The Pariot GAme

by George V. Higgins

  “See?” the customer said to Riordan. “The fuckin’ asshole, he’d rather get mad at a guy that’s got a little temporary trouble’n sell booze to a guy that can probably pay for it, can’t you? Huh?”

  The bartender turned slowly away from the television and faced the customer. “Okay, numb-nuts,” he said, “that’s enough outta you. I told you and told you, and the boss was even gonna throw you out, permanent eighty-six, you didn’t stop doin’ this. Just because a new guy comes in here that don’t know you for the fuckin’ moochin’ bum you are, don’t mean we’re gonna stand still here and let you get away with it.”

  “The hell’re you yellin’ at me for, Patrick,” the customer said. “I didn’t do nothing. You didn’t do nothin’ either, which I’m not supposed to do and you are, on account of you being the bartender, shitbum.”

  “Just shut up for a while now, numb-nuts,” the bartender said. He came around the rear of the island and walked up the right-hand side to Riordan’s seat. “Didn’t see you,” he said. “Getcha drink?”

  “Yeah,” Riordan said. “Bally ale draft.”

  The bartender rinsed a beer glass, tipped it under the ale spigot, and began to draw the brew. “Hey, mister,” the customer said to Riordan, “you better watch that fuckhead there. Give ya all foam, you don’t watch him. Looks like somebody give you a fuckin’ glass Mrs. Murphy’s fuckin’ best laundry detergent, after she used it, you’re not careful with that prick.”

  The bartender clicked his tongue in his teeth and shook his head slightly as he finished drawing. He set the glass on the rubber mat to let it drain, then placed it on the bar in front of Riordan. “Fuckin’ guy,” he said, “you wouldn’t believe it. Quietest little shrimp in the world. Every night, rain or shine, gets through work the carbarn, gets in here by six or so, don’t say a word until he’s had at least seven, eight beers. Then you couldn’t shut up him if you hadda fuckin’ baseball bat. Wife. It’s his wife. He don’t go home till she’s in bed. He goes to work ‘fore she gets up. Kids’re all grown up, moved Dorchester. Weekends she goes see them, he stays home. During the week, she stays home, and he comes here. I’d do the same thing. Thirty-five cents.”

  Riordan took a crumpled five out of his left-hand pocket and handed it to the bartender. The bartender rang up, made change in the register and counted out bills and coins. “Hey mister,” the customer said to Riordan, “don’t let the cocksucker put it down onna counter now. Take it in your fuckin’ hand.” The bartender placed the bills and change in the puddle of ale that had seeped out under the rubber mat in front of Riordan. “See, I told you,” the customer said. “He always does that. Puts the money right inna fuckin’ beer. Pick it up and put it in your pocket, you walk outta here down street and you’ll look like you fuckin’ pissed your fuckin’ pants. He always does that. Figures you’ll either drink it or give it to him the tip.”

  “If he gets enough drinks, does he shut up?” Riordan said. “Pass out or something? Go home?”

  “He didn’t used to go home till eleven-thirty,” the bartender said. “Now, now it’s fuckin’ midnight. She always watched the late fuckin’ news, and went to bed. That Iran thing, when they start having that hostage thing on every night, we usually close eleven-thirty, you know? During the week. We got a one o’clock, but it’s all regulars. They come in after dinner, they have a few pops, by eleven-thirty they’re ready, go home. No customers, close up. His wife got all interested in that hostage thing. Up every night till midnight. Every fuckin’ night I have to keep open till midnight now, she finally goes to bed and he can go home. That’s what’s screwed up his drinking budget, that extra half-hour. I tell you, mac, you think the rest America is gonna be glad them fuckin’ hostages finally get out after all this time instead of that fuckin’ asshole Carter doin’ what he should’ve done right the beginning, give ’em a real Jew commando raid, ’stead of fuckin’ around all this time, I am gonna be the happiest fuckin’ bartender in Southie because that’s gonna mean that Clement’ll be able to go home again as soon as Johnny Carson comes on, and that means I’ll be able to go home and see some of Johnny Carson too, or maybe even the old fuckin’ movie, I don’t care.

