Last Call Lounge

by Stuart Spears

  “Slow for a Saturday night,” Ruby said.

  “I guess everyone else had the sense to leave town,” I said.

  The waitress rolled up to our table. She was a heavy-set black woman in her fifties. Ruby ordered gumbo, I ordered a poboy. The waitress put the notebook in her apron and gave Ruby a searching look.

  “You two came in here a long time ago, just when you had gotten engaged,” she said, wagging her finger at the memory.

  “Wow,” Ruby said. “You remember that?”

  The waitress smiled at her powers of recollection. “Oh, I remember lots of things,” she said. “So you two get married?”

  I looked across the table at Ruby, at those green eyes, and for a moment I could imagine that we had, that we were sitting down to dinner as a couple, celebrating our anniversary maybe. I looked at Ruby and smiled.

  “Yes,” Ruby said before I could answer. “It will be six years next month.” Ruby rolled her eyes at me, just a little.

  “Well, that’s great,” the waitress said. “That’s just wonderful.” She rolled back into the kitchen. Her excited voice joined the sounds of pots and pans and water running as the kitchen door opened and closed. Ruby shook her head at me.

  “Are we gonna start that game again?” I asked, smiling down at my hands. “Why not, I guess. I was always better at pretending to be married than actually being married.”

  “You were good at faking commitment,” Ruby said.

  The waitress returned, carrying a large tray.

  “Y’all like oysters?” she asked. We both nodded and she set down a dozen oysters, shimmering in their shells in a bed of crushed ice. “These are on the house. You know, oysters can help fire up the romance in a six-year-old marriage,” she said, giving me a wink and a slap on the shoulder as she walked away.

  Ruby peeled open a package of crackers and forked an oyster onto it. Horseradish and cocktail sauce and lemon and Tabasco. Oysters are as much about the ritual as they are about the meat.

  “How was San Francisco?” I asked, prepping my own oyster.

  Ruby thought for a moment, her hand poised, holding the cracker.

  “Well,” she said. “If you’re asking me about the city, I’ll tell you. If you’re asking me about my life there, I’d rather not talk about it yet.”

  “Okay, tell me about the city, then,” I said.

  She chewed the oyster thoughtfully.

  “It’s beautiful, of course,” she said. This was one of her personas. Professorial and pedantic, with a posture like a TV journalist. “That’s obvious. What it has that Houston doesn’t have is hidden corners, nooks and alleys and tunnels. You could live in a neighborhood for years and, one day, you turn a corner, and there’s a shop you’ve never seen before in a building you swear wasn’t there. Or stairs that lead down somewhere that you’ll never go.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “There’s no hiding in Houston.”

  “Do you know that it’s one of the things I missed about Houston?” she said, picking up another cracker.

  “The sprawl?”

  “I don’t know. The openness of it, I guess. Everything is kind of on the surface here. The houses, the buildings. You can see them all from the street, even the big ones owned by Saudi princes and oil men. I got lost a lot in San Francisco. Not lost. I’d be on a street I’d never been on before and, if I thought about it too much, I couldn’t remember who I was. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  She looked off for a moment.

  “I missed it here,” she said. Something like electricity, like life, shot through me as I felt her leg graze mine.

  The waitress came back with our food. She gave me a small smile as she set down the plates. Ruby watched her walk away. Her leg wasn’t touching mine now, but I could feel where it had been, like a sunburn.

  “If you could start over, Little John,” Ruby asked, laying her napkin in her lap, “what would you change?”

  I shook Tabasco onto my poboy and thought for a moment. I had to look away, look at the floor, to concentrate. I knew this was a test. Ruby wanted a real answer from me. I fought down the desire to look at her, at her long hands.

  “That’s tough,” I said finally. “I’ve screwed up lots of things.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t been a great dad for Jacob. I screwed up my relationship with Sarah, and right now that means my relationship with him is screwed up, too.”

  “Can you fix it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think Sarah and I can get anywhere. We just fight. I can’t seem to make it right, and that makes it hard for me and him.”

