The second regular was serene with certainty. “Code,” he said. “It was the Code War because they used all those codes to keep the secrets from each other.” With a little pitying chuckle, he said, “Cold War. Why would anybody call a war cold?”
The third regular, just as certain but less serene, said, “Anybody’s been awake the last hundred years knows, it was called the Cold War because it’s always winter in Russia.”
The second regular chuckled again, an irritating sound. “Then how come,” he said, “they eat salad?”
The third regular, derailed, frowned at the second regular and said, “Salad?”
“With Russian dressing.”
Dortmunder leaned on the bar, off to the right of the main conversation, and watched Rollo in the backbar mirror. The barman also had several screwdrivers, a hammer, pliers, and a corkscrew, and was using them all, one-handed, while holding up the beer sign with the other.
Meanwhile, the conversation was continuing, as the first regular rejoined it, saying, “Code. That’s what I’m talking about, the black lines. It’s some kinda conspiracy, that’s all I know.”
A fourth regular, who until now had been using the bottles on the backbar as a kind of impromptu eye test, now reared around, righted himself, and said, “Absolutely. A conspiracy.” Closing one eye to focus on the other regulars, he said, “Which conspiracy you mean?”
“The little black lines on everything you buy,” the first regular said, bringing him up to speed.
The fourth regular considered that, closing first one eye and then the other: “That’s a conspiracy?”
“Sure. It’s in code.”
“Like the war,” said the second regular, with a smirk at the third regular.
The fourth regular nodded, closed both eyes, clutched the bar, opened both eyes, closed one eye, and said, “Which conspiracy?”
The first regular was affronted by this question. “How do I know? It’s in code, isn’t it? That’s what makes it secret. If it wasn’t in code, we’d know what it was.”
The third regular suddenly slapped the bar and said, “That’s what it is. Now I remember.”
The others all swiveled around on their stools to consider Mister Memory. The first regular said, carefully, “That’s what what is?”
“The Code War,” the third regular told him. “That’s what they call those little black lines, on accounta that’s what they’re for. When they have price wars.”
“The Code War,” the second regular announced, incensed that his definition had been taken from him, “was the war between us and Russia that’s over now.”
“Wrong,” the third regular said, showing his own brand of serenity.
The first regular said, “I think everybody’s wrong,” and called, “Rollo! What’s the name of that code, all the black lines on everything you buy?”
“Bar,” Rollo answered, dropping some pliers and a screwdriver.
“There’s a one-track mind for you,” said the first regular, and all the regulars chuckled, even the fifth regular, who was asleep with his head pillowed by a copy of Soldier of Fortune magazine.
“This is a bar, Rollo,” the third regular called, and they all chuckled again, as Andy Kelp walked in, shared a hello with Rollo, and walked over to join Dortmunder.
The first regular was saying, “There is a name, though, for those black lines, I know there is.”
Andy said, “We the first?”
The second regular, doubt in his voice, said, “Morse?”
“Yes,” Dortmunder said.
The third regular, blossoming with scorn like time-lapse photography, said, “Morse! Man, do you get things haywire. Morse code is what they put on those little notices they stick on the bottom of the furniture that you’re not supposed to take off. It’s a federal law, and it’s named after Senator Morse.”
“Civil,” said the fourth regular, with both eyes open.
The third regular turned to repel this new attack. “We’re bein civil,” he announced. “All except somebody I don’t feel I wanna mention.”
“Civil code,” said the fourth regular, being civil. “That’s what they call the black lines.”
A quick bzt sound came from the general direction of Rollo, followed by a curse, and the dropping of a lot of tools.
“No,” the first regular said, “it is not the civil code, which is something to do with the subways. It’s called something else. I’d know it if I heard it.”
Still on his knees, Rollo backed away from the window, then stood.
“Area?” suggested the fourth regular.
“No no no,” the first regular said, “area codes is another word for zoning.”
Rollo picked up his tools and the neon sign and headed for the bar.
“Zip?” suggested the fourth regular.
The other regulars all looked down at their pants.
Rollo made his way around the end of the bar, dropping his tools onto the shelf there.
“A zip is a gun,” the first regular said.
Rollo approached Dortmunder and Kelp, dropping the neon sign into the trash barrel along the way. “Nobody likes foreign beers anyway,” he explained. “They’re made with foreign water.”
“Well, when you put it like that,” Kelp said.
Rollo nodded. “You want the back room, right?”
“Yeah,” Dortmunder said. “There’ll be five of us.” It had long been a tenet of his that if you couldn’t accomplish a task with five men you shouldn’t try it at all. He’d seen exceptions to that rule, of course, just as there are exceptions to all rules, but as a general guide of thumb, so to speak, he still went with it.
“I’ll send them back,” Rollo said. “Who’s coming?”
Understanding Rollo’s idiosyncracy, that he knew his customers by their drink, which he felt gave him some kind of marketing advantage, Dortmunder said, “There’ll be the vodka and red wine.”
“Big fella,” Rollo said, who was no slouch himself.
“That’s him,” Dortmunder agreed. “And the rye and water.”
Rollo considered. “Lotta ice? Clinks a lot?”
“Right again. And the beer and salt.”
“Him,” Rollo said, with a downturn of the mouth. “What a boon to business he is.”
Kelp explained, “Stan’s a driver, you see, he’s got himself used to not drinking too much.”
“I’d bet my money,” Rollo said, “he’s got a black belt in not drinking too much.”
“So that’s why the salt,” Kelp went on. “He gets a beer, he sips it slow and easy, and when the head’s gone he adds a little salt, pep the head right back up again.”
“What I like to pep up,” Rollo said, “is the cash register. But it takes all kinds. I’ll get your drinks.”
Rollo turned away, and pulled out a tray, while down at the other end of the bar the regulars had segued in a natural progression into consideration of cold cures. At the moment, they were trying to decide if the honey was supposed to be spread on the body or injected into a vein. Before they’d solved this problem, Rollo had put ice into two glasses, put the glasses on the tray, and taken down from the shelf a fresh bottle of some murky dark liquid behind a label reading AMSTERDAM LIQUOR STORE BOURBON — “ OUR OWN BRAND.” With the bottle also on the tray, Rollo turned and slid the whole thing toward Dortmunder, saying, “Happy days.”
“It’s feed a cough,” said the first regular.