  “Clement,” the bartender said, “Clement never passed out in his life, not that I saw or heard about. Drunk? Yeah, I guess Clement gets drunk, but once that fucker’s drunk, which he is every night of the week, he don’t get no drunker. It’s like he needs a certain amount, get his motor going, and then he just sits there and keeps the tank full all the rest the night until that fuckin’ goddamned woman finally goes to bed.”

  “Why don’t you throw him out, eleven-thirty, and just go ahead and close up?” Riordan said. “I’ll have another ale.”

  The bartender took the glass, inspected it, and began to refill it.

  “Hey, mister,” Clement said, “should’ve made him give you a clean glass. See those fuckin’ cheap bastards savin’ money on you again? Soapy water. They won’t even give a man a clean glass, they’re fuckin’ savin’ onna fuckin’ soapy water.”

  The bartender put the glass in front of Riordan on the mat, then on the bar at his seat. He gestured toward the money. “Okay to take this out?”

  “Sure,” Riordan said. “While you’re at it, take out one of whatever it is he’s drinking. But he drinks it down there. Not here.”

  The bartender grinned. “Narrie,” he said. “Okay.” He rang up thirty-five cents. “Do I tell him or do you?”

  “You tell him,” Riordan said. “I’m buyin’ the guy a fuckin’ beer. I don’t want no philosophy from him with it.”

  “Hey, numb-nuts,” the bartender said loudly, “man’s buyin’ you a round. Same thing, though. No Courvoisee-fuckin’-air for you on him, Clement. And you gotta stay the hell you are and keep your big fuckin’ mouth shut. He’s buyin’ a beer. He don’t want a fuckin’ friend for life.”

  “Hey,” Clement said, “thanks, mister. Decent of you.” The bartender poured the Narragansett and slid it faultlessly the length of the bar. It stopped in front of Clement. He drained his previous beer and began to relish the new one.

  “See?” the bartender said. “See what a little fuckin’ thing looks like fuckin’ heaven to you, when your own goddamned front door opens right straight into fuckin’ hell? Jesus, what a fuckin’ life that man’s had. Parents born two streets down, next door to each other. That cunt he married grew up four houses down. Never had no education, speak of. Knocks her up, quits school, goes to work, the carbarn, four kids. He’s doin’ the same fuckin’ thing now he’s doing when he’s twenty, except he sure ain’t banging her no more. Only one of those kids worth shit and he enlists in the fuckin’ army so he gets helicopter training and gets shot down over Vietnam. Christ. You wanna know something, we been lucky. I can’t go home because I gotta work, but if I could go fuckin’ home, I could go home, you know? I could do it. I wouldn’t have to sit around no bar. My daughter stays up and makes a little dinner, we watch TV, it’s all right. My wife’s dead, good woman, she had cancer the pancreas, you know? Terrible. Long time. But my daughter takes pretty good care me. She’s a good kid. Works over Filene’s, in the ladies’ luggage. Just got a promotion. I pity that Clement.”

  The street door opened and a small, wiry man came in. He was wearing a gray scalley cap. He glanced at Riordan from under the cap, turned left and headed directly to the table under the television pedestal at the rear. Riordan saw him sit down at the remaining chair on the outside. He could by then see a third man in the gloom under the television shelf. He leaned toward the man in the cap. Riordan could not hear what they were saying.

  “I didn’t see you around before,” the bartender said to Riordan. There was an edge to his voice.

  “No,” Riordan said. He finished the second ale and hunched his shoulders against his elbows, resting against the bar. With his right hand he felt the gun under his coat, and shifted it slightly to bring the butt farther forward. He nudged the empty glass toward the bartender. “F
ill ’er up, okay?”

  The bartender took the glass and began drawing ale. “You work around here?” the bartender said.

  “Sometimes,” Riordan said.

  The bartender drained the glass and placed it before Riordan. He took money and paused over the register. “You wanna send Clement another one?”

  “Christ, yes,” Riordan said. “Guy’s quiet now. Maybe he was happier when he was thirsty and loud. Poor bastard.”

  The bartender drew another Narragansett with his right hand while he shut the register drawer with his left. He slid the beer down the bar to where Clement sat hunched over the previous gift, staring into the corner under the television set where the four men were talking. Clement did not look up.

