The women, predominantly office workers, were mostly young, with a sprinkling of forty- and even fifty-year-olds. Orientals with raven-black hair. Blacks, some with cornrows, a few with Afros, some with do’s. The whites were all blow-dried or moussed, but blonde, blonde, blonde.
Girls—women—in clusters, eyes searching for someone—a man? Clearly not focused on anyone in their immediate group.
Men in threes and fours with beer in hand. Glancing at the TV sets mounted high on the wall above either end of the bar, showing nonstop sports. Gestures told stories: last weekend’s golf game here, a tennis match there; what had gone on in court today; what I told the mayor just after he fired me.
A couple halfway around the bar are seated on bar stools as closely as possible without being on the other side of each other. They are involved in a mildly erotic dance without steps. Her knee is in his crotch. They nibble on each other’s lips. She gets up: to go to the ladies’ room? He doesn’t back off to give her room to leave. She has to squeeze past him. He doesn’t seem to mind; neither does she.
The piano player is fingering, “The Lady Is a Tramp.”
Tully’s eyes are attracted to and held by a woman who has just entered the pub. His immediate impression is that she doesn’t belong here. Not that there is anything specifically wrong with Murray’s Pub, but this lady is an alien element in a singles bar. She doesn’t need it. She could have just about any man she wanted. She certainly doesn’t need to go looking for companionship—or trouble—in a singles bar. Tully can’t take his eyes from her.
Pat Lennon is questioning herself. Why a singles bar? Why not home, for that matter?
The answer to both questions is Joe Cox. He, definitely, is the reason she has not returned to the very comfortable apartment the two maintain high above the city in the Lafayette Towers.
It wasn’t by any means the gushy sentiment of the “Show Boat” song, “Home without him ain’t no home for me.” It was more the lingering anger that still percolated through her, and the uneasiness at being alone tonight with the inescapable images of the faithless fun he must be having.
Thus, the singles bar.
She was chagrined even as she admitted it. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d been in a singles bar. And all of them had occurred in her college years. As a student at a Catholic all-girls-school, going to a singles bar then held out the forbidden-fruit aura of “sinfulness.” She and her classmates had behaved not much differently than most of the women at this bar tonight. The only saving grace was that she and her girlfriends had been much younger—and less experienced—than most of these women.
Before committing herself to the bar, Pat paused and looked the place over more carefully. From her vantage, she could see no man who looked particularly interesting. Lots of young bodies, lots of three-piece suits. Here and there a few cherubs complete with baby fat carrying themselves as if they were Cosmo’s ideal. One wearing a letter sweater looked as if he should be in the bleachers. Many were smoking. Fortunately, the pub had a more than adequate ventilation system; the smoke did not hang in the air. A young woman returned to her bar stool. From the ladies’ room? She had to squeeze by her companion. Neither of them seemed to mind. They turned to each other. They couldn’t have been closer. She planted her knee in his crotch. They nibbled on each other’s lips. The piano player was wrapping up, “The Lady Is a Tramp.”
Pat shrugged. Stay or leave; she could have flipped a coin. The determining consideration was the valet parking to which she had committed her car. It was expensive and would cost as much whether she left now or stayed for a drink. That thought plus her self-assurance that she could take care of herself tipped the scales.
As she moved toward a just-vacated bar stool, she encountered small knots of men who, for the most part, were reluctant to make room for her to pass. She knew why. It was touchy-feely time in the singles bar. In her most ladylike tone, she tried excusing herself. When that didn’t work, a well-aimed sharp elbow got results. By the time she reached the bar, she was no longer in the running for the Fellowship of Christians and Jews Award.
“What can I getcha, Miss?”
She was so angry she’d forgotten where she was. She focused on the questioner. Of course the bartender would want her drink order. Pat gave it a moment’s thought. She didn’t want anything potent. That, along with her foul mood, would have rendered the short ride home hazardous. “A gin-and-tonic, long on the tonic, short on the gin.”
Chris Murray smiled as he wiped the ever-present glass with the ever-present bar towel. “Y’re new in here, now, aren’tcha? Do ya work downtown, then?”
“Remember, long on the tonic, short on the gin.” Pat wanted a drink and some time to think things out. She didn’t need an invitation to an autobiography. Men! Why didn’t they just do their job? And this one an obvious leprechaun to boot!
Murray maintained his warm smile, raised one eyebrow, and went about fixing her drink. Long tonic, short gin.
Pat selected one lone peanut from the dish in front of her. She studied it, then carefully placed it in her mouth. She tried to hold a happy thought. The weather was nice, she had a good job, she was healthy, and maybe she’d take a swim in the pool tonight.
She became conscious of someone not only sitting down next to her, but pulling the bar stool too close.
“Hi there, doll. I haven’t seen you here before . . . and believe me, I wouldn’t have forgotten you!”
She turned her head just enough to see to whom the voice belonged. A young man, several years her junior, she guessed. She couldn’t establish eye contact because he was doing his best to peer down her comfortably low-cut summer dress. She returned her gaze straight ahead. “This is my first and perhaps last time here.”
