Blondie took a swig of her Scotch, looped her arm in mine, and said, “C’mon, lover, I’ll show you the way.” She took her drink with her. Apparently the trip to the juke was going to be thirsty work.
My tour guide smelled of too much Scotch and too much perfume — the cheap, cloying kind, like motel soap or lavender and lilac-laced potpourri. I wasn’t sure which was supposed to overwhelm the other. Didn’t matter, really; neither did the trick. The jukebox was at the back of the bar by the bathrooms and next to the cigarette machine. The bartender might’ve been an asshole, but he was an accurate one. There wasn’t a song on the box written by Lennon and McCartney or Jagger and Richards or Smokey Robinson. The Four Seasons was about as radical as the juke got. Mostly there was a lot of Sinatra and Tony Bennett. I was surprised to see some Nat King Cole and Johnny Mathis. I guess only blacks who sang for Motown counted as niggers in the barman’s philosophy. When I noticed there wasn’t any Neil Diamond or Simon and Garfunkel on the juke, I couldn’t help but wonder where Jews fit into his racial cosmology. Well, there were two Sammy Davis Jr. tunes. That was a victory of sorts, but it didn’t make me want to raise my fist in defiance and scream, “Power to the people.”
I handed Blondie some dimes and told her to play away. She loved it, and knew exactly what tunes she wanted to play and what numbers to press. Sinatra started singing about a summer wind, pretty loudly too.
Blondie spun me around. “C’mon, lover, let’s dance.”
So we danced, Blondie pressing herself tightly against me. Surprisingly, her touch didn’t seem very sexual. It was almost as if she was just happy for the closeness of another human being. That made it more comfortable for me, made it easier for me to return the embrace. Still, her hair kind of got in the way of full enjoyment. When she rested her head on my shoulder, the scratchy, stiff updo brushed against the skin of my cheek. While it didn’t draw blood, it came pretty close. Her hair was so saturated with hairspray that I would have been afraid to light a match within five feet of her. When Sinatra was done, so were we. I bowed to her and she blushed. When we returned to our seats, I decided it was time to see what I could learn from Blondie.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Angie.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Angie. I’m Moe.”
“Back at you.”
We shook hands.
“So, Angie, I’m curious.” When I said that, she sidled up closer to me. “How did this place get a name like Onion Street?”
She laughed and shook her head at the same time. “People are always asking that who drop in here.”
“And …?”
She stopped shaking her head, but kept a smile. “The rule is if you don’t know, no one who does is supposed to say.”
“The rule? I’ve never liked rules much. You don’t look like a woman who’s much for the rules yourself.”
“My, aren’t you a clever one? Nice try, but this is my local and you know how it is.”
“I suppose.”
I raised my beer to her. We polished off what remained of our drinks. I pointed to the bartender that we needed another round. Angie seemed quite pleased by this. I could tell, because her left hand was now halfway up my right thigh. The barman put the drinks up, and I fed him another five. He didn’t like me any more than the last time I ordered a drink. If possible, I think he liked me less. Funny how that worked. I was drinking, but he was the one getting nastier. Angie and I clinked glass to bottle, and sipped. I never figured out where I developed a liking for beer. Aaron says it was at his bar mitzvah when our Uncle Lenny gave me a whole bottle to drink. He told me it was grownup soda. What the hell did I know? I drank it. I think Aaron is still mad at me because I fell asleep during the reception.
“Okay, Angie, so you won’t tell me how this joint got its name. How about who owns it?”
She tilted the top of her piled-up hair at the bartender who was at the opposite end of the bar attending to the older loser. “George owns the place.”
“He always so friendly, or am I just catching him on a good day?”
“Clever and funny. I might just have to take you home.”
When I didn’t jump at that line, she said, “He isn’t really so bad. He’s an ex-cop. They kicked his ass off the force. He don’t like talking about it, so don’t go there with him.”
“Don’t worry about that, Angie. I don’t think I wanna go anywhere with George.”
“How about with me?” she wanted to know, sucking down her drink for a little shot of courage.
I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but I guess I knew it would. “Sorry, Angie. I got a serious girlfriend, and she’s in the hospital right now.”
“Oh, that’s terrible.”
I wasn’t exactly sure what Angie thought was terrible, that I wouldn’t sleep with her or that Mindy was in the hospital. She’d been nice so far, so I gave her the benefit of the doubt. “Thank you. She’s recovering, but slowly. That’s kind of why I’m here.”
“How’s that?” Even in those two little syllables, there was increased tension. She waved to George for another drink. He poured it for her and looked at me.
“No more for me, thanks.” I took out my last five and told him to keep the change. Didn’t seem to improve his opinion of me.
When he left, I took out a picture of Bobby Friedman that I’d thought to bring with me. The photo was a year or two old, and I’d had to cut myself out of it. If Angie looked closely enough, she’d see that the disembodied arm slung across Bobby’s shoulders was mine. I didn’t think she was in the necessary state of sobriety to notice my arm.
I pointed at Bobby’s face. “See this guy? The cops think he beat up my girl. Have you ever seen him in here?” So I lied to her, what else could I do? I couldn’t tell her who Bobby really was.
“No,” she answered too quickly, looking around to see if George was close by. “Listen, Moe, you seem like a nice — ”
“They also think this other big guy might have helped,” I said before she finished. “I’ve heard he comes in here.” I described Wallace Casey for her.
She took my hand and gave it a squeeze. “Moe, leave it alone. Finish your drink and go, please.”
“I thought you said George was okay.”
“This is a rough place, kid. You’re between the airport and the racetrack. The kinda people who come in here … Just take my advice and go.”
Kid, huh? She was trying hard to get rid of me. No one likes getting called kid just after they stopped being one. I meant to take her advice, but I had to get something for the fifteen bucks I’d spent in the place.
“Okay, Angie. Just tell me if you’ve seen the two guys I mentioned in here together. Answer that, and I’ll split.”
She nodded yes.
“More than once?”
She nodded some again.
To give her cover, I screamed, “Okay, be that way. You don’t wanna tell me why this place has such a stupid name, then the hell with ya.”
She winked as I stood. I left the bar, but on my way out I noticed a fly was banging against the front window. It kept banging into it as if the window might vanish if the fly hit it hard enough. If fly heaven was a garbage heap, I thought, fly hell must be an endless series of front windows. Good thing for me I knew how to use a front door, although I have to confess that for a good portion of the last week, I’d felt a lot like that fly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
When I got home, Miriam was the only one there. She told me that Mindy’s dad had called, and that there was a long note by the phone. My little sister, she was the best of us. I don’t know. Maybe because she was a girl or because she was younger, she seemed untouched by my parents’ craziness and failures. She refused to be negative about things, refused to see herself through the prism the rest of the Pragers viewed ourselves through. I just knew she would do good in the world someday.