Excerpt from Pure Gold: The Case of the Mayor’s Wife By Theodore P. Druch Carlene called it a ‘saloon.’ She thought it sounded higher class, and it did attract a higher class of people who came here to rub shoulders with the down-and-out regulars who, they thought, represented the “underworld.” Carlene and I hit it off right away. The first time I’d been in, years ago, I’d noticed her name embroidered over the pocket on her bulging blouse. “What do you call the other one?” I asked. She cracked up. She was really surprised when all I ordered was a club soda, so I told her about my knifing. “Just missed my liver.” I said. Then I asked her if she’d seen any big guys with black coats and maybe a fedora. “In this heat?” On the way over, I’d done my damndest to pick up any shadows, and I thought I might have, but I wasn’t sure. Neither of them was in the bar. I laughed to myself. I think this was the first time I was ever tailed by cops and goons at the same time. I hoped they’d bump into each other. Hell, it was even likely they’d know each other. They could even be related. I wandered about the place for awhile, glad-handing and joking with those I knew while some shitty Country and Western band stunk up my ears. At full volume. I spotted Pruneface at the bar. His real name was Clyde McPherson and he’d been a fighter once, but he’d taken too many gloves in the face. He looked kind of like Pruneface in the Dick Tracy comics, and that’s what everyone called him. He didn’t mind, as long as you bought him a drink. To me he looked more like cauliflower face, but that’s too hard to say. Even the underside of society has its poets. He hung out at Carlene’s most nights, but I knew that he made the rounds of seedy bars during the day. I’d gotten some good stuff from him on several occasions, so I ambled over. I almost had to yell above the noise of the band. “Hey Pruneface,” I gave him my biggest, friendliest smile, “how’s it hangin’ buddy?” He looked at me for awhile like he didn’t know me. He always did. With everybody. It took a bit of time, but, eventually, the wheels started turning and a smile lit up his face, by which I mean that a wide slit appeared at the bottom of the cauliflower head. “Hey Joe, whaddaya know?” “Less than I’d like to.” I stretched out the Pall Malls. “Here. Kill yourself.” “Y’know, Joe. I’ve been trying to do that for years,” It didn’t sound like a joke. He reached out a hand. It was shaky. I finally just pulled one out and gave it to him. I lighted it for him, and lighted my own. Pruneface wasn’t one for chewing the fat. I think chewing anything was tough for him, so I got right down to business. “Heard anything about Maureen Wagner?” He started to say something when the band hit a louder spot and I didn’t hear it. Reading his lips was out of the question. “What?” I yelled. “I said, too bad. Such a gorgeous dame.” “Any scuttlebutt?” “Jeez, I’m thirsty.” he said. I got Randy’s eye and beckoned him over. “Give Pruneface whatever he wants. On me.” “Well, that’s mighty nice of you Joe. I won’t take advantage.” He turned to Randy. “Make it a Haig and Haig. Neat.” I couldn’t even afford to drink that stuff. For a second, as Randy was pouring the delicious honey-colored nectar, I thought I might join him. Hell, I wasn’t driving or using any machines, and I could put it on an expense account. Then I thought about Julie. I needed to stay sober and healthy. I should have kept that in mind a little longer. You know, that shit is meant to be savored. Like brandy. Pruneface just poured it down his throat; the glass almost disappeared in his mouth. Then he looked at me like he’d like another. “What have you heard about Maureen Wagner?” He looked around; then he beckoned me closer. “They say she was a slut.” Silence hung in the air between us. Except for the band. “And?” I finally said. He looked puzzled. Then he seemed to get it. “That’s it. They say she was a slut.” I should’ve had the drink. “Wasn’t there anything else. Anybody have anything particular to say? Like, y’know, names? Places? Personal experiences?” He thought about it for a while. Then he shook his head. “Nope. Just that she was a slut.” I looked at him for a while. I pulled out a sawbuck and laid it on the bar.”Knock yourself out.” I said. I knew I shouldn’t have. “Y’know, I once did that once,” his eyes kind of got a distant look in them. “Nice seein’ya Pruneface, Stay healthy.” I got out of there before he could launch into the account of his third-round self-knockout against Floyd Mays. It’s a pretty funny story, but I know it by heart. Everybody does. The bookies couldn’t figure out who to pay off, so, for the first and only time in the long and illustrious history of wagering, they just gave everybody back their dough. Coming soon to a bookstore near you.
Posted on: Tue, 14 Oct 2014 15:52:32 +0000
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