  “Whaddaya do?” the bartender said.

  “Various things,” Riordan said. “You know. Little of this, little of that. Whatever’s available at the time, man can make a living at it.”

  “Yeah,” the bartender said. “Sure, but I mean, like right now. What’re doing right now? Because I didn’t see you before.”

  “Drinkin’ ale,” Riordan said. “Never drank ale in here before is probably the reason, you didn’t see me.”

  “Yeah,” the bartender said. He straightened up. “Uh,” he said, “uh, look, all right? You seem like a pretty nice guy and everything. I, ah, we … this’s a pretty small neighborhood, you know? The people live down here, you know? Most of them, they always lived here. They all know each other, you know? And they, they had a lot of guys down here, the past few years. The busing thing, you know? And they didn’t like it. What happened to them. Shit, I mean even Clement hates fuckin’ niggers, and I bet Clement didn’t know ten niggers his whole life, and his kids’re all grown up except the one that’s dead. He hasn’t got no kids in school. And you couldn’t meet a nicer guy that didn’t want no trouble, you know? Than Clement. But even Clement hates them niggers, just from him living here and them coming in here, just from that. Kids. I bet he never even seen one of them nigger kids. Goes to work before they come in, he don’t get home, they’re gone. Even works, there’s a couple black guys inna plant where he works, the carbarn, and they been there for years, and Clement knows them and he gets along all right with them. He says that’s just Todd and Frank there, and they ain’t niggers. But he hates niggers, just the same. You see what I mean, right?”

  “I haven’t got anything to do with no busin’,” Riordan said. “Don’t worry about that.”

  “No,” the bartender said. He thought for a while. “Well, I mean, whaddaya do, then? ’Cause you don’t live around here, or I would’ve seen you.”

  The small man in the gray scalley cap stood up and glanced sharply across the bar at Riordan. Then he walked quickly down the aisle on the other side of the bar. When he reached the end, he stopped and stared briefly at Riordan. Riordan ignored him. The man went to the door, opened it and went out.

  “Well,” Riordan said, holding the glass off the counter, halfway to his mouth, “like I said, various things. Tonight for example, I am looking for a guy.”

  “Is he down here?” the bartender said. “Does he live down here?”

  “That’s what I heard,” Riordan said. “I’m not sure it’s true. That’s just what I heard.”

  “Does he come in here?” the bartender said.

  “I heard that,” Riordan said. He drained the glass. “Fill ’er up, huh?”

  The bartender began to fill the glass again. Riordan belched. “Jesus,” he said, “that stuff makes you all fulla gas. Smell like skunk piss. Probably fart polka dot tomorrow.” He belched again. “Love it, though.”

  The bartender put the drained glass in front of Riordan. “Well, shit,” he said, “the guy comes in here, maybe I can help you. I’m here every night. I’d know if he was in here.”

  Riordan shook his head, puffing his cheeks as he belched again. “No,” he said, when he had finished. “Personal matter.”

  “Personal matter,” the bartender said.

  “Yeah,” Riordan said. “You know how it is: personal matter. This is a guy that I want to see about a personal matter. Don’t want, embarrass him, spread his fuckin’ business all over town. How’d you like that, somebody wanted to see you, lookin’ for you on a personal matter, and the first thing he does is, he’s walkin’ around and havin’ beers in your own neighborhood, tellin’ people he wants to see you on this personal thing, huh? Howd’ya like that, huh? Wouldn’t.” He belched again. “Shit,” he said, “damned stuff. Didn’t drink enough of it, that’s why I’m having all this trouble.” He drank half of the fresh glass. “Ahh,” he said, putting the glass down, “better.” He rubbed his stomach. “You wouldn’t like it. You’d get mad, guy runnin’ around all over the place like that, tellin’ your private business, people.”

  “Well,” the bartender said, “you could tell me his name, couldn’t you? That wouldn’t do no harm. Couldn’t bother nobody. I might know the guy. I see him, he’s one the guys comes in here all the time, I could tell him, you wanna see him, have him call you up, meet you someplace. No harm in that.”

