A youngish blond guy with glasses and a white shirt was working behind the bar. “We’ll be serving dinner in about half an hour,” he said.
“Fine. I’ll wait.”
“You can sit at the bar, or the hostess will be here in a moment and seat you.”
“Fine,” I said, noncommittally.
A couple of businessmen were sitting at the bar having drinks, munching peanuts. I noted several ashtrays cradling Embers matchbooks like those I’d found in the dark blue Buick.
I sat at a small round table near the big brick fireplace; a fire was going, and the warmth was all right with me. The afternoon had grown colder.
On the hearth was an aquarium, about two feet tall and four-and-a-half feet wide. In the tank swam a fish, silver, and a foot and a half long. He had a very sour expression. He would glide slowly to one end of his tank, make a swishing turn and glide to the other end of the tank, make a swishing turn and you get the idea. I supposed his life was no more meaningless than anybody else’s.
“He’s from the Amazon River,” somebody said.
I looked up. It was the blond bartender; he’d come over out of boredom or to take my order or something. He was perhaps twenty-five years old. The fish tank’s lights reflected in his glasses.
“Amazon River, huh,” I said.
“Notice the little goldfish down toward the bottom of the tank? They’re his supper.”
This fish tank sort of summed up everything anybody needed to know about life.
“I guess that makes him King Shit,” I said.
“Guess so,” the bartender said. “Till we come in some morning and he’s belly up. Can I get you anything?”
“Well, it won’t be fish.”
“I mean, from the bar. We aren’t serving dinner…”
“Till five, right. Just a Coke. Diet, with a twist of lemon.”
He nodded and went briskly back behind the bar. I got up and went and took the glass of Coke from him, to save him another trip. I sat two stools down from the businessmen and sipped my soda and said to the bartender, “This place been here a while?”
“Thirty-five years,” he said. “Original owners are still associated with the place.”
“Associated with it? You mean they don’t own it anymore?”
“No. They just manage it. Some flood damage a few years ago hit ’em hard, and a local businessman bought ’em out.” He made a clicking sound in his cheek and shook his head.
“Something wrong?”
“Well, I don’t know what’s going to happen now.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not from around here, obviously, but d’you see the papers today?”
“Sure.”
“That fella that was shot? Ja read about that?”
“I’m vaguely familiar with the story.”
“He owned this place.”
I fingered a book of matches in the ashtray. “No kidding. What sort of guy was he?”
“Okay,” he shrugged. “He wasn’t around all that much. This was just another investment, I’d guess. One of many.”
I lit a match, studied the flame.
“You want some cigarettes?” the bartender said.
I smiled, waved the match out. “No. I don’t smoke. It’s bad for you.”
“Here’s the hostess. She can seat you. We’ll be serving in about fifteen minutes.”
I turned and watched the hostess approach.
She was a very attractive blonde with dark blue eyes, in a light blue, wide white-belted turtleneck dress, menus tucked under her arm. She filled the dress out nicely, if not spectacularly, but what was most impressive was the white dazzling smile. That, and the fact that I knew her.
She recognized me immediately, too. “Why, Mr. Ryan. Hello again.”
I climbed off the bar stool. “How many jobs do you have, Ms. Jordan?”
“Make it Angela and I’ll make it Jack. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“And it’s two jobs. Fulltime at Best Buy, and weekends here. I’m a single, working parent.”
“How many kids?”
“Two. Both girls. One in second grade, another in sixth. Where would you like to sit? The upstairs dining room doesn’t open till six, but you can eat out here in the bar, by the fire, if you like, or.. ”
“Out where I can have a river view.”
“Fine.”
And I followed her through the dining room proper, past prints of riverboats and your occasional cigar store Indian, out onto a sort of sun porch, a glassed-in greenhouse-like area with plenty of plants and more rustic knicknacks.
I sat down and said, “Why don’t you join me for a few minutes? Nobody’s here yet.”
She smiled, glanced behind her. “I shouldn’t.”
“Have a seat. After all, the boss is dead.”
She tipped her head, viewed me through narrowed eyes. “How do you know that?”
“I read the papers. Sit down, please.”
“That wasn’t a very nice thing to say.”
“If the fella was a friend of yours, I apologize. I was just trying to get your attention.”
She smirked wryly. “Well, you got it.” And she sat across from me, on the edge of her chair, ready to get up at a moment’s notice, casting an occasional eye through the dining room into the bar area, watching for customers. A few wait- resses, in black skirts and white blouses, were milling around.
“Really, that was a thoughtless thing to say,” I said, and shook my head.
“That’s okay.” She leaned forward. “He was a sonof-a-bitch, anyway.”
I smiled. “Really?”
She raised a hand and squeezed the air, palm up. “Handsy. You know.”
“That’s illegal. Sexual harassment.”
“Tell me about it.”
“How’s your other boss in that department?”
“Lonny? He’s very sweet to me. We’re just friends.”
“You say that like maybe he wishes you were more.”
“Well…” She smiled a little, a modest smile, showing just a touch of dazzling white. “Maybe he does. Frankly, I got both these jobs because of who I am.”
“Who are you?”
“Maybe I should say who I was. This is embarrassing. I hardly know you.”
“I’m the guy who bought a car from you today.”
“And don’t think I don’t appreciate it. The commission will help pay Jenny’s orthodontics bill. Her father sure won’t.”
“No alimony? No child support?”
“He’s way behind. The courts are slow. What can I say? But I have him to thank for my two jobs, in a way. That’s what I started to say. Lonny Best is a good friend of Bob’s, my husband, ex-husband. I think he… Lonny always… well, a woman knows.”
“When one of her husband’s friends has the hots for her, you mean.”
She laughed shortly and shook her head. “Do you always say exactly what’s on your mind?”
“No. The world isn’t ready for that just yet.”
Her smile turned arch. “Is that right?”
“That’s right. So Lonny Best feels sorry for the sorry financial condition his pal Bob has put you in.”
“Something like that. We have something else in common, too.” She glanced out at the bar; no customers yet.
“What’s that?”
“Well… boy, this is a little much to get into. Why do you want to know this?”
“I like you.”
Wry little smirk. “Oh, yeah?”
“I bought a car from you, didn’t I?”
“You’re milkin’ that for all it’s worth, aren’t you?”
“Wringing it dry. But I like to get to know a woman, if I’m attracted to her.”
“You seem to say most of what’s on your mind.”
“What else do you and Lonny Best have in common? It’s not stamp collecting.”
“It’s not stamp collecting,” she admitted. “Lonny and Bob and I met… this sounds stupid. At a political rally.”
“A political rally.”
“Yes, I was there because this actor from a soap opera… this sounds really stupid… this actor was speaking. On behalf of the candidate. I just wanted to see this actor, get his autograph. I didn’t care two cents about politics either way.”
“When was this?”
“Roughly ten years ago. Anyway, I met Bob and was, well, attracted to him right off the bat; thought he was real interesting. He was kind of a… well, a man’s man. He’d been to Vietnam, he was in something called Air America, too.”