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by D Keith Mano

  We all laughed.

  And no one was surprised, on second thought, that he was

  missing. But they were all “ sure” that Tony would return.

  Richer. With stories to tell. He was a survivor, you know.

  Couldn’t get the best of old Tony. He’s probably outside now:

  timing a dramatic entrance.

  You might’ve thought Tony was Pat O’Brien. (And you

  might’ve thought The Car was Girls’ Town.) Tony had advanced

  money for Cheryl’s abortion. He had pulled an angry customer

  off Susannah. Jill and Sadah, pointedly, told how Tony had respected their lesbian life-style. Tributes that only the dead are accorded. But Ethel took it all in. She looked young, listening.

  As if she missed that dangerous energy in her life.

  Lars-Erik presented a drawing of Ethel and Tony—done from

  memory, he was drunk enough to say. Then it was time to honor

  Pearl again. Leonard brought in an immense cock-shaped birthday cake. And Pearl, yes, circumcised it. Then she got on the stage and danced—tottered around the floor really, while we all

  went stiff with fear. There were cries of, “ Take it off!” Then

  louder cries of, “ Put it back on!” Ethel had to go up and lead

  Pearl down.

  It was noisier than a “ Night on Bald Mountain.” Everyone

  was trying to make a good impression. Even, it seemed to me,

  the poor customers—who gave out senseless rebel yells and

  shouted for seconds before they had finished firsts. My head

  ached (I had some champagne against my best instincts). And

  then—at midnight—Ethel stood up.

  She signaled to Connie. Connie hit a button behind the bar

  and our jukebox shut off. Everything stopped. The silence ech-

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  oed in our heads—like it will when you have a fever. Ethel

  cleared her voice. I thought, perhaps, that she would be shy in

  front of so many men. But no.

  “ Time fm e to g o,” she said. “ I thank everyone here for

  being faithful t ’The Car. Leonard?” Leonard came out with a

  big cardboard box. It was full of souvenir T-shirts that said I

  SURVIVED PEARL’S BIRTHDAY AT THE SMOKING CAR.

  “ I thank Pearl for making senior citizen sex fashionable again

  in Queens. I thank Leonard for being so mean and unpleasant-

  looking that everyone pays for his drink. I want t ’thank Jako,

  who tells me not one of you, not one, has flushed the john

  tonight. Most of all,” Ethel came over and pulled me toward

  her. “ Most of all, I thank Tony . . . ” Her face went blank for

  a second. “ You see where my mind is. I thank Mike for jumping

  into the breach and fucking up his own life in the process. This

  is my man here.” She hugged me. “ This is my man. You all

  listen t ’him. ’ ’ I turned red, I could feel it. ‘ ‘Get drunk everyone.

  This round’s on the house.” And she left. Carrying Pearl, more

  or less, under one arm.

  A stopper came out of the evening then. Though the crowd

  slowly decreased, a manic energy picked up and began chasing

  its tail around the room. By 3 a.m. we had two fights—and a

  Niagaran incident of vomiting. One foot away from me. Splashing all over my new Pumas.

  It was a kid—no more than fifteen years old. Leonard and I

  were aghast. Neither of us, in all that milling around, had seen

  him come through the front door. He was virtually unconscious,

  with our liquor license riding on his continued good health. This

  kid had taken a seat behind the cigarette machine, a blind spot.

  Someone had been slipping him drinks, but no one owned him

  now. He hung from Leonard’s arms like Christ crucified—

  smelling of digestive fluid and Sambuca. It was a predicament.

  We fished his wallet out—he lived somewhere in Little Neck

  (an expensive wallet, it was). Leonard drove the kid home in

  my Lincoln. (He refused to use his pickup for obvious reasons.)

  Lars-Erik understood the possible consequences of our inattention. He went along to hold the kid upright. I turned and went back into The Car—

  About ten minutes later it happened.