  Ruby nodded. We finished our dinner in silence, not looking at each other, but not avoiding each other, either. I couldn’t have avoided her if I wanted to. Ruby filled the room. It felt like her warmth and her flesh were everywhere.

  The waitress turned on the stereo and Sam Cooke came on, singing “We’re Having a Party.” Sam Cooke, who would later be shot outside a hooker’s motel room, singing about parties and popcorn and Coca-Cola, wholesome parties where couples held each other and danced to the radio while strings of lights swayed in the breeze.

  I finished my sandwich and leaned back and watched Ruby eat. Her green eyes were focused off somewhere and she seemed to be listening to the music. The she looked up at me and gave me a vague, easy smile, and I tried hard not to feel what I was feeling.

  I got two Abita beers from the waitress and Ruby and I moved out the side door to the patio. It was a small wooden deck stuck on the side of the building and it was empty. Christmas lights were wrapped around the crooked railings. Picnic tables leaned here and there. Two speakers hung from the awning of the roof and Sam Cooke sang “Bring It On Home to Me,” his voice drifting out across the street. Ruby and I sat on a picnic table. I handed her her beer and pulled out my cigarettes. She leaned back while she smoked. Her blouse. Her long neck. I put my elbows on my knees and looked at my feet.

  “I’d love to meet him,” she said after a few minutes. “Jacob, I mean.” Ruby’s burgundy lips turned up in a tight smile and she flicked her cigarette with her thumb. My heart thumped.

  “I’m having lunch with him tomorrow. And his mother,” I said. “Come with me.”

  “She won’t mind, his mother? I’d hate to intrude.”

  “She won’t mind,” I said. “In all honesty, she’ll probably be relieved to have someone besides me to talk to.”

  “I would love to meet your Jacob,” she said. “If you’re sure it’s kosher with the ex.”

  “Absolutely,” I said. We made the arrangements. We’d meet at the bar in the morning and drive out together.

  The patio door opened and the waitress came out into our darkness, carrying a tray.

  “Excuse me,” she said. On the table next to Ruby she set down a plate with a piece of pecan pie with a candle in it. “The cook wanted me to give you this. It’s a little early anniversary present,” she said. She put down two napkins and one fork. “I’ll leave y’all alone.” She went back inside and closed the door. Ruby smiled at me. I held her eyes for as long as I could, then she turned and blew out the candle.

  “Things could have been very different,” I said. I took a chance and let my hand drop on top of hers. She took it and turned to look at me.

  “John,” she said.

  “It’s nice to imagine,” I said and leaned forward to kiss her. She held back for a moment, then raised her hand to my neck. She broke the kiss, leaned back and looked up at me, her eyes green and huge and so close. There was something almost like fear in her expression, fear and longing.

  “Can we just imagine for a while?” I asked. Her eyes went dark but then she turned and stretched to kiss me again.

  We drove back to the bar in silence. Warm night air poured in through the open windows. I didn’t bother to turn on the air conditioner. Ruby smoked and looked out the window. I pulled into the
parking lot, next to her little Toyota. She didn’t turn to me.

  “It’s just pretend, Ruby,” I said. I wanted her, wanted to consume her, but I didn’t want to be trapped, to be hurt.

  “I know,” she said.

  “I just want to make sure you know.”

  “I do,” she said.

  She took in a deep breath and held it. I fished a cigarette out of my pack, my hands shaking a little. I lit it, concentrated on the smoke filling my lungs.

  “I had a really nice night,” she said at last. She leaned across the seat and kissed me again. The sweet, misty fruit of her perfume filled me. She leaned back and held my hand in both of hers. She looked at me, her eyes dark and still, then she opened the door and slid out. She turned and leaned in the open window.

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” she said.

  She turned and walked away. I watched her climb into her car and sit in the darkness for a moment before turning the ignition and driving away. I knew there was pain coming for me. There had to be. At that moment, I absolutely knew it and absolutely did not care.

