me.”

“Why don’t you make me a Bee Gee OJ, then,” said Justin.

“What the hell’s that?”

“Bourbon, orange juice, grenadine. But hold the grenadine and hold the bourbon.”

“What kind of bourbon am I holding, if I may ask? House?”

“Don’t insult me. I’m a man of fine and distinctive tastes.”

“The best we’ve got is Booker’s.”

“One twenty-eight?”

“That’s the stuff.”

“It’s a little stiff, isn’t it?”

“You’re man enough for it, I can tell.”

“Then let’s make it a double.”

“I don’t know why, Justin,” said Rosenberg as he poured the juice into Justin’s glass and then filled his own from the narrow bottle he pulled off the top shelf behind him, “but I do indeed like drinking with you, even though I’m the only one doing the drinking.”

“It’s because I’m the one doing the paying.”

“Maybe so,” said Rosenberg, lifting up the shot glass and admiring the color of the light shining through. “Here’s to being single, drinking doubles, and seeing triple.” He winked at Justin before taking a sip. “Ahh, that’s mighty good, that is.”

“Careful,” said Justin. “That’s strong as an ox.”

“Don’t be worrying about me. An Irishman is never drunk as long as he can hold on to one blade of grass and not fall off
the face of the earth. Okay, son, so what can I do for you, pour man to pour man?”

“I’m interested in a guy.”

“Funny now, you don’t seem the type.”

“I want to know his story, and I think you just might have it. His name is Eddie Nicosia.”

“Ah, the Snake. I should have known it was he you were after.”

“Why’s he called the Snake?”

“It’s a long story,” said Rosenberg. “Literally, I suppose. But for this, you’re going to need to order yourself another drink.”

41.

ANACONDA

J
ustin knew he was courting mortal peril. And he wasn’t thinking about Eddie “The Snake” Nicosia, who surely wouldn’t take kindly to Justin’s snooping, or the strangely shaped thug who had slammed Justin’s face into his floor, or the DA, as obsessed with Justin as Ahab with his whale, or Birdie Grackle himself, who, if there was even a little truth to his story, could suddenly turn his talent for killing upon Justin if he discovered that Justin was jerking his chain about the money, which Justin most assuredly was. No, beyond all these physical threats was a bigger threat by far.

Hope.

His late night of drinking with Rosenberg had sowed his soul with all kinds of possibilities, and hope was the deadly snake slithering among the resulting stalks. For what was hope but a liar, preoccupied with the droughts of the past and the harvests of the future while it killed off the present with its bland blandishments? Justin should have been sitting on his tatami mats, seeking harmony and acceptance, looking to quiet his mind and lose himself in the riotous beauty of the now. That’s what he should have been doing, but instead he was flirting with hope as it climbed up his leg, wrapped itself
around his chest, and hissed sweet nothings into his ear.

Perhaps Birdie Grackle has been telling the truth all along, and it was he, not your father, who killed your mother. Perhaps he had been hired by Austin Moss’s vengeful wife and the sinister Eddie Nicosia. And perhaps you are not in any way to blame. And perhaps your father will be released from his Hades of jail and be the parent you always hoped he would be. He’ll toss the pigskin with you in the yard, and take you to ball games, and give you sage advice, and finally accept what you’ve become. Oh, how perfect the world would be if you actually found the truth, and the truth set your father free.

This was now the sad state of his life. No matter how un-attached to the false illusions of the world he thought he had become, he was still a sucker for hope. It was like a leprosy of the soul, and all he could do was try to hide its corrosive effects on his emotions.

“I didn’t think you’d be back,” said Justin’s father. They were again in the visiting room of the prison, sitting across from each other at a table, surrounded by other grim visitations and the shabby vending machines. And once again they had chosen to forgo the allowed embrace at the beginning of the session.

“I’m surprised I’m here myself,” said Justin. “But I need to know something.”

“You’re looking for some sort of definitive answer from me, yes? Your generation and its psychobabble about closure. I’ve always believed it’s better to close your mouth and just get on with it.”

“Tell me about my mother. About your relationship with her.”

“What is there to tell? I loved her.”

“But not only her.”

“I am not a narrow man.”

“Did she know all along about the others?”

“Do you want the truth or just some salve for your psychic wounds?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Of course not. You’re like everyone else in this soft, polluted world. You’d rather sit comfortably by the fire with your delusions than face the hard reality of things.”

“Frank said there was an arrangement.”

“Every marriage is an arrangement.”

“Not every marriage is open.”

“Let’s say ours was expanded.”

“Which means that you cheated like a jackal and she let you. Is that the story?”

“It’s amazing how children always think they understand the emotional lives of their parents, when there is little they understand less. The truth is, Justin, when it came to stepping outside the marriage, your mother stepped first.”

“Now I know you’re lying.”

“Doesn’t it ring true, though? Was she ever one to wilt into the background? She stepped out first, but I knew enough not to blame her. Something had changed in our relationship. It happened slowly and then all at once. You could blame time, blame me, I don’t care. But after a decade or two, we were simply going through the motions. Inertia keeps more marriages whole than love ever did. And it kept ours together, too. There were things I could have done, I suppose. Bring flowers, escape with her to Aruba, pretend to care more than I did. But I had pressures in the business, and there was a social calendar, and things just went on as they went on. And all along I thought she was content, even as I became more dissatisfied. And then I got a call from a woman. She wouldn’t identify herself, but she told me that my wife was sleeping with her husband and that I should put a stop to it or she would. I didn’t know whether to
believe her or not—it seemed far-fetched—but I decided to ask your mother. Whatever she was, your mother wasn’t a liar. She told me she had been dissatisfied for a long time and that, yes, she had done something about it.”

“With whom?”

“That she wouldn’t say. Your mother always had more discretion than did I. And I reacted as you would expect, with anger and jealousy. And not just jealousy because she was screwing someone behind my back. Jealousy that she had someone else and I didn’t. I had always assumed if one of us was pirate enough to be cheating it would be me. To tell you the truth, I admired what she had done.”

“So what did you do about it?”

“I had an affair myself, something tawdry and harsh. I thought it would even things, but it didn’t. It actually made me feel worse. The next was not as tawdry. And slowly we settled into the new rhythm and our marriage, such as it had become, expanded. We wouldn’t share our experiences, but it was understood that if the opportunity arose, we were free to take advantage of it.”

“That sounds skeevy enough to make me want to puke. Why didn’t you just split?”

“We almost did. A number of times. But there were you and Frank. The money would have to be divided, with all the headaches. And we sort of liked it the way it was, the freedom and security all at once. Paradoxically, through all of it, I felt closer to your mother than I had in years.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Maybe we suddenly saw the whole as more fragile. When we were together now, it was because we wanted to be together. And when we had sex now, it was—”

“I get the picture.”

“Do you?”

“As much as I ever want to. Frank showed me the letters he found.”

“Yes, he told me.”

“Do you know who ‘A’ was?”

“No. As I said, she didn’t give much information, your mother. But I could tell it was serious. I felt her pulling away. And by then I had found something a little more serious myself.”

“Annie Overmeyer.”

“Yes. Annie.”

“Did you love her?”

“She was intoxicating. Maybe it was her youth, maybe her midwestern matter-of-factness.”

“Did you want to marry her?”