  * * *

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  Bubbles was dancing—by now there were only two girls on

  stage—and she smiled at me. Bubbles, given an opportunity,

  always smiled at me, so I waved or nodded and I turned my

  back on her. You see, I didn’t want to encourage her infatuation.

  She had been reasonable since the fire-escape incident. I thought

  she was over it.

  And—I ’ll never know now—perhaps she was.

  Maybe once after that I glanced back at the stage. Bubbles

  was squatting, hunkered down like a bushman, that same, vacant smile on her face. I thought it seemed phony then. It was stiff—the way, when you ask a child to smile for your camera,

  this synthetic, tooth-bared rictus takes over.

  The next thing I know, Connie is yelling, “ Hey, no floor

  shows! No floor shows!”

  Bubbles was lying on her stomach, her big, shiny behind in

  the air. And this old geezer was swaying over her, shoving bills

  in her G-string—where it hid between her buttocks. I wrenched

  around on my barstool and went over to the stage.

  “ I ’m tipping her,” he said.

  “ Get up, Bubbles,” I said. And then I saw her eye. It was

  frozen. It looked like an artificial thing—such as you might pluck

  from the head of a Teddy bear. “ Get up,” I said. And this guy

  is still sticking dollar biffs up her ass. I pushed him. He almost

  fell. I said, “ Stop tipping her, dammit, she’s dead.”

  But Bubbles wasn’t—not yet. Her body convulsed. Her legs

  kicked out so abruptly both her shoes came off. There was a

  tick of pulse in her neck. “ Out of here!” I yelled. “ Everyone

  out of here now! Connie, call 911!”

  I flipped Bubbles over and her large breasts wobbled. Then I

  put my mouth to hers—oh, how she had wanted that, my kiss—

  and I started doing CPR. She convulsed once again, her head

  came up and her teeth bit the inside of my lip. But, when she

  fell back this time it was with a certain finality. I banged at her

  chest, knocking to find the source of her life and waken it. But

  there was nothing. It must’ve been a massive overdose.

  When I looked up again the joint was empty. Just Connie and

  Jako. I sent Connie to get Bubbles’s coat. And then, with Jako

  beside me, stealthily, quickly, I gave Bubbles the last rites of my

  church. Who knows what her soul made of them as it wandered

  free. The EMS men interrupted me, in any case. I didn’t tell

  them I was a priest.

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  Lord God, a child with a great and open spirit has come to

  you tonight. Book her into a better place than this. Let her get

  a crush on you. She’ll make you smile.

  I don’t know if Leonard gave her the drug—I don’t care, in

  fact—but he’s finished at The Car.

  TUESDAY, JULY 12

  About 6 p.m.

  Full of sadness and regret this afternoon. Her heart was as big

  as Long Island Sound. And I disdained her love.

  Then—ar
ound 3:30—1 got a visit from two narcotics cops.

  And I handled it—I don’t know—clumsily. I was taken off balance. I sounded defensive and guilty. All they wanted from me was a witness deposition covering the circumstances of Bubbles’s death. But I talked too much, I ’m sure of it.

  Most of what they asked was routine enough. Then, the taller

  one—I forget his name, he hadn’t spoken much—said: “ How

  long’ve you been aware of drug use in The Car?”

  I kind of jumped. I said: “ I ’ve seen no evidence of drug use.

  I ’ve only been here two w eeks.”

  “ Cherry Watson’s bag contained several hundred pills—most

  of them controlled substances.”

  “ But she wasn’t dealing, ’ ’ I said. ‘ ‘Those were her own pills.

  She got them out in Brooklyn. She lived in a ghetto neighborhood. ’ ’

  “ Mr. W ilson,” said the tall cop. “ You just told us there was

  no evidence of drug use here. Now you say you were aware that

  Cherry Watson used narcotics.”

  I got confused. For one shaky half second I almost said, “ I

  mean, I didn’t know until Bubbles O .D .’d .” But then I realized—aha—I ’d already said Bubbles had told me where the pills came from. Which Bubbles couldn’t have done after she O.D. ’d.