  ELEVEN

  Tim Cole was at the bar, drinking a beer and a shot. He turned away when I walked in. Tracy was behind the bar. Her hair was pulled back in a loose pony tail, wisps fell across her cheek as she made drinks. Mitchell was behind the bar, too, holding a clipboard. It was slow and he was starting the night’s inventory. He gave me a cursory wave and went back to the storeroom. A hipster couple shot pool, swaying a little between shots, drunk and silent. Frank was sitting at the door, checking ID’s. The music and the lights inside were loud and jarring after the darkness of the parking lot. I sat down next to Frank and let my eyes adjust. The thought of Worm, the worry about my house, crept in again, but I pushed it down. I wasn’t ready, not yet, to move back into that world.

  “I just blew a keg and Mitchell’s in the back,” Tracy said, leaning over the bar. The full kegs were too heavy for Tracy to change by herself.

  “I’ll change it,” Frank said, standing up.

  “You sure?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said. “Mitchell showed me how to do it.”

  Tracy told him which beer she needed and he practically skipped down the length of the bar, happy to be of help. She started to turn away.

  “Listen,” I said. She turned back, pivoting on one toe and raising the other a little. “About the other night. And Ruby.”

  “Little John,” Tracy said, leaning her elbows on the bar and cupping her chin in her hands. “Do you know how many times you have called me in the six months that we have been messing around?”

  “Tracy,” I said.

  “None,” she said. I frowned and scratched my cheek. She smiled. “I always understood what we were doing.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” I said and she laughed.

  “Are you listening to anything I’m saying?” she asked. “You didn’t hurt my feelings. Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “Okay,” I said, smiling now.

  “Mitchell told me all about Ruby,” Tracy said.

  “Oh,” was all I could think to say.

  She leaned back against the beer cooler, tilted her head to look at me.

  “Do you wonder at all why she came back, John?” Tracy asked.

  I bit my thumb. “I don’t know,” I said. “It had been a long time. Maybe she just thought it had been long enough.”

  “In my experience,” Tracy said, “ex-girlfriends don’t just show up. Plus, who comes to Houston during a hurricane?”

  My stomach tightened. Tracy raised her shot glass in a toast.

  “To tough love,” she said.

  I clinked my glass to hers. She downed her whiskey and I took a sip from mine. I looked at her, looked at her eyes, and for a moment she looked tired.

  “Tracy,” I said and her eyes flashed and the weariness was gone.

  “Shut up and drink your drink, Little John,” she said. Then she turned to Frank, who was hefting the new keg into the cooler. I lit a cigarette and watched the muscles of her perfect back as she helped him twist it into place.

  I moved a few stools down to sit next to Tim Cole. He smiled at me, a hesitant smile with squinting eyes. He was bent over his pint, both hands were curled on the edge of the bar.

  “Doing all right, Tim?” I asked, settling into the stool.

  “Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, nodding with his neck. “Oh, yeah.” Tim was drunk, but he was calm. His hands stayed still on the bar. His eyes stayed on his glass and his cigarettes were nowhere to be seen.

  Tracy was at the credit card machine, adjusting her tips. She leaned back and over her shoulder to tell Frank something, something that made him laugh. A shift behind the bar together builds an easy camaraderie. Frank said something back and Tracy playfully threw a towel at him. Frank came back up to the front.

  “Stay back there,” I said. “Help Tracy. I’ll watch the door.”

  “You sure?’ he asked.

  “Sure,” I said. Frank looked pleased and bounded back behind the bar. I lit a cigarette.

  The door flung open and Oscar came in. His face was tight and his eyes were flat and black. He had a cigarette clenched in his teeth. He gave me a nod and sat at the bar a few stools away. Tracy moved down to get his order. Oscar barked something at her. I couldn’t hear what he said, but by the expression on her face I could tell that Tracy didn’t care for it. She put a draft beer in front of him and walked away.

  Tracy walked over to Frank and said something to him. He looked up, looked at Oscar. He swallowed hard, then wiped his hands on a bar towel and came around to stand next to me.