“I don’t blame you, toots. This barn is a bit of a drag. Whaddya say we split? We could go to my pad. I’ve got a splashy place at the Riverview.”
Nice address; too bad they weren’t more selective about their tenants. She did not look at him, merely frowned. “Here’s a better idea: Why don’t you get lost?”
“Hey, toots, maybe you don’t know who I am.” His hand was on her arm. She recoiled as if stung.
“Beat it!” The voice was low, calm, authoritative, and packed a thinly veiled threat.
Both Pat and the young man turned to see the source. It was a black man in sunglasses. The sunglasses were looking at the young man.
Pat could not put her finger on it, but there was something about this man; something in his demeanor, his bearing, his carriage; something in his voice, the tone, the assumption of compliance, that she had never encountered before. At least she could not remember having done so.
“Who you talkin’ to?” It was blurted with more bravado than confidence.
“Beat it!” The command was repeated.
“Obviously you don’t know who you’re talking to. If you think for one minute that I’m going to—”
The black man shook his head almost imperceptibly, as if regretting what he was about to do.
“Wait,” the young man said, motioning with his hand. “There’s no need to get upset about any of this. There’s more than one fish in this ocean.” He slid off the stool. “I was just leaving anyway.” He almost stumbled as he beat a retreat, then made his way out.
Alonzo Tully moved the bar stool back to its previous position and seated himself. “Sorry about that, Miss. The yuppies aren’t usually that pushy.”
Pat was smiling almost in spite of herself. She had been about to clear the deck of that offensive young man. But she was grateful that this stranger had done it for her.
She turned her head toward him. A five o’clock shadow, close-cropped, gray-flecked hair, a Poitier profile, a manner of lightly clenching his teeth that made his facial muscles dance. No Rambo or Carl Weathers. But there was something—something that set him apart. Something that wanted him on your side in a fight.
“How did you know?”
He shrugged. “The look on his face. The look on your face. You were like a butterfly and he had a net. That’s what brought me over. Then, when he put his hand on you, your reaction told me you’d prefer it if he left. So, I invited him to leave.”
She continued to smile. “What would you have done?”
“If he hadn’t left? I would have been very disappointed.”
A sense of humor to boot. She was beginning to feel comfortable. She extended her hand. “Patricia Lennon, in your debt, sir.”
He took her hand in his. She had a good grip, worthy of note in such a feminine woman. “Patricia Lennon . . .”He was searching. “Lennon—Pat Lennon. Reporter, isn’t it? The News?”
“Uh-huh. And you?” He removed his sunglasses. Her response was one of dawning recognition. “I’ve seen you—or your picture. But . . . I’m sorry, I just can’t put an ident on it.”
“Tully. Alonzo Tully. I'm—”
“. . . a cop. Sure: Homicide. Yes, that’s it: Homicide. That’s where I’ve seen your picture. You catch the bad guys.” She shook her head in amusement. “I’m glad my yuppie didn’t hang around. I’m sure he would’ve hated disappointing you.”
They laughed easily together.
“Matter of fact,” Pat said thoughtfully, “You were just in the news. Saturday, wasn’t it? Some dope house. You . . . uh, shot . . . somebody.”
Lennon was all too conversant with the extraordinary violence of this city. It was part of her job. She reported it. She had interviewed any number of people who had shot or been shot by somebody. It happened all the time in this gun-crazy town. It was not improbable or even unusual for her to be speaking with someone who had killed somebody. What did give her pause was the abruptness of it all. One moment laughing and exchanging light conversation, the next moment running head-on into the ultimate fact of death.
Tully sipped his drink. There were a few moments of silence-awkward silence. Then, “It wasn’t drugs, although it was a drug house. We wanted the kid for questioning in a murder case. The only place we could find him, by our best information, was the drug pad.” He gazed out the huge window at the river with its deceptively slow-seeming swift current. “We just wanted to question him.”
Lennon began to call up the story. “He was the one who started shooting.”
“He got one of my men. Lucky he wasn’t hurt bad.”
“So, you had to—”
“I killed him.” There was the slightest catch in his voice.
Lennon perceived how deeply affected the man was. She wanted to offer solace, put an arm around his shoulders—something. But not here, not now. The wrong place, the wrong time. “Sorry.” It was a woefully weak word, but she meant it deeply. And she managed to communicate her sincerity.
Tully shrugged and replaced the steel curtain that concealed the inner man. “That’s okay. That’s my job. I’m a cop.”
Lennon caught the calculated change of pace. “Uh-huh. Like Joe Friday and ‘Dragnet.’“
“Right.”
“Speaking of Joe, what do I call you? Al?”
“That’s all right.”
“No . . . wait; I remember now: they call you Zoo, don’t they?”
“Some.”
“That’s it, then: Zoo. Cute.”
Tully could not abide the word cute, particularly in reference to a man. But for some reason, coming from her made it tolerable.
The tendency was to ask, “So how does it feel to kill somebody?”
That was consciously rejected by Lennon. Instead, she said, “So, Zoo, have you heard about the new Afro-French bar that opened near the Detroit Club?”