  I was GUILTY and defensive under scrutiny. Why was I

  guilty?—because of Leonard. Because I knew (and I think they

  knew) what Leonard has been doing at The Car. But it looked

  like I, the boss, was covering up for myself.

  I finally fudged it by saying, “ When you mentioned drugs I

  thought you were referring to cocaine or heroin. I didn’t make

  an immediate connection with, you know, pills and that sort of

  thing. And I never saw Bubbles—Ms. Watson—use them .”

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  “ You thought she was a dealer, not a user.”

  “ I didn’t say that—” This cop is good. He had me on the

  defensive—and then he just smiled and shook my hand.

  “ Joe Solomon says you’re a good guy,” he told me. I felt so

  relieved I almost squealed on Leonard. I must never commit a

  crime: I ’m no good at it. “ But,” he said, “ I think you’ll be

  seeing us again.”

  She-eet.

  Otherwise, a donkey-work afternoon. Jako and I had to

  pull down all the decorations (and store them neatly for next

  year—Pearl, we are instructed, is superstitious about her

  birthday paraphernalia). Not that Pearl herself was on duty

  this afternoon—no, she came down with a convenient indisposition. (Jako told me that, in fact, it wasn’t an illness at all: Pearl apparently got so squiffed last night she, um, lost

  her wig. And was doing a Garbo until she could find it. Fine

  with me.) But it meant I had to bartend and act as the curator

  of Pearl’s memorabilia at the same time.

  Worse: in sweeping under the cigarette machine we found

  (Jako found) a veritable lake of vomit. Congealed like week-old

  New England clam chowder. And just beginning to smell like

  Eau de Wino. So we had to move the machine. And while we’re

  doing this I hear “ Earrrghhaaaowww,” the unmistakable sound

  of a puking cat. RIGHT ON STAGE. This did not please the

  Brazilian dancer—Graciela—who hates whatever the word for

  cat is in Portuguese.

  She won’t dance on the “ feelthy stage.” I run over with my

  all-purpose vomit rag, sweet-talking and being reasonable, saying, “ Hey, it’s not vomit, it’s just a hairball.” (Which is much, much nicer than vomit, as we all know.) And what do I see—I

  SEE WORMS. White, spaghetti things stretching and coiling

  on the dance floor. Lazarus has a case of worms. And I gotta

  scoop them up before Graciela catches on and screams until she

  has a varicose face.

  Ugggh. I like cats. I really do. But this is not MY cat. Do I

  really have to chase him around the bar twice a day and give

  him Hartz instant wormer? Is this what the topless business is

  about? Where is the magic, where is the romance . . . ?

  Berry just called. She’s agreed to be an extra dancer from 7

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  to 12. Berry also agreed to signal if she thinks Leonard is dealing coke in the kitchen.

  This may be my last entry.

  6 a.m.

  It’s done. I fired Leonard and I ’m still alive. So far. And, baby,

  I will not need a laxative tonight.

  Our plan was . . . I mean, Berry’s plan was . . . (She’s street

  sharp, she impresses me. I wouldn’t have thought it out as clearly.

  And she loves me, I can see it in her eyes: what a pleasure, when

  usually all I see in women now is defiance or fear or mockery

  or just a big VACANCY sign.) What Berry said was:

  “ You wanna catch Leonard dealing, but you don’t wanna

  catch him dealing with a regular customer: Or a girl. ’’ She had

  someone in mind. This guy, she spent a set with him at another

  topless joint, The Purple Plum. Apparently he offered her coke

  for a blowjob. Told her he copped from Leonard at The Car. On

  Tuesdays. Berry said she would signal when the guy went back

  to our kitchen. By putting her policeman’s hat on. (Berry often

  uses a cop’s uniform in her dance: fake shoulder holster over

  one naked breast. Sexy.)

