Florek pointed the Plymouth out of town and over the Ohio line. After another half hour or so of driving he reached the township of Brookfield and went on into Masury, a small commercial block which was little more than a post office box. He parked on the street in front of the Clover Club, looked down the block. The Gray Wolf Tavern was down there among a couple of other businesses. Florek had heard about the Grey Wolf’s floor shows, but he had never seen one. The Clover Club would be closer to Lola’s style.
Florek got out of the car, walked in the front door. In the middle of the day, the Clover Club looked like any other shot-and-a-beer tavern he knew. A couple of guys, millworkers from the looks of them, drank boiler-makers at the bar, staring straight ahead. A solo drinker, a veteran whom Florek recognized but could not place, sat on the last stool nursing a mug of beer. Between the millworkers and the veteran were two large jars, one containing pickled pig’s feet, the other filled with hardboiled eggs swimming in the juice of beets. The new Louis Prima came from the radio mounted above the rows of call.
Florek had a seat away from the others. The thick-necked bartender came down, gave Florek a good going-over. Florek knew he looked young with his gangly wrists and undersized frame. But in Ohio, you only had to be eighteen to drink their 3.2. And in Masury, if you could reach up to the bar and drop your dime on it, you’d always get served.
“What’s it gonna be?”
“A bottle of Green Pop,” said Florek.
The bartender went to the cooler and withdrew a Rolling Rock, placed the bottle on the bar in front of Florek.
“Another one of these Dukes,” said the millworker closest to Florek, the one with mean eyes. He wiggled his finger above his shot glass. “One more of these, too.”
The bartender walked to the tap, drew a Duquesne, put a nice head on it. He carried the mug and a bottle of rail whiskey over to the millworker, poured the whiskey to the lip of the millworker’s glass.
The millworker dropped the shot glass into the beer. It sank and settled at the bottom of the mug. The millworker looked over at Florek, raised the mug and drank. Florek raised his glass and did the same. He heard a soft chuckle come from the millworker’s buddy, seated to his right. Were they laughing at him?
Florek drank his beer down, let it hit him. He ordered another and pulled out the picture of his sister as the tender put the bottle down on the bar.
Florek leaned in. “I’m looking for this girl. Lola Florek’s her name. You seen her?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Here you go.”
Florek smoothed out the photograph with his fingers, turned it around so the bartender could have a straight look. The tender’s eyes flashed for a moment, then returned to their natural dull state. Florek had time enough to catch the recognition in the man’s eyes.
“You do know her,” said Florek. “Am I right?”
“I’ve seen her,” said the bartender with a sloppy shrug. “It’s been a while.”
“I’m her brother.”
One of the millworkers laughed.
The bartender looked away. “Like I say, it’s been a while.”
“I know she drinks in here on Saturday nights. She told me about this place—”
“She used to, maybe.” The bartender drifted, drying the inside of a rocks glass with a rag as he moved.
Florek looked over at the millworkers, who were no longer laughing. Both of them had their eyes pointed down into their drinks. At the end of the bar, the veteran stared at the millworkers, kept staring as he killed his mug of beer.
Florek knew the guy was a veteran, but not from his getup today. He wore a carcoat ripped at the armpits, with a quilted flannel shirt tucked into dirty blue workpants. Still, when Florek looked at the guy, he pictured him in uniform, just back from the war.
The government had given its soldiers twenty bucks a week, every week, for the first fifty-two weeks after their discharge. A guy could live on that, and he could buy a lot of drinks with it as well. Some of them never even thought of looking for a job that first year. A few of them fell in love with the idea of sitting on a barstool, figuring ways to stretch the twenty out. The years began to fall away for guys like that. Florek’s mother said that the government never should have given its soldiers such a gift. That was trouble money, she said, no kind of gift at all.
The veteran got up from his seat, walked across the boards in the direction of Florek. hie slowed going by the millworkers, stared at their backs, then kept on. Reaching Florek, he clapped him lightly on the shoulder, slid himself onto the stool to Florek’s right. He settled in with the slow and deliberate movement of a man inching toward an afternoon drunk.
“How you doin’, friend?” The voice was scorched from tobacco.
“Doin’ okay,” said Florek.
“You don’t remember me, do ya.”
“I can’t... no, I don’t think so.”
“I remember you.”
“You do, huh?”
“Sure. I went to Farrell High, just like you. Graduated two, three years ahead of you. I grew up downtown, off Idaho.”
Florek’s hand tightened on the bottle. It’s Ted. Ted Something A Bulgarian-Macedonian name. Lupoff, Luminoff, something like that. What the hell is it?
“Ted Lupicoff,” said the veteran. He put out his hand.
Florek took it. “Mike Florek. How’s it goin’?”
“Good.”
“Let me buy you one, Ted.”
“Naw, that’s all right.”
“C’mon.”
“Aw, hell. A beer, then, for luck. Yeah, I’ll have a beer. Make it an Iron City.”
The bartender served it. Lupicoff and Florek tapped bottles, drank off some of the beer. Lupicoff lighted a cigarette.
“You still don’t remember me, huh?”
“It’s coming back.”
“Ted Lupicoff, Mike. I used to run around with your sister, back when. For Chrissakes, I been to your house once for Sunday supper.”
It came to Florek then. He could see Lupicoff now, bright-eyed and smiling, without the two-day stubble and the stinking clothes. He could see him in uniform just back from the war.
Lupicoff smiled, the stain of nicotine splashed across his teeth. “Your mom still makin’ those pierogies with the sauerkraut inside?”
“Sure. She makes ’em all the time.”
“Those pierogies,” said Lupicoff, “they’ll make you cry.”
“Yeah, my ma, she can cook.”
“You said it, friend.” Lupicoff wrapped his hand around Florek’s thin bicep. “Listen, don’t get the wrong idea about me and Lola. Like I say, we ran around together in the same crowd, is all. I’m talkin’ about way back when.”
Florek sipped his beer, placed the bottle softly on the bar. “You seen her lately?”
Lupicoff lowered his eyes. “Yeah. I seen her in here once or twice.”
“When’s the last time?”
“The last time?” Lupicoff’s mouth twitched. He put his cigarette between his lips to stop the twitch. “Hell, I don’t know, Mikey. She’s been keepin’ to herself lately, I guess. Last week or so, I hear she’s been stayin’ over at the hotel.”
“In Brookfield?”
“Yeah.”
Florek stood up, put a few dollars on the bar. He signalled the tender, pointed to Lupicoff’s empty bottle. The bartender went to the cooler and pulled an Iron City from the ice.
“There’s a bellhop over at the hotel,” said Lupicoff. “Real hep guy by the name of Danny Auerbach.”