That was unexpected. He did not follow the shift in this conversation. And as familiar as he was with all that went on in this city, he was not aware of this new bar. If it was near the prestigious Detroit Club he surely should have known. Deeply puzzled, he shook his head.
“It’s called Chez What?“
It took a moment. Then, drumming his fist lightly on the bar, he broke into a low but appreciative laugh.
Chris Murray, thinking he was being summoned, materialized. “Can I get ya both another drink? I remember, Miss: long on the tonic, short on the gin.”
They looked at each other and mutually decided they’d had enough. Still laughing, they shook their heads.
Murray left them, pleased that both were feeling better about things. Sure and wasn’t it wondrous what companionship could do for people. He’d tried to explain that many a time to his pure and holy parish priest. But the good man simply couldn’t grasp it.
For Lennon, the mild racial joke had constituted a test. She wanted to see how far his sense of humor would stretch and whether he was comfortable enough with her to laugh even at a delicate and, for some, an explosive subject. If he passed—and he had, with flying colors—it would mean one less barrier between them.
Although she seldom did this, she found herself checking his ring finger. Nope. Of course, that didn’t tell much. Men were not as apt to wear a wedding ring.
Long ago, before he had disposed of the yuppie, Tully had noted that her ring finger was bare. Probably that meant she was unmarried. He would have guessed divorced, though he was open to whatever other possibility existed. She might be living with someone. She might be lesbian. But if he were down to his last dollar, he would bet against that.
And then he wondered why he was wondering. Alice was waiting for him at home. So why was he concerned about the sexual status of Pat Lennon? Rhetorical. He knew why. Alice was ill and had been for months. Despite his efforts at sublimation, he was getting horny. And he was with an extremely desirable woman. Not only was Pat Lennon invitingly attractive but he was enjoying himself just in conversation with her. All of this he had had with Al, but not for a long while now. So pervasive was Al’s depression that it permeated nearly their entire relationship. This evening was becoming the remedy and release he needed. And he needed it much more than he would have cared to admit.
Where was this relationship headed? Neither knew. Both felt satisfied with what was going on at this moment, and content to trust the future.
As the time passed, they moved from the bar to a table. Laurie, their waitress, served them decaf, then brought countless refills.
They talked of journalism and police business. How they had gotten into their respective fields, and events that had influenced their careers. Neither mentioned a marriage and divorce. Both almost completely forgot the persons with whom they lived. So, while their conversation was pleasant and informative and the repartee amusing, their relationship remained comparatively superficial.
As shadows lengthened and night approached, their conversation took on an awkwardness. What to do and where to go from here?
There was no point in migrating to another bar. They had munched on more than sufficient snack food to make dinner superfluous. There was no way Tully could invite Lennon to join him and Alice. Lennon, for her part, could easily have invited him to the apartment. Joe was otherwise occupied in Port Huron. But it was, for want of a better explanation, too soon. They’d met only hours ago. In itself, that would not have deterred Pat. But nothing they’d talked about came close to being described as personal. Was he married or not, living with someone or not? There wasn’t enough foundation to justify hopping into bed. But who knew what might develop?
They exchanged business cards bearing phone numbers. Neither added a home number. That told each of them something, something neither of them particularly liked.
After a brief discussion, they decided to split the tab. Because the bill was so small and they had lingered so long, they left Laurie a generous tip.
They left the pub together. Tully would see Lennon to the building entrance where the valet would retrieve her car.
During their final forty-five minutes in the pub they had been observed by a man neither of them had ever met. He sat by himself across the room from them until about two minutes before they left. Then the man was joined by a you
ng woman—blonde like most of the other women there.
He was young, tall, and well-built, with attractive features; deep blue eyes, a full head of jet black hair. He was not observing Tully and Lennon exclusively by any means. He was on the make in a singles bar.
His interest was not in them as a couple per se, but because one was black while the other was white. He found that reprehensible; potentially mongrelizing the human race. But he was not there to attract attention so he kept his disapproval to himself.
Actually, he could just as easily have gone to a gay bar. It didn’t make that much difference. But he’d read about this singles bar and decided to try it. For that matter, it wouldn’t make much difference if he didn’t score in this bar—although he was quite sure he would; he was that confident of his good looks.
After he’d finished silently excoriating the racially mixed couple, he’d turned his attention to a blonde whose girlfriends had gone, leaving her alone at the bar. The fact that she stayed said a lot to him. She it would be.
In due course, the blonde came over and slid in beside him. “Buy me a drink?”
“Sure.” There was plenty in petty cash. He and Brother Bernard alone had access to the money, and Bernard never touched a penny outside of buying necessities for the monastery.
He had come to the bar because he needed to reward himself, and eating a festive meal with those imbeciles just didn’t do it. With that crazy “miracle” this afternoon, things were heading rapidly toward a climax. Soon this charade would be over.
He could hardly wait.
Laurie brought their order. A martini “up” for him, a whiskey sour with a tiny umbrella in it for her.
“What’s your name, love?” he asked.
“Chesty Plenty.” She rubbed against him to drive home her point.
“Of course you are.”
“And you?”
He could have replied, John Reid or Brother Paul. However, “John Smith. But you can call me Joe.”
Eminence Page 14