  So I waited. And I waited. Ten o ’clock, eleven o ’clock. I

  can’t go up to her because we make a point of showing no

  affection, not even eye contact, in The Car. (Still, everyone

  seems to know—Berry might as well sit in my lap.) So I waited,

  and sweated and rehearsed all sorts of confrontation scenes.

  Finally the hat went on. I had been in the john. Without

  reflection, I was so keyed up, I took off for the kitchen. And,

  sure enough, there was Leonard with an enormous mason ja r

  full of cocaine. A young, very small Latino kid was with him,

  leaning over the table with a straw in his nose. (I hadn’t seen

  him go back. And I was grateful to Berry—what I needed right

  then was a very small adversary.)

  “ You,” I said to the kid, “ get out or I ’m calling the cops.”

  He didn’t even finish his snort. He was all sneaker juice and

  gone.

  “ What the fuck is this?” said Leonard.

  “ This is your last day here, this is your last minute here.

  You’re fired, Leonard.” I almost went for the jar—but the stuff

  is expensive, and I didn’t want Leonard to go berserk on me.

  “ Hey, M ike,” he said. “ Take it easy. I know you’re upset. I

  liked Bubbles, too. But I didn’t sell her nothin’. Cocaine wasn’t

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  her thing. You know that, you were banging her. Jesus. She was

  a pill freak. I don’t front pills here.”

  “ Leonard,” I said. “ Let us not engage in small talk. Take

  that jar of shit and get out. You aren’t welcome here any more—

  not as an employee, not as a customer.”

  “ There are things you don’t know, Mike. Take my word for

  it. There. Are. Things. You. Don’t. Know.”

  “ Not interested in knowing, either. Get out, Leonard, before

  I call the narc cops who visited me this afternoon. ”

  “ Them? Don�
�t worry about them, Mike. I got that covered.

  They’re not the ones you haveta be worried about. You saw what

  happened to Rita, didn’t you?”

  “ You scare me, Leonard. You scare me a lot. But you’re still

  out. Now, damn it. ”

  “ Mike—you don’t know. I own 10% of this place. Tony sold

  me 10%— ask Ethel. You can’t kick me out.”

  “ You may be telling the truth—if so, you are now an absentee

  owner. Good-bye, Leonard. Walk through that door and keep

  on walking.”

  “ You are the biggest asshole in the world, Mike. You just

  signed your own death warrant. ’ ’

  “ Good. I ’d rather be dead than smell your stinking breath

  again.”

  “ Come on,” Leonard said. “ You want it. Come on. You

  want me t’kick the shit out of you, right? Right? You like it,

  don’t you?”

  “ Get out, Leonard.”

  “ You think y ’can take me, Mike?” It was getting nowhere, so

  I went toward die pay phone—yes, I pulled a quarter out, showed

  it to Leonard and headed for the phone.

  And, as my father used to say, Leonard went bonkers. He

  barreled out of the kitchen and along the bar, knocking botdes

  off as he went. (He had the cocaine jar inside a paper bag in his

  left hand—this restrained the mayhem a bit.) Down to the end of

  the bar. Then back, this time while swatting at each customer’s

  drink. He flicked a full Tom Collins into Matt’s lap.

  Then back toward me like a rhino. And (thank God) past me.

  And toward the door. But before his exit—which, believe me, had

  everyone’s attention—he stopped. Then Leonard pointed up at

  Berry, who looked extra-nude on stage, and yelled:

  “ You’ll wake up some morning with a tire iron for a tampon,

  cunt.”

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  And he was gone.

  I give Berry enormous credit. She didn’t flinch. She just

  picked up her dance where she had left off. Connie, on the other

  hand, had gone white as feta cheese. She came over to me. My

  eye was averted—I was trying to clean up the mess and give

  everyone a refill—as Connie leaned down and asked,

  “ You fired him?”

  “ Yes,” I said.

  “ My G od,” she said. “ Don’t leave here alone tonight. Promise me you won’t leave here alone.”