  “Sorry, can you show me where the extra bar towels are?” he asked. I looked down at the towel in his hands, then back up at him.

  “They’re in the storeroom,” I said. “Mitchell can show you.”

  “He’s busy,” Frank said. “Besides, I don’t think he likes me very much. I don’t want to bug him.” He gave me a long, tight look and hurried behind the bar. I got up and followed.

  “Pancho’s gone, Pancho’s gone,” Tim Cole said as I passed.

  Frank stopped at the bar gate, his back to the front door. He wanted to look over his shoulder but didn’t.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “That guy,” he whispered. “Oscar. I know where I know him from.” Tracy was watching us, gaging if I needed her. I shook my head, just slightly, and she went back to making drinks.

  “Oh, yeah? Where’s that?”

  “I saw Worm with him a couple of times,” Frank said. His voice was thin and pushed. My cheeks got warm and now I resisted the urge to look at Oscar.

  “You think he buys coke from Worm?” I asked.

  “I think he sells it to him,” Frank said. Anger and fear mixed in my throat. My chin itched and I could feel sweat drip under my arms. The bar felt unusually loud and bright. I scratched at my cheek. Frank was watching me.

  “Did he recognize you?”

  “No,” Frank said. “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” I said, although I didn’t know how. “You help Tracy.” Frank turned to the sink, to the pile of glasses that had built up on the bar while he was at the door. “And thanks,” I said.

  He looked up and grinned, a lopsided grin under his lopsided nose. I lit a cigarette and walked out from behind the bar.

  I was thinking about Dad’s technique for throwing a guy out as I walked to the front door and stood behind Oscar’s stool. I stood close, not crowding him, but close enough that he’d know I was there. I put my hand on his shoulder. He turned in his chair and smiled, but it was an empty, black smile.

  “What’s up, John?” He pushed the cuffs of his sleeves up, a little further up, revealing more tattoos. On the inside of his right arm was a twisting double-L in an elaborate Gothic script. A shot of adrenaline ran through me. I looked up and looked him in the eye.

  “You a Latin Lord?” I asked. The Latin Lords were a pr
ison gang, a group that was always ending up on the news, busted for something or suspected of something. Oscar looked down at his arm and nodded thoughtfully.

  “That’s a pretty old tattoo,” he said. “How’d you recognize that?” he asked. “You been in prison?”

  “Not long enough to get a tattoo,” I said.

  He looked at my eyes, my hair, the way a thousand people had in my life.

  “You Mexican?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “But you got some Mexican in you.” It was a question I’d been asked forever. My stock answer came out of my mouth before I gave it much thought.

  “Just what I had for lunch,” I said.

  He laughed and took a sip of his beer.

  “If you’re Mexican and in prison, it ain’t a bad idea to be a Latin Lord.”

  “It’s a better idea to stay out of prison,” I said.

  He laughed again, but his eyes were taking me in, measuring me.

  “Fair enough,” he said.

  I could feel my pulse in my eyelids. I took a deep drag of my cigarette and held it in.

  “Can I ask, Oscar?” I said. “Are you looking for something in here?”

  He tucked in his bottom lip and looked at me with dark eyes. He shifted his weight and put one foot on the floor.

  “I told ya,” he said. “I just like this place.”

  “I don’t want any of this in here,” I said, picking my words. It occurred to me to hide the fact that I knew anything about the money. “This is my business – it’s everything I have. I can’t have dealing going on in here.”

  Oscar’s face turned dark. He moved slightly in his stool and looked down along the bar to where Frank was standing.

  “What that boy tell you?” he asked without turning to me.

  “It wasn’t him,” I said. My hands were sweaty and shaking, so I tucked my thumb into my pocket and took a drag off my cigarette. “I figured some things out.” Oscar didn’t turn – he was studying Frank, squinting at him through the bar smoke. “Look,” I said. “What you do doesn’t bother me. I just can’t have drug dealing going on in my bar. They could take away my liquor license.”