  Riordan sat straight on the stool and belched. He shook his head vigorously, puffing his cheeks. “Uh-uh,” he said, when he was finished, “I don’t think he’d do that. I don’t think I wanna depend on him to do that. I gotta take a piss. Goddammit, now I gotta take a piss. Draw me another one there, and leave this one.” He stood off the stool, barely wavering. “Where ’sa pisspot?”

  “Over there in back,” the bartender said, gesturing with his right thumb over his right shoulder. “Door right next the television. Behind it.”

  “Thanks,” Riordan said. He displayed some difficulty getting under way, and had to grip the bar for balance. He looked at the bartender, somewhat sheepishly. “Didn’t have no supper,” he said. “Oughta know better. Didn’t have no supper and now I got so much ale in me, I don’t want any.” He bumped the stools as he passed them.

  “Hey, Patrick,” one of the men yelled at the dark table, “you gonna spend all night over there fallin’ in love with that big drunk, or can we get another round here?” The bartender, watching Riordan lurch around the bar, knocking into one or two of the chairs at the table along the inside wall, refocused his gaze on the darkened table. He went around to the other side of the bar and began to draw Narragansetts.

  Riordan reached the darkened table as Patrick started drawing the third beer. “Hey,” he said into the darkness, grinning slightly and weaving a little, “one you guys call me big drunk?”

  “Yeah,” said the man in the dark in the corner. “Wanna make something out of it?”

  Riordan held up his hands and wove back half a step. “Nope, nope,” he said. He laughed. “Just asking. Man likes to know, who his friends are. Can’t argue with you. I’m sure big, and I guess I’m kind of drunk. Say, that Patrick there, he always this much talk? Guy talks more’n my wife.” He wiped his nostrils with the back of his left hand, and snuffled.

  “You’re not insulting Patrick, are ya?” the voice said. “Patrick’s a friend of ours.”

  “No, no,” Riordan said, “just asking.” He put his hands in his pockets. “Well, have to excuse myself, I guess. Excuuse me. You like that Steve Martin, huh? Funny guy.” None of the men said anything. “See him on television, alla time.” There was no reply. “Well, okay. Don’t want interfere your private party. Just tryin’, be friendly. Go take a piss.”

  Riordan nearly fell against the door and staggered into the narrow hall to the back room. There was a small room with no door. The walls to the left were flaked with green-painted plaster. There was a trough urinal to the left of the entrance, with rust stains on the inlet valve. There was a sink stained with dirty soap, dried on. The flush did not have a seat. There was a fresh pink deodorant cake in a wire basket on the inner side of the upper rim. The light was a sixty-watt bulb. Riordan stood before the flush and banged his shoulder on the wall to the right as he unzipped his pants. He began to urinate copiously and n
oisily. He could hear the men talking in low voices on the other side of the partition next to the urinal, but he could not hear what they were saying. When he had voided about half the contents of his bladder, he flushed the toilet. As the rushing water began, he exerted tension on his bladder sphincter and shut off the flow from there. When the flush started to quiet down, he relaxed his muscles, so that he resumed urinating. When he thought he had about a quarter of his ballast left, he repeated the procedure with the flush, and when that was ending, finished relieving himself. He forced a large belch. Then resuming his weaving, he left the toilet, opened the door to the bar, and stood on the threshold, fumbling with his fly and grinning to himself. He managed to close his pants, and stepped all the way into the bar.

  “Jayzuss,” the voice said in the corner darkness, “you’re a real pisser, aren’t you?” There was something in the tone that was supposed to pass for admiration.

  Riordan turned slightly and looked into the gloom. “I been some other places before here tonight,” he said. “Lookin’ for a fuckin’ guy, don’t seem to be around.”

  “You a cop?” the voice said.

  Riordan put on a drunk’s version of a crafty expression. “Cop?” he said. “Cop? Why, think it might help? Been chasing this guy all over hell and gone, past week’n a half. Can’t find him. Cop helps, I’ll be cop. Sure. I’m a cop.”

  “You really a cop?” the voice said.

  “Sort of, a cop,” Riordan said. “Yeah. Sort of a cop. That’s what I am. Rules. I go out and … the rules. That’s what.”